[Illustration] <g>WALTHAM.--Death of Harold</g>, Text, p. 266.--“Ipse carens omni decore quibusdam signis nequaquam facie recognitus est, et in castra Ducis delatus qui tumulandum eum Guillelmo agnomine Maletto concessit, non matri pro corpore delectæ prolis auri par pondus offerenti.” The quantity of gold which Harold’s mother is here related to have offered to the victorious duke for the body of her son, may be reasonably estimated, as Maseres has shown in a note on this passage of the “Gesta Guillelmi,” at eleven thousand pounds. The supposed visit of Harold’s mother to the field of battle in search of his body, and that of Edith with the Swan’s neck--mentioned in the text, who finally discovered it by some secret token--are thus described in a MS. ballad on the subject:-- “The day is lost! The din of war is hushed on Hastings’ field: In triumph rolls the Norman car o’er England’s trampled shield. ‘Prepare the feast!’ Duke William cries. The midnight feast is spread; And there, in gilded canopies, they banquet ’midst the dead! The bowl is drained, the oath renewed of fealty to their Chief; But how shall gilded tents exclude the wail of woman’s grief! ‘Where is my son?’ a mother cries; ‘his corse but to behold, And lay it where his kindred lies, I’ll give its weight in gold!’ ‘Thy son is slain! his crown is sold! Duke William wears it now; We’ll give thee iron for thy gold--Lady, what more would’st thou?’ She heard and wept--then faltered on: her heart with anguish bled, As wistfully she gazed upon the faces of the dead! But ’midst the thousand forms of death that show’d the ghastly wound. And weltering strew’d the gory heath, her HAROLD was not found! She sat her down and wept aloud: and sighed--‘Undone--undone! Now lay me in the hallowed shroud that should have wrapt my son!’ * * * * * At length the gentle Edith came, led by a holy man, And, lighted by a taper’s flame, again the search began. Darkly her raven tresses hung upon her neck of snow, And still her lily hands she wrung in ecstacy of woe! Around her, HAROLD’S warriors true lay heaped upon the plain, Where high the Norman banner flew insulting o’er the slain; A friar of Waltham’s Holy Rood stood in that mournful ring, And wiping off the clotted blood--‘Oh, Christ! is this the king?’ Down to the earth fair Edith bent, upraised the lifeless head, And ’neath the light that taper lent, gazed wildly on the dead! One pause of fearful agony--a breathless, deep suspense-- Was visible in every eye, and felt in every sense! [Illustration]