“No proud helmet gives protection, “Death brings all things in subjection; “And the hero’s blood is shed, “And the wicked win instead. “Laurel wreaths, triumphal arches! On the morrow in he marches, “Who the better one o’erthrew, “Winning land and people too. “Senator and burgomaster “Go to meet the victor faster “With the keys that ope the gate, “And the train then enters straight. “Cannon from the walls are crashing, “Kettle-drums and trumpets clashing, “Bells’ loud ringing fills the sky, “And ‘hurrah!’ the people cry. “On the balconies are standing “Smiling beauteous women, handing “To the victor flow’ry wreaths; “He with haughty calmness breathes.” HASTINGS BATTLE-FIELD. The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’d When he heard the tragical story That Harold the king had lost his life On Hastings battle-field gory. Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, he As messengers then selected, To seek at Hastings amongst the dead For Harold’s body neglected. The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts, And return’d with faces averted: “O Father, the world goes wrong with us now, “We seem by Fortune deserted. “The better man has fallen in fight, “O’ercome by that bastard demon; “Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land, “And make a slave of the freeman. “The veriest rascal in Normandy now “Is lord of the island of Britain; “A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs “We saw as gay as a kitten. “Woe, woe to the man of Saxon birth! “Ye Saxon sainted ones even, “Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace, “E’en now in the kingdom of heaven. “The meaning now we can understand “Of the blood-red comet which lately “On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky “One night, and astonish’d us greatly. “At Hastings there was realized “The evil star’s prediction; “Amongst the dead on the battle-field there “We sought with deep affliction. “Till every hope had disappear’d “We sought in each direction; “The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say, “Escaped our close inspection.” ’Twas thus that Asgod and Ailrik spoke; His hands wrung the Abbot, while moan’d he Then sank in deep thought, and finally said, As heavily sigh’d and groan’d he: “At Grendelfield, by the bards’ old stone, “In a hut in the forest, is dwelling “Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call, “In beauty once so excelling. “They call’d her Edith the Swanneck erst, “Because her neck in its splendour “Resembled the neck of the swan; the king “Loved the maid with affection tender. “He loved, kiss’d, fondled her long, and then “Forgot, like a faithless lover; Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years “Have since those days pass’d over.