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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3572791 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5834.W68T3 1888 
 
 Tales and legends in verse. 
 
 3 1924 013 572 791 
 
TALES AND LEGENDS IN VERSE 
 
TALES AND LEGENDS 
 IN VERSE 
 
 E. COOPER WILLIS, Q.C. 
 
 LONDON 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1888 
 
 A- 
 
{The rights of translatisn and of rsjircduciion are reserved.') 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Chain of Gold ... ... .. ... i 
 
 Tyrrell's Confession ... ... ... g 
 
 The Battle of Hastings ... ... ... i6 
 
 The Legend of Wilton Lea .. ... 32 
 
 The Hero's Well ... ... ... ... 41 
 
 The Felon's Race ... ... ... ... 53 
 
 The Last of the Fairies ... ... ... 59 
 
 The Legend of Hawkstone Castle ... ... 65 
 
 The Lifeboat .. ... ... ... ... 80 
 
 The Prison of the Dane ... ... ... 89 
 
 The Old M.\n's Tale ... ... ... ... 117 
 
 PHinr Lee ... ... ... ... ... 142 
 
 SHORT PIECES. 
 
 Hope ... ... ... ... ... ... 151 
 
 March, 1862... ... ... ... ... 152 
 
 Cana of Galilee ... ... ... ... 154 
 
 The Land of God's Delight ... ... 155 
 
 The Answer to "The L.\nd of Little People" 157 
 
TALES AND LEGENDS 
 IN VERSE. 
 
 THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 
 
 The snow Jay heavy on heath and bush, and the path 
 
 was hard to find, 
 Fierce and bitter the sleet and hail on the gusts of 
 
 the frozen wind ; 
 Dim and grey through the drifting haze the light was 
 
 failing fast, 
 And the wail as of a dying year was borne upon the 
 
 blast. 
 Sick at heart, with surging thoughts and doubts far 
 
 worse than pain, 
 The young man slowly fought his way across the 
 
 broken plain, 
 Until the storm that howled around had beaten the 
 
 storm of the mind. 
 And in the very struggle for life his doubts were cast 
 
 behind. 
 
THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 
 
 Slow, slow, with stumbling foot, o'er hillock, hollow, 
 and stone. 
 
 With the death-chill driving through the breath and 
 piercing to the bone. 
 
 Through the drifting storm with labouring heart and 
 faint and blinded eye, 
 
 Till there almost seemed no end at last but to he 
 down and die. 
 
 Until the will that had borne him up half yielded to 
 despair. 
 
 And the lips that long had lost their God gasped 
 feebly in a prayer, 
 
 He struggled on. Hope came again. The battle 
 was renewed : 
 
 Step by step he fought his way, defied, but unsub- 
 dued ; 
 
 And it seemed an answer to the prayer — the slacken- 
 ing of the gale ; 
 
 And its howling dropped to a murmur, and lighter fell 
 the hail. 
 
 But deep the drifts, and far the end, and he was 
 
 weary of fight ; 
 And o'er the drear expanse there fell the shadows of 
 
 the night : 
 When close beside his path he saw a motion in the 
 
 snow, 
 And he heard the sound as of a sob, fluttering, feeble, 
 
 and low. 
 
THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 
 
 It came from beneath the shroud on the earth ; and 
 
 something — he knew not what — 
 Bore down the hard stern self in his heart, and turned 
 
 him to the spot. 
 And there, beneath the frozen wreath, he found them 
 
 side by side, 
 A little, scarcely living child, a mother who had died. 
 Her mantle wrapped around the babe, she laid it on 
 
 her breast, 
 And, giving all to save her all, she passed away to 
 
 rest 
 
 Again was heard the pleading cry, the little hand was 
 
 raised, 
 And feelings all unknown before came o'er him as he 
 
 gazed, 
 And he seemed to have gained a heart of flesh instead 
 
 of a heart of stone, 
 As he took the child from the breast of the dead, and 
 
 laid it in his own, 
 And closed it from the cold, and sought to soothe its 
 
 moaning pain. 
 And, in the new-born strength of love, tried the dark 
 
 path again. 
 
 The end was far and the drifts were deep, but the 
 
 storm had passed away; 
 And, softly sleeping, at his heart the little orphan lay ; 
 And through the lifted clouds one star sent down its 
 
 tiny ray. 
 
THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 
 
 Onward he went, and, as he went, there shone before 
 
 his eye, 
 Outbursting from the failing cloud, the glories of the 
 
 sky; 
 And firmly, slowly, lightened by the precious load he 
 
 bore. 
 O'er hillock, hollow, and stone he passed, and gained 
 
 the welcome door. 
 But, as he passed the village church, the window's 
 
 painted glow 
 Lay like a picture in his path upon the gleaming 
 
 snow : 
 Weary, but victor, stained with blood, in colours fair 
 
 to see. 
 The Shepherd and the rescued lamb; the motto, 
 
 " Follow Me." 
 
 A few short days, the little life just flickered for a 
 
 while. 
 She learnt to look for his return, to brighten at his 
 
 smile ; 
 And as he kissed the withered cheek or smoothed the 
 
 clustered hair, 
 Would turn to nestle in his arm, and find a refuge 
 
 there ; 
 And wreathed her love around his heart, until the 
 
 fairy chain 
 So strong had grown, no power of life might wrest its 
 
 folds in twain. 
 
THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 
 
 It was the holy Christmas Eve. He watched her as 
 
 she lay, 
 Till the flush on the cheek and the fevered start in 
 
 sleep had passed away. 
 The lingering hours wore slowly on, the fire was 
 
 burning low. 
 And the dim shadows on the wall were wavering to 
 
 and firo. 
 Perchance he slept. Before his soul a vision seemed 
 
 to rise — 
 No brighter, truer sight was e'er vouchsafed to mortal 
 
 eyes. 
 The bells had pealed the midnight chime, 'twas 
 
 Christmas in the land, 
 When he was aware of an angel fair who touched him 
 
 with her hand. 
 He rose obedient to the touch, and followed where 
 
 she led. 
 The flowers of heaven burst from earth beneath the 
 
 angel's tread. 
 She pointed where the glorious stars were scattered 
 
 far and wide, 
 And, like a mist before the wind, she vanished from 
 
 his side. 
 And as he gazed upon the sky those glories brighter 
 
 grew — 
 O'er the deep tones of the winter night there spread a 
 
 golden hue ; 
 
THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 
 
 The heavens were filled with angel forms that, bending 
 
 o'er the earth, 
 Poured the full notes of that sweet song that hailed 
 
 the Saviour's birth. 
 And one, in likeness of a child, — he knew that face 
 
 again. 
 All radiant now, released at last from weakness and 
 
 from pain, — 
 Flew down and touched his hands and lips with 
 
 kisses soft and light. 
 And softly whispering, " Follow me ! " she passed, 
 
 and it was night. 
 
 Then with a start he woke. The hand he held within 
 
 his fold 
 Returned no pressure to his grasp. 'Twas lifeless all, 
 
 and cold. 
 A light. So gently o'er the heart had passed the hand 
 
 of death, 
 It seemed as though an angel's lips had kissed away 
 
 her breath. 
 
 The old man lay on the bed of pain, and the years 
 
 that had gone by — 
 The years that once had been his friends, came round 
 
 to see him die. 
 Blotted and blurred their outlines, sad were the tales 
 
 they told ; 
 
THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 
 
 But they all seemed linked together, as it were with 
 
 a chain of gold. 
 And the chain went back in the distance till it came 
 
 to the long ago, 
 When the young man bent o'er the little child lost in 
 
 the wreath of snow ; 
 And since that night, as following years brought back 
 
 the Christmas-tide, 
 Each Christmas morn had brought again that angel 
 
 to his side, 
 Had sung for him the song of love, the kiss of love 
 
 had given, 
 And added a link to the chain of gold that bound his 
 
 soul to heaven. 
 The blessed vision aye returned with bright and 
 
 brighter glow, 
 And in his inmost heart he knew the bidding sweet 
 
 and low. 
 And saw the Shepherd and the lamb upon the gleam- 
 ing snow. 
 
 Now, old and worn, with feeble heart, he laid him 
 
 down to die ; 
 The shadows wavered on the wall before his filming 
 
 eye ; 
 The bells had chimed the midnight hour, 'twas 
 
 Christmas in the land. 
 When he was aware of an angel fair who touched him 
 
 with her hand. 
 
8 THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 
 
 He rose obedient to the touch, and followed where 
 
 she led, 
 The flowers of heaven burst from earth beneath the 
 
 angel's tread. 
 And as he waited for the end, outburst the blessed 
 
 song, 
 And he saw the haloed light that spread around the 
 
 heavenly throng ; 
 He saw the spirit of the child descending like a dove ; 
 He felt the arms encircling round, he felt the kiss of 
 
 love; 
 He heard the blessfed " Welcome home ! " and hand 
 
 in hand they went 
 Up to the heaven of heavens, beyond the starry 
 
 firmament. 
 The worn and weary frame was dead ; but ere the 
 
 heart grew cold. 
 Within the treasure-house of God blazed the bright 
 
 chain of gold. 
 
( 9 ) 
 
 TYRRELL'S CONFESSION 
 (Originally inserted in "Temple Bar Magazine," 1869.) 
 
 On the morrow after Lammas Day in the last year of the 
 eleventh century, William, the king, was slain by an arrow 
 from his own men in the New Forest, and was carried to 
 Winchester and buried there. Such in effect is the tale of the 
 old Saxon chronicle. No bell, we are told, was rung for him ; 
 no mass sung for the repose of his soul ; but he was buried like 
 a wild beast, unwept and unhonoured. To make that forest his 
 father had wasted fields, and driven into misery and death the 
 tillers of the soil, for over a space of thirty miles in length. 
 There his brother Richard had years before met with a sudden 
 and mysterious death. There Williani himself had enforced all 
 the cruelties of the forest laws, and men had had their eyes 
 scorched out, or lost their lives, for sacrilegiously interfering with 
 the game which the king delighted to honour ; and there, near a 
 ruined church, he fell, smitten, as it was thought, by the wrath 
 of God through the hand of man. Many were the tales of 
 warnings sent of the coming fate. Dreams and messages were 
 in vain, and if the king believed them at all, he hid his belief 
 under a bold face. 
 
 On that 2nd of August he was at his hunting-lodge at Brocken- 
 hurst. Amongst his companions was Sir Walter Tyrrell, or 
 " the Archer," Lord of Poix in Ponthieu and of a small barony 
 
TYRRELVS CONFESSION. 
 
 in Essex. As the company sat over their meal, words spoken at 
 first in jest culminated in bitterness, until the boasting threats of 
 the king rankled in the heart of his follower. Then were brought 
 in before William six shafts for the crossbow, and he, choosing 
 two, handed them to Tyrrell to be used in the chase, bidding 
 him do justice with them. " I will do so," was the significant 
 reply, and soon afterwards the whole party mounted and pro- 
 ceeded into the forest. It is said that the rest of the hunters 
 went in other directions, and that William and Tyrrell rode 
 alone. Then, as the autumn sun was setting, the bleeding body 
 of the king was found pierced by one of the shafts, and was 
 carried on a labourer's cart to Winchester. 
 
 Tyrrell was seen no more in England. He escaped to France, 
 and common tradition has pointed him out as the slayer of his 
 lord. Some chronicles state that the death was caused by an 
 accident from the glancing of the arrow from a tree. Tyrrell 
 himself is reported to have stated that he was not near William 
 when he fell, but whether this report is true or not, the facts 
 remain that he was believed to have done the deed, that he 
 fled away, and that he never returned to England or attempted 
 to recover the profits from his English lands. It is, of course, 
 possible that some other hand may have been guilty, and that 
 the outcry against Tyrrell was raised in order to conceal the 
 real culprit. On the other hand, it is equally possible and 
 more probable that the charge was based not only on his own 
 conduct, but also on knowledge of the quarrel which had taken 
 place on the very day of the murder. Neither fearing God nor 
 regarding man, the coarse brutality of the king must often have 
 deeply offended those who were drawn around him by motives 
 of self-interest, and it is easy to imagine how the fierce French- 
 man may have brooded over the last of many insults, and de- 
 termined to avenge all in one fatal blow. And so, in the forest 
 consecrated to bloodshed, the tyrant's soul passed away. The 
 murderer might for a time deny the accusation or attempt to 
 explain it away ; but when the spirit that nerved the hand had 
 itself grown feeble, and the time drew near that he must die. 
 
TYRRMLVS CONFESSION. 
 
 anxious to obtain the last ministrations of the Church, he would, 
 in the depth of self-abasement, confess the truth, and acknow- 
 ledge the weight with which the crime had for all those years 
 been pressing upon him. 
 
 Father, I cannot pass away, 
 
 I linger as I lie ; 
 For the wrath of God keeps life within. 
 Oh, shrive me, and let me go free from my sin ! 
 
 Bless me, and let me die. 
 
 Father, it's thirty years ago, 
 
 A weary chain of years, 
 When the worn heart seeks in vain for grace, 
 And the great God turns away His face. 
 
 And there's no relief in tears. 
 
 Fearful the past ; the present — hell ; 
 
 The future all unknown. 
 I did not even dare to die : 
 And we have lived, the curse and I, 
 
 Together and alone. 
 
 If it had been but in the fight, 
 
 When hand's opposed to hand, 
 Had I but sought him as a foe, 
 Met thrust with thrust, and blow with blow. 
 And slain him with my brand, 
 
TYRRELL'S CONFESSION. 
 
 I had not deemed his death a sin, 
 
 Nor mourned a single day ; 
 But, oh ! it is a fearful crime 
 To wait for an unguarded time, 
 
 And then take life away. 
 
 He was my king and feudal lord, 
 
 He gave me lands in fee ; 
 And God and the holy saints, they heard 
 When I swore to be true in deed and word, 
 
 As I bent before his knee. 
 
 I swore to be true in deed and word, 
 
 And surely I meant it then ; 
 But it's hard to keep, though easy to say. 
 And time was long, and I went astray. 
 Even as other men. 
 
 Perchance it was but a jeering word — 
 
 A look — some trivial slight, — 
 I cannot tell ; I never knew 
 When it began, or how it grew — 
 A dark and fearful blight, 
 
 The deadly curse of thwarted pride, 
 
 The blight of a hating soul j 
 And ever it led me on and on. 
 Till pity and Christian love were gone, 
 And murder was the goal. 
 
TYRRELL'S CONFESSION. 13 
 
 But I held my thought within my breast, 
 
 And I could fawn and smile ; 
 And still I took the gifts he gave — 
 Took them, and felt myself a slave — 
 
 And cursed him all the while. 
 
 All thoughts were gone, save the constant thought 
 
 Of only how and when ; 
 And as time went on, I laid my plan — 
 I had been more or less than man 
 
 If I had wavered then. 
 
 We were together in the wood. 
 
 Hunting the fallow deer ; 
 He rode before me hke a king, 
 I, as a slave, was following. 
 
 And there was no one near. 
 
 And a mist rose up before my eyes, 
 
 A tumult in my brain ; 
 And, swifter than a startled deer. 
 The pulses rushed in mad career 
 
 Through every swollen vein. 
 
 I could not hear the wind in the trees, 
 
 I could not see the light. 
 For the blood that boiled like flames in hell, 
 For the sound of death, like a 'larum bell, 
 
 Rung on a wintry night. 
 
14 TYRRELL'S CONFESSION. 
 
 A moment — and again the heart 
 
 Beat in its own control ; 
 And the brain knew nought but the living will, 
 The steadfast deep resolve to kill, 
 
 The hatred of the §oul. 
 
 I held my breath and kept it still ; 
 
 My sight was clear as day ; 
 My pulse was quiet as the dead. 
 I drew an arrow to the head, 
 
 And launched it forth to slay. 
 
 I marked each second of its flight ; 
 
 I saw it pierce his side : 
 'Twas but a grapple at the rein, 
 A plunging fall, a writhe of pain. 
 
 And so the Red King died. 
 
 I do not know how others feel 
 
 Who do as I have done ; 
 Who fear, yet plan the deed of strife, 
 Then find the object of a life 
 
 In one short murder won : 
 
 I felt no change, yet change there was — 
 
 I could not hate the dead ; 
 I rode to where the body lay — 
 That silent, bleeding mass of clay 
 
 Woke neither grief nor dread. 
 
TYRRELL'S CONFESSLON. 
 
 I only felt I must away, 
 
 To hide the murderer's head. 
 
 Away ! and in the rush of flight, 
 
 I banished, for a time, 
 All that I felt and all I saw. 
 The vision of a broken law. 
 
 The memory of crime. 
 
 'Twas only for a little while — 
 
 A little, oh ! so brief; 
 For then the dreadful guilt of blood 
 Swept down my soul as winter's flood 
 
 Tosses a riven leaf. 
 
 And ever, and still, for thirty years 
 
 That day has been to me 
 The brand of a curse upon my brow, 
 And made me all that I am now. 
 And all I fear to be. 
 
 The penance even of a life 
 Hides not a single day ; 
 
 Oh, shrive me from the weight within. 
 
 The guilt of unforgiven sin, 
 And let me pass away ! 
 
( i6 ) 
 
 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 On the 27th of September, 1066, after a long and weary waiting 
 on the northern coast of France, William the Norman sailed from 
 St. Valery with a mighty host, to win for himself the sovereignty 
 of England. 
 
 For nine months of little ease Harold Godwinson had reigned 
 over Saxons, Danes, and Cambrians, and throughout that period, 
 on both sides of the Channel, great had been the preparations 
 for the struggle raised by the claim of William to the crown. 
 Harold held the throne as one who had been the right hand of 
 the Confessor, who had received the recommendation and nomi- 
 nation of Edward on his death-bed, and who had been chosen as 
 Lord and Father by the assembled chiefs and by the voice of the 
 people. William's claim was based on the facts that Edward's 
 mother had been a Norman princess, that Edward had some 
 years before his death held out to William a hope of succession, 
 and that Harold had been induced, under pressure of detention 
 in Normandy, to swear to become the man of the Norman Duke 
 and to marry one of his daughters, and that he now declined to 
 give up the English lordship, and alleged that he was already 
 married. Neither of these facts would in themselves give William 
 any title to the throne of England, but they served his purpose, 
 gave a colour to his enterprise, and enabled him to hold up his 
 opponent as a perjurer, to be branded with the anathema of the 
 Church. 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 17 
 
 What the fate of the struggle would have been, if Harold had 
 not been summoned to the north to meet the invasion of Harold 
 Hardrada and Tostig, none can say ; but just before the time 
 when, in answer, as it was thought, to a special appeal to Heaven 
 and to St. Valery, the south wind blew softly, Harold was forced 
 to proceed with an army to York and to fight at Stamford Bridge 
 against the hosts of the Norsemen, leaving the southern coast 
 of his kingdom undefended. 
 
 It was on the 25th of September that Hardrada and his men were 
 smitten down, and the storm of Orre was poured fruitlessly on 
 the English force in defence of the Landwaster. The great 
 mass of the Norse army was destroyed j but many were they 
 who fell on the side of the Saxon monarch, whose arms might, 
 if they had lived, have turned the tide of battle on the low hill 
 of Senlac. 
 
 Two days later the south wind blew across the English 
 Channel, and the great fleet of the Normans through the night 
 followed the blazing lantern of the Conqueror towards our coast. 
 On the next day they landed unopposed at Pevensey and took 
 up a strong position at Hastings, from whence they ravaged the 
 surrounding country. 
 
 It seems that the news of this invasion was carried to King 
 Harold at York within four days after the disembarkation, and 
 that on the 5th of October he returned to London to take imme- 
 diate action against William, We may perhaps treat as poetical 
 exaggeration the story that before he left York he was told how 
 the fields glittered with the shining arms of the Normans, how 
 the homes of his people were destroyed by fire, the inhabitants 
 slain with the sword, and the little children left to weep over 
 their slaughtered parents ; but there can be no doubt that by the 
 time he reached the banks of the Thames the tale of the miseries 
 inflicted on the South Saxons by the Norman troops must have 
 been borne to him in all its fulness. 
 
 As he marched southward to London, men from all the sur- 
 rounding counties flocked to the king's standard, and for a week 
 after his arrival he waited there, partly to give time for the men 
 
1 8 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 of Wessex to join him, and partly to enable his jealous brothers- 
 in-law, the two northern earls, Morcar and Edwin, to prove 
 that their patriotism was greater than their lust for power. They 
 never came, and it was upon those forces which he could collect 
 from only a portion of his kingdom that the Saxon king was 
 forced to rely in the great day of battle. 
 
 During the period of waiting, messages passed between the 
 two opposed leaders. The day and place of battle was fixed, 
 and Harold went to Waltham Abbey, and there, with offerings 
 and prayers, prostrated himself before the holy crucifix ; and 
 there, as we are told, while he prayed the image bowed forward 
 on the nails which held it to the cross, and, as conscious of the 
 coming fate, looked mournfully down on the doomed monarch. 
 
 On Thursday, the I2th of October, the journey towards Senlac 
 was begun. It is not a matter of much consequence whether 
 preparations had been previously made for the erection of the 
 long, low rampart of palisading which was destined to protect the 
 front of the English force, or whether the wrhole of the army 
 followed the king from London. Great general as Harold un- 
 doubtedly was, and well acquainted with the post which he meant 
 to defend, we may be sure that every precaution was taken which 
 skill and experience could suggest, and that nothing was left to 
 be collected at the last moment. By the morning of Saturday, 
 October the 14th, if not by the preceding evening, all pre- 
 parations were completed, and Harold and his men had fortified 
 their camp in a manner which showed how thoroughly he under- 
 stood the relative powers of the forces. 
 
 At the present day we can wander over the grounds where the 
 ruins of Battle Abbey remain. From the terrace which tops the 
 relics of one of the old buildings, we can look down on the low 
 grounds of the valley to the south. The face of the eastern end 
 of the Saxon position shows an abrupt elevation from the field, 
 and towards the west the ground slopes down gradually to reach 
 the level of the land in front of it. In front of the western end 
 is the outlying knoll near which so many fell on both sides, and 
 behind the line to the north was the ravine with its steep sides 
 
THE BA TTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 and' marshy bottom, to which the overthrow and death of so 
 many Norman knights gave the name of the Malfosse. Towards 
 the east we can look down into the hollow where the site of the 
 High Altar was discovered, and we can listen to the guide who 
 tells us how the body of Harold was found beneath a clump of 
 gorse near by. The adaptation of the ground for the building 
 of the Abbey, and the alterations and accumulations of eight 
 hundred years, must have considerably altered and in some places 
 raised the surface of the earth. I think it probable that, 
 except at the extreme east, the incline from the south was more 
 gentle than it now appears ; but even with this allowance the 
 elevation gradually decreasing towards the west must have given 
 very great strength to the position which the Saxons fortified 
 against the Norman enemy. 
 
 A low, strong palisading was planted along the south front, 
 extending almost to the little streamlet which bounded the extreme 
 west. The ascent of the hill, aided by such a defence, must have 
 effectually checked any attack of cavalry on the Saxon line, and 
 have enabled the defenders to rain their darts and axe-strokes at 
 an immense advantage upon all who ventured to test the strength 
 of their position. It was the power of the Norman knights (not 
 to be separated for any length of time from their horses) that 
 was most to be feared ; and so long as those horses were kept to 
 the south of the palisade, so long was it impossible for the English 
 army to be worsted in the battle. Behind the line of Harold's 
 chosen troops stood the two standards — one, the Golden Dragon 
 of Wessex, the glorious banner of the West Saxons ;. the other, 
 Harold's own ensign, the Fighting Man, wondrous to see, en- 
 riched as it was with gilded work and costly stones. The western 
 portion of the Saxon line appears to have been the weakest, but 
 it was protected by men posted on the outlying knoll, who had 
 seen warfare against the Welsh, and who found their natural 
 enemies in the Gaels from over sea. Advancing up the valley 
 with the Bretons and the soldiers from Maine on his left, the 
 Normans in the centre, and the men of Picardy and the French 
 mercenaries on his right, William came within fighting distance 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 of the Saxon post. About nine o'clock in the morning the fight 
 began. At first the archers and the foot soldiers attacked the 
 front. The arrows were met by the wall of shields ; the darts 
 and javelins hurled from below were answered with more fatal 
 effect by those cast from above ; while those who were able to 
 come within striking distance of the ponderous two-handed axes 
 fell cloven in two by the weighti of the blow. Many were slain 
 on both sides ; but the advantage was at first with the soldiers 
 of England. Meanwhile, on the left, the Bretons and their com- 
 panions were met by the defenders of the knoU and the western 
 end of the Saxon line, and were hurled back in confusion. Then 
 it was that an error was made. Harold had expressly ordered 
 that no man should quit his post in the battle ; but when the 
 English soldiers saw their foes flying from before them, human 
 nature could not stand the temptation. After them they went ; 
 the foreigner was to be slaughtered, and the axes, clubs, swords, 
 and spears had a rich meal of blood. For a time the flight of 
 the Bretons spread a panic through the Norman host ; and it 
 was only by superhuman exertions on the part of William and 
 his bravest leaders that at last the flight was checked and order 
 re-established. Then those who had fled turned on their pur- 
 suers, surrounded them, and cut most of them to pieces. Again 
 the attack was made, and again it was met. Fiercely and 
 furiously men fought. Gurth and Leofwine, the two brothers 
 of the king, appear, from the Bayeux Tapestry, to have been 
 surrounded and killed, and one of them is believed to have been 
 stricken down by the heavy mace of William of Normandy. 
 During that period of the strife, twice was William himself thrown 
 to the ground, his horse slain under him. On all sides blood 
 was flowing, and axes and swords ringing, while the shouts of 
 the combatants were heard far away from the field of battle. 
 Still Harold the King held his own. Still the twin standards 
 floated in the air ; and, if the palisading was broken, there was 
 still behind it the impenetrable shield wall and the stout hearts 
 of the bravest soldiers in Britain. 
 
 For nearly six hours the fight had lasted, Could Harold keep 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 his enemy at bay until the setting of the autumn sun he might 
 strengthen himself for the next day, and William's position would 
 be more than dangerous if fresh levies could be brought to bear 
 on his already weakened power. There was no time to be lost ; 
 the victory must be won, if at all, on that day. He passed the 
 word for a feigned attack to be made on the western end of the 
 Saxon line. He accurately estimated the temperament of the men 
 and leaders there posted. By a simulated flight on the part of 
 the foreigners the Saxons were drawn from their entrenchments, 
 and then the returning power of the Norman army surrounded 
 and overwhelmed them, and at last found a footing round the 
 end of the fortification. The Norman horses were seen on the 
 north side of the palisades. 
 
 There was now no great natural obstacle in the path of their 
 attack. The slope, probably somewhat rugged and broken, ran 
 up to the banner-stones of Harold, and up this slope the Norman 
 knights charged, while the whole front of the English was engaged 
 with the attack of the main army. But the slope was narrow, 
 and the bristling masses of English warriors had no thought of 
 flight in surrender. Their shields, thick with hostile arrows, 
 still formed a. wall, while strong hands hurled back darts or 
 thrust spears through their enemies, and, from above that wall, 
 the tremendous whirl of the long axe clove the helm and broke 
 the sword and strewed the field with horses and riders. Even 
 when, after fearful loss on the part of the Normans, the wall 
 was broken, and the defenders reduced to groups of desperate 
 men, these last sold their lives dearly, and great was the carnage 
 on both sides. Gradually and slowly fighting onward step by 
 step, with their numbers still perishing in front, still increasing 
 from behind, William and his chivalry worked their way towards 
 the standards. There still stood Harold fighting like a monarch 
 for his kingdom, like a hero for his nation. We are told that at 
 this point in the battle William ordered his archers to shoot into 
 the air and so strike the helmets of the Saxons ; and it has been 
 generally supposed that in obedience to this order their arrows 
 were shot high up, so that in falling they might penetrate the 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 leathern head-covering worn by many of the Saxon soldiers. I 
 may be wrong, but I have never been able to believe this. An 
 arrow shot nearly straight up into the air will fall no one knows 
 where, and a slight current of wind will make a missile so sent 
 as dangerous to the friends as to the enemies of the archer. I 
 think that the real order given to them was simply to aim higher 
 — to shoot, not at the shields, but at the heads of the Saxons. 
 If we are to judge from the Bayeux Tapestry, the arrow which 
 struck Harold came, not from above, but on a line with his face, 
 when his head was slightly thrown backward in the act of striking. 
 The arrows bristling on his shield have come straight towards 
 him ; one has passed over the shield, and has struck his right 
 eye. Grasping desperately at the shaft in the instinctive effort 
 to withdraw it, the king falls mortally wounded beneath the 
 standard. A small body of Norman knights — most of whom fell 
 in the attempt, stricken down by the companions of Harold — 
 made a desperate rush to the spot. Four of them reached it, 
 and, with sword and spear, stabbed out the remaining life of the 
 great Saxon. The Fighting Man was beaten down ; the Golden 
 Dragon uprooted from its banner-stone, carried away in triumph 
 to the Conqueror, and the last of the hero band that stood to 
 defend it smitten to death. Afterwards breath was found in a 
 few of those chosen warriors, and they were carried away and 
 lived ; but at the moment when the fight was over around the 
 standard, not one was supposed to have survived. 
 
 The victory was won ; but in the shades of the evening the 
 light-armed Saxons, who, seeing that all was lost, began to flee, 
 finding themselves pursued turned on their pursuers and slew 
 many of them, as, in ignorance of the ground, they fell horse 
 over man down the steep sides of the Malfosse, until the hollow 
 was full of writhing forms. 
 
 William won the battle and the crown. He may at first have 
 intended to rule justly ; but he either could not or did not protect 
 his new subjects from the tyranny and oppression of his followers. 
 A warlike and independent nation will not willingly yield its 
 freedom, and the spirit of the Saxons was not likely to submit 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 23 
 
 without murmur to all the indignities which the Norman con- 
 querors showered down upon them. For years afterwards we 
 hear of risings to be quelled, of rebels to be punished. Even 
 where there was apparent obedience, there must have been 
 inward hatred, and many must have been the conclaves of the 
 discontented, who, despising their own subservience, eagerly 
 sought for some means to avenge themselves on their oppressors. 
 From these meetings the Saxon gleeman wordd not be absent. 
 He would remind his hearers of the glories of their fathers, and 
 stir up the lagging spirit of the faint-hearted, and at times he 
 would teach them how vahantly the great king strove to defend 
 his kingdom, and would point to the prophecy of the dying 
 Confessor, that a day would come when the green tree cut away 
 from the midst of its trunk should be joined thereto again, and 
 again put forth leaves and bear fruit in its season, and that then 
 the woes of England should end. It is to such a song, told to 
 such a meeting, that I have endeavoured to give words. 
 
 Norman castles towering round us 
 
 Crush the confiscated land, 
 All the nation moans in anguish 
 
 Underneath the Norman hand. 
 Shall we kiss that hand with meekness, 
 
 Bow the knee in humble mood, 
 In our ears the cries of slaughter, 
 
 In our eyes the mist of blood ? 
 
 Hear your wives and daughters crying 
 For the help ye dare not give ; 
 
 See your sons and brothers dying. 
 And can ye endure to live ? 
 
24 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 'Twas not thus we met the tyrant 
 
 Upon Senlac's fatal plain, 
 When the life-blood of our heroes 
 
 Soaked the earth as autumn's rain ; 
 Still the faithful earth in mourning 
 
 Shows to heaven the crimson stain. 
 
 Gather round my harp in silence ; 
 
 List the record of that day, 
 Till ye hear the crash of armour 
 
 And the shouting in the fray ; 
 Till the dead in living spirit 
 
 Bid ye battle while ye may. 
 
 Tall and stately looked our monarch, 
 
 Harnessed as beseemed a king : 
 In his hand the axe of battle. 
 
 On his helm the golden ring ; 
 O'er him waved the ancient Dragon, 
 
 O'er him blazed the Fighting Man, — 
 As he stood to face his warriors, 
 
 In the forefront of the van. 
 
 "Every footstep of the Norman 
 Reeks with blood that he has shed ; 
 
 In his ears the curse is ringing 
 Of the dying and the dead. 
 
 Raise to heaven our ancient war-cry. 
 Steep your axes deep in gore ; 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 25 
 
 Strike in freedom's name, and, striking, 
 
 Let the smitten rise no more. 
 Not for glory or for power 
 
 Are ye gathered to the fight ; 
 Not for Harold, but for England, 
 
 Strike ; and God defend the right ! " 
 
 Then there rose the voice of thousands. 
 
 Like the roaring of the sea. 
 Shouts of "God and king for ever !" 
 
 Shouts of " Death or liberty ! " 
 Ceased the tumult, and in silence 
 
 Every head was bowed in prayer. 
 Trusting honour, life, and country 
 
 Humbly to the Maker's care. 
 
 Who shall say the trust is broken. 
 
 Though the Norman gained the field. 
 And the life-blood of the pleader 
 
 Clotted o'er his riven shield ? 
 Still in memory lives their honour. 
 
 Still in death their souls are free. 
 Still may leaf and bloom and berry 
 
 Cluster on the stately tree. 
 Raise again the cry of battle, 
 
 Once again the standard rear. 
 And in victory and vengeance 
 
 Learn the ending of the prayer. 
 
26 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 On they came, the Norman masses, 
 
 Gathered in the vale beneath ; 
 On, in thousands upon thousands, 
 
 In the panoply of death, 
 Like a mighty cloud of tempest 
 
 Rolling o'er a blasted heath. 
 And a shout of proud defiance 
 
 Burst in thunder from our van. 
 And the sunlight flashed in splendour 
 
 All around the Fighting Man. 
 
 Then, in answer to the thunder 
 
 From the tempest cloud below. 
 Came the lightning rush of arrows 
 
 From the archers of the foe ; 
 And amid the shout of battle, 
 
 Like a vast and rolling flood, 
 Dashed the leaders of the Normans 
 
 Where the Saxon heroes stood. 
 
 Well they stood in line unyielding, 
 
 Dart for dart and stroke for stroke j 
 Sweep of axes, thrust of lances, 
 
 On the clanging armour broke ; 
 Sweep of axes, thrust of lances, 
 
 Ring of sword on helm and shield, 
 Call of bugles, shouts and curses. 
 
 Madly through the battle pealed. 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 27 
 
 Foot to foot, no step was yielded, 
 
 Nought between them save the dead, 
 Riven shields, and anguish writhing 
 
 In the blood itself had shed. 
 Red with gore the lifted axes. 
 
 Red with gore the spear and sword ; 
 Blood above them, blood around them. 
 
 Blood beneath them on the sward. 
 
 As the thresher's flail in harvest, 
 
 Fell the axe of Harold then ; 
 Under Leofwine, Gurth, and Godric ' 
 
 Were the groans of dying men. 
 And we grasped our axes tighter. 
 
 And we shouted in our might, 
 As we saw the foremost waver, 
 
 As we bore them back in fight. 
 
 Proudly, proudly blazed the Dragon, 
 
 As the war-cry rose again 
 That so oft before had called him 
 
 To the banquet of the slain, 
 When the Raven fell before him. 
 
 Plumage torn and broken wings, 
 When the English kites and foxes 
 
 Battened on the flesh of kings. 
 
 Loud and louder rose the clangour, 
 Fast and faster fell the blow; 
 
28 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 Horse and man went down together 
 As we charged upon the foe, 
 
 As we drove them, fighting, flying. 
 Backwards o'er the bloody sod : 
 
 There was death and desolation 
 Where the English Dragon trod. 
 
 But the surges beat upon us, 
 As the waves of ocean roar. 
 
 In the flood time of the winter. 
 Dashed upon a rocky shore. 
 
 All unceasing in its power. 
 
 Still that ocean marches on ; 
 Every wave is stayed and broken — - 
 
 Broken ; but its work is done. 
 Victors still, in lessening numbers, 
 
 Hour on hour we stood at bay ; 
 Every wave that broke upon us 
 
 Bore some Saxon lives away. 
 
 So we fought, and still the sunbeams. 
 
 Slanting from the western sky. 
 Saw the gold upon our banner. 
 
 Heard untamed our battle-cry. 
 But we knew our numbers broken. 
 
 As we drew in closer ring 
 Round the standard of our honour. 
 
 By our hero and our King. 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 29 
 
 On they came, the Norman horsemen, 
 
 Charging up the sloping hill, 
 Where the shield wall stood to battle, 
 
 Where the Dragon floated still. 
 Swifter poured the deadly arrows. 
 
 Like the burst of summer hail. 
 Piercing through the weakened harness. 
 
 Battered helm, and broken mail. 
 
 On they came, the wall was riven, — 
 
 Scattered, desperate of life. 
 Worn with toil, the Saxon warriors 
 
 Bore them still against the strife. 
 Earth was cumbered with the dying. 
 
 Where in closing fight they stood. 
 Dealing death in death, and falling 
 
 'Midst the stream of Norman blood. 
 
 Ovemumbered by the horsemen. 
 
 Churl and chieftain, side by side. 
 Pierced by spear-thrust, hacked with broadsword. 
 
 Prince and peasant fought and died. 
 
 Still beneath the blazing Dragon 
 
 Harold's axe was whirled around, 
 And the stricken lay before him. 
 
 Like a rampart on the ground ; 
 And the boldest of the Normans 
 
 Quailed before that kingly form. 
 
30 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 Standing, as a rock of granite, 
 In the centre of the storm. 
 
 He hath fallen, arrow-smitten ; 
 
 Still he strives to rise in vain. 
 Dogs, that dared not face him living. 
 
 Stab him, dying, on the plain ; 
 And as droops a soaring eagle, 
 
 Stricken in its pride of flight. 
 Fluttering fell the golden Dragon, 
 
 'Midst the shadows of the night. 
 
 Long and weary is the darkness — 
 Shall we never see the morn ? 
 
 Has our glory sunk for ever 
 In the bitterness of scorn ? 
 
 Cold the hearts that once were valiant. 
 Weak the arms that once were strong ; 
 
 Saxons crouch before their masters, 
 As a dog beneath the thong. 
 
 None to raise the wounded Dragon, 
 None to staunch the wasting drain ; 
 
 Branded with the name of coward, 
 Tamely can ye bear the stain ? 
 
 No ; I see the dawn is springing. 
 Bright and brighter grows the ray. 
 
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 31 
 
 In your hearts the call is ringing, — 
 Heed the message while ye may. 
 
 Think of all that ye have suffered ; 
 
 Raise again the battle brand ; 
 Let the life-blood of the Norman 
 
 Purge the honour of our land. 
 
( 32 ) 
 
 THE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 
 
 There is a height above the shore, 
 
 And on the height a ruined mound ; 
 The crumbling stones half lichened o'er, 
 
 Half buried in the ground. 
 Time and the sea-wind hath defaced 
 The long-hewn stones, where still is traced 
 The chevroned work, the patient skill 
 Of living hearts, of living will. 
 The broad cliff standeth steep and white. 
 But just beneath its topmost height 
 Are two dark caves, like sightless eyes 
 Aye turned towards the morning skies ; 
 Or like the orbits of a skull, 
 All impressionless and dull. 
 Still suggesting grief and care 
 In the life that has been there — 
 Sorrow burdening the birth. 
 Life that would not leave the earth, 
 Weary nights and toilsome days 
 Crushing out the voice of praise. 
 
THE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 33 
 
 Till the heavy work was done, 
 And one goal at least was won. 
 
 All is o'er, the soul hath flown, 
 
 Nothing is left but the silent bone 
 
 Tablet of a parted groan. 
 
 There is a narrow dangerous way 
 Up the tall cliff's white face ; and they 
 Who have explored those caverns say 
 There did the sea-bird build her nest, 
 
 There did she rear her young ; 
 And 'midst the down from off her breast. 
 And lime, and rough and broken stones, 
 Were vestiges of human bones, 
 To which, e'en in their last decay, 
 
 The rust of iron clung. 
 
 Unfold the past, roll back the years ; 
 
 Wake from the dust the withered brain, 
 Once more to live in hopes and fears ; 
 
 Clothe the dry bones with flesh again. 
 
 Bid arch and buttress, tower and hall. 
 
 Stand as they did in days of old ; 
 Fling out the banner from the wall ; 
 
 Let warriors gleam in steel and gold. 
 
 They answer not. Nor human breath. 
 Nor human eye can pierce the gloom ; 
 
 D 
 
34 THE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 
 
 No hand can break the seal of death, 
 Or roll the door-stone from the tomb. 
 
 So let them sleep, and in their stead 
 Let Fancy here awhile be crowned, 
 
 And weave a legend of the dead, 
 A legend of the ruined mound. 
 
 Stern and strong the Norman keep 
 Looked from the height o'er the rolling deep — 
 Looked from the height o'er the fruitful land. 
 Reft by the sword from the Saxon's hand. 
 All that the searching eye could reach, 
 Forest and meadow and rocky beach. 
 From the distant hill to the wave of the sea. 
 Was claimed by the Baron of Wilton Lea. 
 
 Fierce in battle and silent in hall. 
 Stern and cold as his castle wall. 
 Parting with little and grasping all. 
 Never a work of mercy done. 
 Never a word of blessing won. 
 The baron lived, in heart, alone. 
 
 Against the blue of the evening sky the purple clouds 
 
 were rolled ; 
 'Midst the dark stems of the forest trees flashed the 
 
 long rays of gold. 
 
THE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 35 
 
 The lengthening shadows lay in peace on the head 
 
 of the yellow corn ; 
 The lark sent down her voice from the sky, and the 
 
 finch from the leaf-clad thorn ; 
 The sound of slowly homing kine came from the 
 
 distant lea, 
 And tints that fell from the changing clouds made 
 
 glory o'er the sea. 
 All nature smiled in loveliness as to the castle mound 
 The baron returned from his chase on the moor with 
 
 man and hawk and hound. 
 The day had been long and the quarry strong ; o'er 
 
 hill and dale they sped, 
 Until at length the death-shout rang on the top of the 
 
 Beacon Head ; 
 But the heat of the chase had passed away, and weary 
 
 their steps and slow, 
 And the baron's face was worn and stern, and heavy 
 
 was his brow. 
 It may have been that on his soul some darker 
 
 memory weighed ; 
 It may have been that on his head some deeper curse 
 
 was laid : 
 None knew, or cared to ask. Before his band he rode 
 
 alone. 
 His deeds, perchance, were guessed by all, — his 
 
 thoughts were all his own. 
 And there, before the castle gate, a weary peasant 
 
 stood. 
 
36 THE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 
 
 There were blood-marks on his hands and feet, and 
 
 on his face was blood. 
 He stood before the baron's path, and raised his hand 
 
 on high, 
 And the stain on the palm bore the deep dark hue of 
 
 blood that hath long been dry. 
 "Thine are the fruits in the barns," he said, "and the 
 
 beasts on the lea and the moor. 
 From all that God hath sent to thee deal kindly with 
 
 the poor. 
 I have come from far away, and have not where to 
 
 lay my head ; 
 I ask but a place wherein to rest, and the gift of a 
 
 morsel of bread." 
 The baron gazed on the hand upraised, and the 
 
 haggard, blood-stained face, 
 He had smitten the speaker to the ground but for 
 
 God's saving grace. 
 And cold and stern the answer came, "Get shelter 
 
 where ye will ; 
 Feed on the berries from the bush, find water in the rill." 
 " Now, nay, great chief," the stranger said, " but hear 
 
 me when I pray ; 
 No blessings light upon the roof when the poor is 
 
 driven away.'' 
 The wrath, half checked before, blazed forth. " Have, 
 
 then, thy prayer," he said ; 
 " Thy food the garbage of the soil, the dungeon stone 
 
 thy bed." 
 
l^HE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 37 
 
 A word, a sign ; the Norman train around the sup- 
 pliant close. 
 
 They hale him through the castle gates with jeers and 
 scathing blows, 
 
 They drag him where the caverned cell lies deep in 
 the white cliff's side. 
 
 Where two small chinks let in the light that comes 
 o'er the eastern tide — 
 
 Two feeble glimmering rays of light ; a rank and loath- 
 some den, 
 
 Foul with the moanings of despair and the deaths of 
 starving men. 
 
 And there they cast the fainting form, and, at their 
 lord's command, 
 
 Around the victim's waist they clenched the ponderous 
 iron band 
 
 Chained to a beam. For food they gave a crust all 
 fouled with gore, 
 
 And bade him drink of the drops that fell from the 
 roof on the putrid floor. 
 
 The baron returned to the banquet hall. The wine 
 
 was bright and red. 
 But still he saw in the wassail-cup the blood that he 
 
 had shed. 
 Below the board the menials sate, and the song was 
 
 loud and high. 
 But still through the shouts the baron heard the moans 
 
 of agony. 
 
38 THE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 
 
 He turned to his couch. No peace was his ; the 
 
 victims he had slain 
 Gathered around his restless sleep, and showed their 
 
 wounds again ; 
 And the cry of woes his hand had -wrought rang 
 
 through the fevered brain. 
 Out driven in his dream at last, he wandered in a wood 
 Where corpses mingled with the trees and water 
 
 changed to blood. 
 And still the cry of doom rang forth, behind him and 
 
 around, 
 And, as he ran, dead hands stretched forth and clutched 
 
 him to the ground. 
 In vain, with piteous gaze, he sought to find some 
 
 saving goal ; 
 No voice in heaven or earth to plead for rnercy on his 
 
 soul. 
 At last, at last, through the midnight drear, one feeble 
 
 ray of light, 
 And a low soft call that seemed to break the horrors 
 
 of the night. 
 In desperate hope he struggled on, yet still behind 
 
 him came 
 The shade of death, the sea of blood, the vengeance, 
 
 and the flame. 
 O'er broken ground, through tearing thorn, still must 
 
 he press the race. 
 And die, if he may win in death a hallowed resting- 
 place. 
 
THE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 39 
 
 And the voice grew sweet, and the beacon bright ; but 
 
 when the strife was o'er, 
 A broken man the baron fell beside the opened 
 
 door. 
 
 And One came forth and raised him up, and bare him 
 
 in His hand, 
 And spake in words of peace, and there was silence 
 
 in the land ; 
 And ministered with gentle touch, all fainting as he 
 
 lay, 
 And cooled and healed his wounded limbs, and 
 
 washed the stains away. 
 But then, as sense and thought returned, before the 
 
 baron's eye 
 Uprose the hand with the stain on the palm of blood 
 
 that hath long been dry. 
 The baron gazed on the hand upraised, he gazed on 
 
 the blood-stained face. 
 And a cry burst forth from his inmost soul as he knelt 
 
 at the feet of Grace, 
 And once again he heard that voice which he had 
 
 scorned before, 
 " Behold, thy sins are all forgiven ; depart and sin no 
 
 more." 
 He woke, and started from his bed. The dawn was 
 
 in its birth. 
 And the soft sounds of coming day went upward from 
 
 the earth. 
 
40 THE LEGEND OF WILTON LEA. 
 
 With hasty foot and trembling frame he trod the 
 
 winding stair, 
 He turned the prison door, but lo ! no prisoner was 
 
 there. 
 Useless the chain hung from the beam, empty the 
 
 iron band, ' 
 And fair the cave in the morning light as blessed by 
 
 an angel's hand ; 
 And carved upon the hallowed wall, in gentle beauty 
 
 smiled 
 A symbol of redeeming love — the Mother and the 
 
 Child. 
 
 No more as Baron of the Lea — within that sacred 
 
 cell 
 For many a year the hermit prayed, as ancient legends 
 
 tell. 
 The iron ring of massive weight that once his Saviour 
 
 bore. 
 Chained to the beam, around his waist in penitence 
 
 he wore ; 
 His wealth, his lands to holy hands and charity 
 
 resigned. 
 God grant that he hath found His grace, and that we 
 
 too may find, 
 
( 41 ) 
 
 THE HERO'S WELL. 
 
 High on the rock where Gibeon stands alone, 
 The sentinel of Zion, Judas sate. 
 Far to the west, in azure and in gold, 
 The ocean rose to meet the setting sun. 
 But nearer than the sea there lay the shore ; 
 And nearer than the shore there stood the hills ; 
 And 'midst the hills, like snakes, the valleys crept. 
 E'en from the margin of the distant plain 
 Up to the very bastions of God ; 
 And 'midst them all there lay the Syrian host 
 In might and numbers, like a leprous curse 
 Blighting the hope and promise of the land. 
 
 It well may be that, in the books of heaven. 
 
 The wailing of an infant in its pain 
 
 Is marked and chronicled by angels' hands ; 
 
 But the full anguish of a nation's wrong 
 
 Finds itself wings, and, bursting from the earth, 
 
 Stamps its own record on the living page. 
 
42 THE HERO'S WELL. 
 
 From Galilee the cry of blood arose — 
 The blood of man, of woman, and of child ; 
 The blood of those who bowed them to the stroke, 
 And only called on Heaven ; blood without stint ;- 
 Until the earth, sealing her patient breast, 
 Held the dark stain up to the frowning sky. 
 
 It seemed as though no eye beheld the slain. 
 
 And the death-cry that gasped its way to heaven 
 
 Found e'en the home of God untenanted, 
 
 And earth and sky were desolate. How hard 
 
 To learn that vengeance cometh from the Lord ; 
 
 To wait, and, as it seems, to wait in vain ; 
 
 To bear in hope ; to linger on in hope ; 
 
 To die unsatisfied, nor hear afar 
 
 The rushing murmur of His chariot-wheels ! 
 
 " Hath He indeed forgotten to be true, 
 
 And cast us off for ever ? Can it be 
 
 That we have loved and trusted Him for nought ? 
 
 Will He not come ? How long, O Lord, how long ? " 
 
 At last uprose the chieftain of the hills, 
 Judas the Maccabee, and, strong in faith. 
 Strong in the memory of his victories. 
 Girt on the sword won in the flush of war. 
 Upraised his standard for a rallying point, 
 And stood between the living and the dead. 
 
THE HERO'S WELL. 43 
 
 But unto him came a bare thousand men, 
 While two and twenty thousand hostile swords 
 Chafed in their scabbards, and the plunging hoofs 
 Of twice a thousand horses tore the ground, 
 For want of corpses to be trampled on. 
 
 But Judas and his men were on the hills, 
 And came to Gibeon. Then, because he knew 
 That many hearts were troubled with affright. 
 And doubts were in their councils, for a space 
 The chief withdrew him from the gloomy camp, 
 And climbed the mountain, seeking on its height 
 Companionship with Heaven and his thoughts. 
 
 And there he sate until the sun went down, 
 Discerning many memories in his heart. 
 But seeing all the future hke a night. 
 He knew the power of his enemies ; 
 He knew the weakness of his followers. 
 Retreat or battle : and if battle, death ; 
 And if retreat, dishonour. Every thought 
 Fell overburdened with a double weight ; 
 And the old spirit that in by-gone days 
 Had borne him past obstruction, till his foes 
 Fled from before his name, was his no more. 
 
 And there he sate until the vanquished sun. 
 Fighting the darkness even in its death, 
 Buried its rays beneath the western sea. 
 
44 THE HERO'S WELL. 
 
 Then, as its power faded from the earth, 
 And sea and sky joined in the requiem, 
 Judas arose, one hand upon his spear. 
 The other on the rock, and looked around, 
 And saw and trusted to the love of God. 
 And a great peace came o'er him, and he knelt. 
 Bowing his head down even to the dust. 
 And worshipped, and returned unto the camp. 
 
 He called his followers ; and they came around, 
 Lingering and sad. He marked the downcast eye, 
 The lip indented, and the sinewy hand 
 Firm clenched against itself, as if in hate 
 Of the weak soul that kept it from the fight. 
 They came around. The torches in the night 
 Cast not more fitful change of light and shade 
 O'er helmet, shield, and spear, o'er face and limb. 
 Than in their hearts the momentary flash 
 Of bravery, not firm enough to dare. 
 Rose up and died away again, and left 
 The gloom of fear that struggled to be brave. 
 
 And so they stood in silence as he spake ; 
 " The enemies are many j we are few. 
 But when did the Almighty first begin 
 To take account or number of His foes ? 
 When did He send an ambassage of peace. 
 Or render tribute to His conquerors ? 
 Have we not heard how, in the days of old, 
 
THE HERO'S WELL. 45 
 
 When Israel was weak and trodden down, 
 
 The Lord arose, and, with an arm of might, 
 
 With hailstones cast from heaven, with angels' hands. 
 
 With the broad flashes of His thunderstorm. 
 
 The kings and captains of the earth were slain. 
 
 And Jacob dwelt in safety ? And whene'er 
 
 His cause was trusted to the swords of men, 
 
 Those swords were swayed by more than human might, 
 
 And single warriors told of thousands slain. 
 
 Who raised up Samson, Gideon, and Saul ? 
 
 Who gave the Philistine to David's sling. 
 
 And blessed us with an everlasting name ? 
 
 Is the Lord's eye less keen, weaker His arm. 
 
 Than in those days of great deliverance ? " 
 
 He paused, and as he paused he looked around ; 
 
 Yet answer came there none, except a sigh 
 
 And a slow shaking of the downcast head, 
 
 And then at last a low and murmured sound, 
 
 " Let us return. To fight is but to die.'' 
 
 He swept his hand a moment o'er his face, 
 As blotting out remembrance of the past. 
 And when he spake, his voice was low and clear, 
 But hollow as the dropping of a knell. 
 
 " Ye may be right. But I am God's alone. 
 I dare not hesitate, and unto death 
 Must remain constant where the heart is bound. 
 I will not bid you follow ; but I go. 
 
46 THE HERO'S WELL. 
 
 And if I go unaided, 'tis from Him ; 
 
 And if I die alone, I do but die 
 
 A sacrifice of peace. Grant me but this : 
 
 Redeem my body. Lay it in the tomb 
 
 Wherein my fathers sleep, and say of me 
 
 I could not live with Israel in chains ; 
 
 And bless me in my memory. Fare ye well." 
 
 He laid his own on Eleazar's hand. 
 
 The nearest and the bravest of his friends, 
 
 Pressed it, and uttered once again, " Farewell." 
 
 And, looking with an eye that seemed to look 
 
 Out of the world into eternity, 
 
 Eye into eye and through it, blessed them all, 
 
 And would have turned. But ere the words were 
 
 sped, 
 A murmur, like the rushing of a wind. 
 And then a long-drawn sob, and then a cry, 
 Burst from the little band in unison : 
 "We all are thine. Do with us as thou wilt." 
 And spears and swords flashed upwards, and the men 
 Close gathered round with short and broken words, 
 And earnest eyes filled with unwonted tears. 
 And Eleazar, bending o'er the hand 
 Still resting on his own, in trembling voice 
 Spake in the name of all : " Thy God is ours ; 
 Where thou art we are. Even unto death 
 We are but one. Forgive us." And the cry 
 Ran through the band, " Father, forgive thy sons ! " 
 
THE HERO'S WELL. 
 
 47 
 
 A moment — and a cloud o'erdimmed the eye, 
 The dark plume quivered, and the labouring breath 
 Rose like the surges of a troubled sea, 
 As, head and face thrown upward to the sky. 
 And lips drawn firm, he stemmed the tide of heart 
 Rising within him. Then he spake again. 
 
 " I was but now like to the child that lay 
 
 Within the chamber of the Shunamite, 
 
 And your then love was as the prophet's staff 
 
 That gave no life. Now, hand is joined to hand. 
 
 And heart to heart, and living love to life. 
 
 Ye have done well, and memory is with God ; 
 
 And the proud history of faithfulness 
 
 Shall blazon in the annals of the land ; 
 
 That every name shall be in coming times 
 
 A cloud of fire to lead God's champions on. 
 
 Farewell until to-morrow. Rest and pray." 
 
 The ring of shield and spear within the camp 
 
 Awoke the dawn, and ere the sun arose 
 
 The little army gathered in array. 
 
 No doubts were there ; but earnest, living zeal, 
 
 Girding the soul to battle, till it longed 
 
 To prove itself the birthright of the Lord. 
 
 Then the low sounds that mounted to the sky 
 Taught the young light the hallowed words of prayer- 
 " Father and Chief, the day is in Thine hands ; 
 
4Si THE HERO'S WELL. 
 
 Our lives are Thine — Thine only. Take or spare, 
 Even as seemeth best. For, taking them, 
 Thine own are only taken to Thyself; 
 But spare them, if Thou wilt, for the dear sake 
 Of those we fight for. Yet Thy will be done.'' 
 Then, as the words uprose, the march began, 
 And Judas passed before them on the way. 
 
 Onward they went until the vale was gained 
 Where lay the Syrian army, all outspread. 
 Like a huge dragon, cumbering the ground. 
 A narrow pass was at the valley's head ; 
 On either side the dark and barren rocks 
 Stood scowling at the chasm, as in hate 
 That they, despite themselves, were thrust aside 
 To make a pathway for the will of God. 
 
 They entered in, and, with extended front, 
 
 Filling the passage even to the hills. 
 
 Halted in expectation of the foe ; 
 
 But scarce their sheen had glittered down the vale, 
 
 When in the hostile camp a trumpet blast 
 
 Made note of preparation. To and fro 
 
 The sounds of arms and cries were tossed about, 
 
 Like echoes from a cave, and the vast bounds 
 
 Seethed out their soldiers, till the line grew strong, 
 
 And stars of light glittered throughout the plain, 
 
 Shot from the bright caparison of war. 
 
THE HERO'S WELL. 49 
 
 Then the loud signal of advance was made, 
 And forward rushed the army, like a wave 
 With tossing crests, towards the narrow pass. 
 Onward they came until the space between 
 Had dwindled to a furlong. Then they stayed ; 
 And for a while the men on either side 
 Stood sternly and in silence — in a calm 
 Too dead to last. The very breath was drawn 
 In troubled snatches, and the hands were clenched 
 Until the spear-points trembled with a pulse. 
 
 Then the deep still was broken as a glass, 
 Sounded the charge, and forward, with a shout. 
 The rushing armies met in mid career. 
 Thousands were launched at hundreds ; but the last. 
 Flanked by the rocks, gave not an inch of ground, 
 But bore them up as thousands. Every man 
 Bore death before him^ life within his heart. 
 On pressed the Syrians, as a band of wolves 
 Panting for blood, till dying in their own ; 
 Or like the waves upon a tideless sea. 
 That beat and beat for ever on the strand. 
 But gain no vantage. Then the Maccabee, 
 Noting the war with ever-watchful eye. 
 Bade blow the trumpet with a mightier blast ; 
 And, as a rock rolls down upon the plain. 
 The Jewish warriors dashed upon the foe, 
 When the attack was waning. Then the play 
 Of sword-blades flashing in the morning sun, 
 
 E 
 
so THE HERO'S WELL. 
 
 Scattering the life-drops as they rose and fell, 
 Grew thick and fast ; and shouts, and dying groans, 
 And the wild clang of steel rose o'er the hills, 
 And bore the tale of death to distant towns. 
 
 A little while — the onward course was stayed ; 
 
 A little while — the din of answering blows ; 
 
 A little while — the shout that echoed shout : 
 
 But as the sword of Judas rose to smite, 
 
 Nor wearied of its smiting, every blow 
 
 Supplied a gap for " Onwards ; " and the cry 
 
 Of " Onwards ! " followed with the curse of death. 
 
 The leading ensigns wavered, rose, and sank ; 
 
 And, backward borne, yet fighting to the last, 
 
 The choicest warriors of Syria's host 
 
 Fell in their blood, and rank and order lost — 
 
 All was confusion until all was flight. 
 
 And mingled spears, and swords, and helms, and shields, 
 
 And broken staves, and corpses strewed the ground. 
 
 In vain the leaders sought to stem the rout. 
 To wage encounter with the rushing tide. 
 Onward it swept, and bore them on its crest ; 
 And onward, like an eagle in its flight. 
 Smiting and sparing not, the victor host 
 Swept after, in the vengeance of the Lord. 
 
 And so the sword of slaughter dashed along. 
 Until the day was weary of its dead. 
 
THE HERO'S WELL. 51 
 
 And the worn victors kept nor rank nor place, 
 And loitered in the slaying. Then they paused 
 Hard by the well that is in Beeroth. 
 
 But then, as ye have seen a little cloud 
 Gathering the vapour even as it rolled 
 Until it darkened all the firmament, 
 So, one by one, the straggling Syrians came, 
 Men who escaped and let the fight go by. 
 Unto one head, and, gathering arms and force. 
 Outnumbering the victors, followed them, 
 And came upon them in their weariness. 
 
 The battle rose again ; but worn and faint. 
 And scattered in the field, the patriot band 
 Fought, slaying to be slain. The tired arm 
 Scarce raised the shield, and weak and short the blow. 
 
 Walled round with foes, but fighting like a god. 
 
 Bleeding but killing, bearing death in death, 
 
 Judas stood fast o'er Eleazar's corpse. 
 
 Until the stream that flowed from many wounds 
 
 Wavered the hand, and, as the sight swam round. 
 
 Seeking a foe in vacancy, he sank ; 
 
 And then a shout arose. The fight was won. 
 
 They gathered round, and, as they stood and gazed. 
 The eyelids opened, and with gasping lips 
 
52 THE HERO'S WELL. 
 
 He groaned for water. Even Syrian hearts 
 Bent at the sound. They filled a vacant helm 
 With water from the well, He drank and died. 
 
 Two thousand years and more have come and gone, 
 And many a foreign host hath borne its arms 
 O'er the fair land that Judas died to save. 
 Scattered and peeled, as aliens in the world, 
 In other climes the tribes of Jewry roam ; 
 And the appointed garden of the Lord 
 Mourns for His people, but it mourns in vain. 
 Yet to this day, using unwitting words. 
 The Arab guide will bid the traveller stop 
 And mark the ruin of the Hero's Well. 
 
( 53 ) 
 
 THE FELON'S RACE. 
 
 The summer sun is on the earth, 
 
 The corn is joying in its birth, 
 
 And you might think the sleeping sea 
 
 Dreamt of its own immensity. 
 
 And the light wavelets in their flow 
 
 Were but its breathings soft and low. 
 
 There is joy in the land, there is joy in the hall, 
 
 Welcome and plenty for one and all ; 
 
 And Stainby's gates are opened wide 
 
 To greet the bridegroom and the bride. 
 
 And shouts and laughter come over the lea, 
 
 And the gush of bells in their jubilee — 
 
 Bells that bear in every tone 
 
 Blessings on those who now are one. 
 
 They are seen from the wall, a goodly throng. 
 Cease for a moment the feast and the song ; 
 Up from the tables and round to the gate, — 
 When the master is coming the flagon can wait. 
 
54 THE FELON'S RACE. 
 
 Nearer they came, till all might tell 
 The name of every rider well. 
 And foremost of the bright array 
 Ralph of the Keep on his gallant bay, 
 And gently resting on his side 
 Is the tender hand of the new-made bride. 
 And he gathers it up within his own, 
 Flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, 
 And turns to whisper in her ear 
 Words of blessing, words of cheer. 
 Words that none besides may hear. 
 Words that find their sole replies 
 In gentle touch and loving eyes. 
 
 The shouts are echoing o'er the tide 
 As up the narrow causeway ride 
 
 The leaders of the band. 
 Yet, ere is reached the clamorous crowd, 
 Sudden a ring sounds sharp and loud. 
 From yon low bush a little cloud 
 
 Uprises like a hand. 
 With one short gasp, one cry of pain. 
 One fevered tossing of the mane, 
 
 One quick convulsive bound. 
 Ere yet the life-blood finds its way 
 Through to the light, the gallant bay 
 
 Falls headlong to the ground. 
 
 For one brief moment all was still. 
 It passed, and o'er the startled hill 
 
THE FELON'S RACE. 55 
 
 Shouting, and cry, and dint of steed 
 Urged onward to the utmost speed. 
 
 And curses loud and high, 
 And long-drawn sobs, and shrieks for aid, 
 And pistol shot and clang of blade 
 
 Rang upward to the sky. 
 
 As lion at the scent of foes, 
 Quick from the dust Ralph Stainby rose, 
 Unhurt, but crimsoned with the gore 
 Of the slain horse, and, rising, bore. 
 Safe held within his sheltering arm, 
 All pale and breathless with alarm. 
 His latest gift. His flashing eye 
 One moment sought his enemy ; 
 Marked how his kinsmen scoured the heath 
 Whence flew the messenger of death ; 
 Saw, like a quarry from the hounds, 
 With desperate race and frantic bounds, 
 O'er gorse and ditch and broken hedge. 
 Striving to gain the mountain's edge, 
 Only one man. A pitying light 
 Passed o'er his visage at the sight. 
 He turned, his darling's fears to quell, 
 And learn and show that all was well. 
 And then, as quickly gathered round. 
 Hiding the blood-encumbered ground, 
 Servant and stranger, kin and friend. 
 Their care to speak, their aid to lend, 
 
56 THE FELON'S RACE. 
 
 With one long glance in sorrow cast 
 On that poor friend whose love had passed, 
 'Midst gratulations long and deep, 
 Slowly they moved towards the keep. 
 
 On to the cliff, in headlong strife. 
 Fleet as the footsteps of the wind, — 
 
 On to the cliff, the prize is life, 
 
 The roar of blood is close behind, — 
 
 On to the cliff, with pant and strain. 
 With bleeding limbs and garments torn, 
 
 The only chance of life to gain. 
 
 O'er heath and brake and tangled thorn. 
 
 He dashes on, a desperate man, 
 To where the mighty steeps descend. 
 
 The speed with which that race began 
 Can scarce continue to the end. 
 
 Behind him press the bitter foe. 
 Their bullets hurtle in the air, 
 
 And gleaming bright are swords that know 
 To smite, but know not how to spare. 
 
 On to the cliff ! The goal is nigh, 
 It needeth but one struggle more ; 
 
 Near and more near, the venger's cry 
 Is fiercer than a tiger's roar. 
 
THE FELON'S RACE. 57 
 
 Down ! No, 'twas but a moment's thrill 
 
 That stayed the runner's course. 
 Onwards he dashes up the hill, 
 
 Straining for life his dying force. 
 
 The cliff is won, pursuit is o'er. 
 
 There is a passage from the head, 
 Broken and rough, towards the shore, 
 
 But few there be that dare to tread . 
 
 Downward he goes. The cliff is high. 
 
 O God, it is a fearful sight ! 
 Sure must the foot be, clear his eye 
 
 Who tries that path and treads aright. 
 
 Downward the foemen cast their eyes, 
 As gathered on the height they stand. 
 
 And the deep curse of balked surprise 
 Sounds sternly 'mid the wondering band. 
 
 Light as the sea-bird on the wing. 
 Fresh from its rest at dawn of day, 
 
 With step and spring, with grasp and swing 
 Adown the cliff he wins his way. 
 
 A flash of light, a ringing shot, 
 
 The echo of a stifled groan, 
 A white despairing face, a blot 
 
 Of crimson on the virgin stone, 
 
SS THE FELON'S RACE. 
 
 A clutching of the feeble hand, 
 A yielding of the palsied knee, 
 
 A low dead fall upon the strand, 
 And — a great silence o'er the sea. 
 
 The chase was o'er. Long time hath sped. 
 And children long since born are dead 
 Beneath the weight of years. Decay 
 Hath worn the crumbling cliffs away. 
 Yet to the broken margin still. 
 From yon black stone far down the hill, 
 A path the husbandmen can trace. 
 And call the track the Felon's Race. 
 
( 59 ) 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES. 
 
 A LOW sad wail at Christmas-tide. The morning sun 
 
 is bright, 
 And the rime, unthawed upon the ground, is sparkling 
 
 in the light. 
 No breath of wind to stir the leaves that loved the 
 
 wind so well ; 
 That loved its kisses till they died what time the 
 
 autumn fell. 
 The old old time is dying, and the leaves are dead 
 
 and sere; 
 But a promise lies in the dawning day and the birth 
 
 of the coming year. 
 The squirrel sleeps in its mossy nest, in spring to 
 
 wake again; 
 There's a flutter of life in the tiny heart of the 
 
 autumn-buried grain. 
 And the frozen brook shall melt in the sun, and swell 
 
 with the early rain. 
 
6o THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES. 
 
 The heavens above are singing, "God's arms are 
 
 opened wide," 
 And on earth the bells are ringing, "Welcome to 
 
 Christmas-tide." 
 Yet, from yon withered bracken tuft, there comes a 
 
 low sad cry. 
 As of one who hath no joy to live, yet dares not hope 
 
 to die. 
 As the wintry wind at midnight through the boughs of 
 
 a blasted tree, 
 The last of all the fairy race moaned in her misery. 
 
 "All, all alone in a world of life ! For me no sister's 
 
 hand; 
 I can but trace in blighted rings the steps of the fairy 
 
 band. 
 The glories of the summer night are lost in the 
 
 winter day, 
 And the very echoes of our songs have long since 
 
 died away. 
 New summer nights will not restore the voices of the 
 
 dead; 
 New blades will grow untrodden where their feet were 
 
 wont to tread. 
 Without a joy, without a hope; a shadow and a 
 
 sigh; 
 The gift of life is broken now, and cancelled wheh I 
 
 die, 
 
THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES. 6i 
 
 I've heard that with the race of man Hfe Ues not in 
 
 the breath ; 
 There's a wondrous joy above the sky after an earthly 
 
 death. 
 It may be so^I do not know, — but unto us is given 
 The power below to feel our woe, without a hope of 
 
 heaven,'' 
 
 Then brighter grew the morning sun, and brighter 
 
 shone the rime. 
 And clearer rang the distant bells, "Welcome to 
 
 Christmas time. 
 Goodwill and living love to all. God's arms are 
 
 opened wide." 
 "Welcome," the glorious heavens sang. "Welcome," 
 
 the earth replied. 
 
 "False earth, false sky," the fairy said, "what 
 
 welcome can there be ? 
 What welcome to the withered leaves ? What welcome 
 
 unto me ? " 
 Again she moaned, "The coming year cannot revive 
 
 the past ; 
 Time can but bring me misery, and pain and death 
 
 at last." 
 
 Then, in the glow of the warming sun, the frost gems 
 
 thawed away. 
 And countless drops of glittering dew shone in the 
 
 light of day, 
 
62 THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES. 
 
 And under their sheen lay the emerald green of the 
 
 soft and glossy sward, 
 And every drop and every blade sang, " Glory to the 
 
 Lord ! " 
 Then the sweet bells ceased, but from the church 
 
 there came the voice of song ; 
 Gently it stole from the distant porch, and swelled as 
 
 it rolled along ; 
 And to the open sky uprose that wondrous note of 
 
 praise. 
 And the dew passed upward with it, in the path of the 
 
 warming rays. 
 Then a great peace reigned on all the earth, and the 
 
 fairy turned on the sod. 
 And hid herself from the light, in fear of the accents 
 
 of her God. 
 
 She listened : all was silent. She looked, but all was 
 
 still. 
 From the forest glade in the vale below to the top of 
 
 the far-off hill ; 
 And the peace that was around her enwrapped her as 
 
 she lay. 
 Till in the silent depth of sleep her sorrow died away. 
 
 And, in her dream, she saw the leaves, all bare and 
 
 brown and dead, 
 Lie blown and scattered by the wind, or where they 
 
 had been shed ; 
 But each in its allotted place, and not as chance had led. 
 
THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES. 63 
 
 For angels marked the falling seed, and smoothed the 
 
 bed in love, , 
 
 And gently placed the withering leaves around it and 
 
 above. 
 The leaves that had cherished the infant seed, as they 
 
 grew on the parent stem. 
 Still watched in death o'er the tender germ, and God 
 
 watched over them. 
 And all the long long winter their mould lay close 
 
 and warm. 
 And shielded it from frost and snow, and shielded from 
 
 the storm ; 
 Till as the year grew soft and clear uprose the first- 
 born shoots ; 
 And then still closer in decay they gathered round 
 
 the roots, 
 And mingled with the rising sap, and in new leaf and 
 
 flower 
 Joyed as of old in the throb of life, and blessed the 
 
 breeze and shower. 
 And, as through every vein the sap in living impulse 
 
 poured. 
 The dead leaves, sprung again to life, sang, " Glory to 
 
 the Lord ! " 
 
 And then at last there came a voice, " God loveth 
 
 not in vain, 
 And love sent down, or stays on earth, or turns to 
 
 God again ; 
 
64 THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES. 
 
 And life is love, and God is love — the breath of His 
 
 own word ; 
 Therefore all living, loving things cry, ' Glory to the 
 
 Lord 1 ' 
 In love He giveth life, with life the power to love is 
 
 given, 
 And God's own essence, love, returns to live in God 
 
 in heaven." 
 
 Perchance it was the lesson that the dream and voice 
 
 had taught ; 
 Perchance some angel blessed her with the peace that 
 
 passeth thought; — 
 I do not know, and may not say : but when at last 
 
 she woke. 
 Her heart went forth to join the words that all around 
 
 her spoke. 
 
 "Not all alone — not all alone. Where'er the wind 
 
 can blow. 
 Be mine to feel another's joy, to soothe another's woe ; 
 In kindly thoughts, and kindly words, to render God 
 
 His own ; 
 And in the unison of love to be no more alone ; 
 And when the hand of death my life shall from the 
 
 earth dissever. 
 That life shall fade in love, and love shall be with 
 
 God for ever." 
 
( 65 ) 
 
 THE LEGEND OF HA WKSTONE 
 CASTLE. 
 
 I, 
 
 It was in the days of the fairies, in the days so long 
 
 ago, 
 When the glades of the woods were filled at night with 
 
 music weird and low, 
 When the moonlight smiled as tiny forms across the 
 
 beams would pass, 
 And daylight showed the rings their stgps had left 
 
 upon the grass. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Lord of Hawkstone and his men forth to the 
 
 chase had gone. 
 And by the wood, with babe on arm, his lady sat 
 
 alone, — 
 Her firstborn babe, her own, that laid so dear against 
 
 her breast. 
 The setting sun showed clear and broad low down 
 
 upon the west : 
 
 F 
 
66 THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 
 
 The lady saw the golden light that tinged the castle 
 wall, 
 
 And where on mound and winding stream the 
 lengthening shadows fall ; 
 
 And o'er and round her, as she sat amidst the cluster- 
 ing trees. 
 
 Came the twittering of the nesting birds, the droning 
 of the bees. 
 
 The eye scarce saw, the ear scarce heard ; but scene 
 and music stole 
 
 Like a gentle dream of gladness o'er the beating of 
 the soul. 
 
 And slowly from her lips as dropped some now-for- 
 gotten lay, 
 
 A deep sleep on that lady came at closing of the day. 
 
 III. 
 
 ■ The latest gleams of sunlight had left the mountain 
 
 head ; 
 One by one the stars looked down to see if the day 
 
 had fled. 
 And, peering through the gathering night, called on 
 
 the moon to rise, 
 And decked themselves in robes of light to meet her 
 
 in the skies. 
 Then through the wood the fairy horn, with strange 
 
 and mystic swell, 
 Awoke the fays that slumbering lay in flow'ret, fern, 
 
 and dell ; 
 
THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 67 
 
 And o'er the green, around the queen, to pay the 
 
 homage due, 
 Skimming along with shout and song the little army 
 
 flew; 
 And in and out, with song and shout, passed on the 
 
 elfin band, 
 And the moonbeams glance on flight or dance as 
 
 guides the leader's wand ; - 
 Through dell and glade, through light and shade, 
 
 encircling round and round. 
 Till they came where that lady fair lay sleeping on 
 
 the ground. 
 
 Obedient to the queen's command, 
 A moment paused the rushing band ; 
 Then, at a sign, arrayed the ring 
 In silence deep, with folded wing, 
 Till softly rose in measured chime 
 The chanting of the magic rhyme. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Through the woods and on the hill, 
 In the shadowland of night. 
 
 Where the darkness croucheth still ; 
 Where the moon is shining bright ; 
 
 Where the silver stars can peep. 
 Looking down with liquid ray ; 
 
THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 
 
 Where the gentle flowers sleep, 
 
 Waiting for the coming day, — 
 There at night we freely roam, 
 For the woodland is our home. 
 
 "Wheresoever falls the dew, 
 
 All that meet us on the way 
 Learn to pay the ransom true ; 
 
 None may dare to disobey. 
 Since the fairy's reign began 
 
 On the stream and on the wold, 
 Ours it is to bless or ban, 
 
 Ours to loose and ours to hold. 
 When the night has called the hour, 
 All are in the fairies' power. 
 
 " While the ring our footsteps make 
 
 Circled round the place of rest, 
 Lo, the sleeping babe we take 
 
 Gently from its mother's breast," 
 Seal the sleep upon her eyes. 
 
 Close the ear and numb the sense, 
 Till secure we hold the prize 
 
 Gathered in its innocence. 
 Fairies, now the deed is done ; 
 She has lost, and we have won," 
 
THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 
 
 Gently they moved, in order meet, 
 To the cadence low and sweet, 
 Round the sleepers and the queen. 
 Clad in robes of wondrous sheen. 
 While the measure rose and fell. 
 You might have seen them passing well 
 
 In ring of glittering light ; 
 But as the latest accents died 
 In echoes at the forest side, 
 There came the rush as of a blast. 
 And queen and band and infant passed 
 
 Away from mortal sight. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The wondering servants waited long ; at last, in doubt 
 
 and fear. 
 Through the deep gloom of night they sought their 
 
 lady far and near. 
 They sought her in the castle ground, beside the 
 
 winding stream ; 
 They saw the shadow of the bat, they heard the 
 
 night bird scream. 
 Among the gorse, and o'er the mound, and through 
 
 the spreading plain. 
 With deepening fears they called and looked, but 
 
 called and looked in vain, 
 
70 THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 
 
 Until they found her, all alone, wrapt in her slumber 
 
 still, 
 Beneath the deep-branched trees upon the rising of 
 
 the hill. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Time past The seekers for the child returned, their 
 
 quest not won : 
 With man and hound they scoured the ground, but 
 
 traces found they none ; 
 And village crones might guess and talk, none knew 
 
 and none might say 
 Or how or where the infant heir of Hawkstone passed 
 
 away. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The lady lay within her bower, hard beaten by the 
 blow. 
 
 Her soul bent down to earth beneath the crushing 
 weight of woe. 
 
 From morn to night she moaned, and wept from night 
 to mom again. 
 
 Nor night nor morning brought relief from the deep- 
 driven pain. 
 
 In vain the sorrowing baron strove to soothe with 
 loving care 
 
 The dark deep wound of misery encankered by 
 despair. 
 
THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 71 
 
 At times she slept, but in her sleep no kindly light 
 
 was given ; 
 No rest could bless with peace a life from which all 
 
 joy was riven. 
 She lived to die. At last, at last, when death seemed 
 
 drawing near. 
 And sleep forerunning death had brought strange 
 
 voices to her ear. 
 Nor form, nor certain sound was there. She dreamt, 
 
 and that was all, 
 But on her in the dream a hope from heaven seemed 
 
 to fall ; 
 Like dew upon the tender grass, its gentle influence 
 
 spread, 
 Till it gathered the strength of the voice that raised 
 
 the living from the dead. 
 She woke, she rose, she called for food. So bright 
 
 and strange her eye. 
 Her maidens thought the fire of life had risen but to 
 
 die. 
 She spake — a power was in her speech ; and silently, 
 
 in dread, 
 The listeners heard her utterance as a message from 
 
 the dead. 
 Few were her words. Her accents fell in clear and 
 
 ordered tone, — 
 'Twas hers that night to seek the wood untended and 
 
 alone. 
 
72 THE LEGEND OF HA WKSTONE CASTLE. 
 
 The night has come, and o'er the stream the lady held 
 
 her way, 
 To where, upon the rising hill, the silent moonbeams 
 
 lay. 
 They watched her from the castle wall all in the clear 
 
 moonlight, 
 Until, beneath the branching trees, she faded from 
 
 the sight. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Clad in robes of wondrous sheen 
 Around the beauty of the queen. 
 Elfin knight and lady fay. 
 Heralds and minstrels in fair array, 
 Brightest and best of the fairy band. 
 Ranged in marshalled order stand. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Sound the blast. Let the word go forth, 
 
 East and west, and south and north. 
 
 Whoso hath suffered from fairy's spite 
 
 Let him come and challenge the act to-night. 
 
 The court has met to hear the cause 
 
 According to the fairy laws. 
 
 Long since by masters wise ordained. 
 
 That the right be held and the wrong restrained, 
 
THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 73 
 
 And justice rendered clear." 
 Three times the trumpet blast was heard, 
 And thrice the heralds raised the word, 
 
 "Let all who will appear." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Many a year has passed and gone 
 Since last before the fairy throne 
 
 The challenge answer found. 
 Yet still on the appointed night 
 Their lady held the ancient rite. 
 
 And bade the trumpets sound. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 To-night they sound, but who shall dare, 
 When called, alone to venture there ? 
 Though he who wins may bear away, 
 Who loses there for aye must stay, 
 And forfeit all his human life 
 In punishment for bootless strife. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The trumpets ceased. Their closing sound 
 Passed through the echoes all around 
 
 In softly thrilling fall. 
 A human foot is on the sod, 
 A human form beneath the trees, 
 
74 THE LEGEND OF HA WKSTONE CASTLE. 
 
 A human voice upon the breeze 
 Speaks boldly : " In the name of God, 
 
 I answer to the call. 
 From the bed of death and pain 
 I come to claim my own again. 
 
 God gave to me a child 
 Fair as the heaven above. But you, 
 Seeking to make the gift untrue, 
 Fouling the love in mercy sent 
 Down from the blessfed firmament, 
 Wrought your dark magic as he lay, 
 And stole the sleeping babe away. 
 In this, your Court of Right, I claim 
 My own, in His the Holiest name, 
 
 Holy and undefiled." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " The child has been bathed in the midnight dew ; 
 
 His brow has been marked by the mystic yew ; 
 
 He has slept on the moss to the lullaby 
 
 Of the night-winds' whirl and the owlets' cry, 
 
 Wrapped in the skin of the speckled snake, 
 
 Where the glow-worms wind beneath the brake. 
 
 Every rite has been duly done 
 
 To win him and keep him and make him our own. 
 
 In the fairy land, in the hour of night, 
 
 We found him asleep 'neath the moonbeams bright, 
 
 And the spell we wrought as we bore him away 
 
 Will bind his soul to the judgment day." 
 
THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 75 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Stately and firm the lady stood, 
 Though for a space the coward blood 
 Had fled towards the troubled heart 
 
 And left her face so pale. 
 Her lips were slightly drawn apart, 
 And through them came the quickened breath 
 As when a sleeper laboureth 
 
 To cry without avail. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Words to the tongue, blood to the cheek 
 
 Returned. She raised her head to speak. 
 
 And, though the soul was all in flame. 
 
 Slow and clear the accents came. 
 
 " Your rites can never move,'' she said, 
 
 " The blessing that on him was laid. 
 
 What time before the sacred shrine 
 
 His brow was marked with the hallowed sign, 
 
 His sins all washed away. 
 My child, my own, to me was given ; 
 My love is sanctified by Heaven, 
 
 Strong as the light of day. 
 And in that strength of love I came 
 To claim my child, and bear him home. 
 
 To dare the strength ye own. 
 
76 THE LEGEND OF HA WKSTONE CASTLE. 
 
 Let elfin knight take spell and brand, 
 As here, all weaponless, I stand, 
 
 A woman, and alone. 
 I claim the trial of the fight. 
 And Heaven shall prove which has the right, 
 
 And thus my love be shown." 
 
 She spake, and angry brows were seen. 
 
 And angry murmurs rose. 
 As, gathering round their startled queen, 
 
 The hurried council close. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Many a year had come and gone 
 Since last before the fairy throne 
 
 Such challenge had been given ; 
 And scarce could mortal tongue have power 
 To brave them in the midnight hour. 
 
 Save by the will of Heaven. 
 The court may not the claim deny. 
 Nor champion from the conflict fly, 
 And thus, at last, with troubled eye. 
 Slowly the monarch made reply : 
 
 " Be it as thou hast said. 
 But if thy boasted powers fail. 
 If hand or tongue or spirit quail. 
 If spell or spear or brand prevail. 
 
 Thy blood be on thy head. 
 
TBE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 77 
 
 Bring in the prize." By hands unseen 
 Unharmed upon the sward of green 
 
 The sleeping babe was laid. 
 One look of love the mother sent, 
 One sob of love her bosom rent ; 
 
 She bowed the head and prayed. 
 
 XX. 
 
 As carved in marble stood she there, 
 And, save by look and sob and prayer. 
 
 Nor motion made nor sign ; 
 With folded arms and bended head, 
 Waiting the onslaught dark and dread, 
 
 In trust on power Divine. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The fairy train hath passed. A gloom 
 Like that which by the prophet's doom 
 
 O'er Egypt's land was spread, 
 Like a thick mantle gathered slow ; 
 And then came shrieks and screams of woe, 
 And wild winds rushing to and fro. 
 And phantom lights of sickly glow, 
 
 And visions of the dead. 
 
 Around they drew, but none might dare 
 To pierce the atmosphere of prayer. 
 In vain ; nor sound nor sight 
 
78 THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 
 
 Might check the words that rose on high, 
 Nor draw one glance, nor cause one cry 
 Of anguish or affright. 
 
 Baffled they fled, and silence fell 
 On the thick wood and startled dell 
 Awhile ; and then the champion came. 
 Girt in a panoply of flame, 
 
 His charger red with blood. 
 Rushing down with headlong force, 
 Swift as the storm-fiend in his course. 
 
 To where the lady stood, 
 Onward he came. A fruitless race ; 
 Still the lady held her place. 
 Though thick and fast his falchion swept 
 Ever her guard an angel kept, 
 
 And turned the blows aside. 
 And love a sanctuary made, 
 Broke down the terror of his blade, 
 
 And all his power defied. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 So went the fight, till, unsubdued. 
 By faith, by prayer, by love endued. 
 
 She seized his lifted hand. 
 Vainly to loose that clasp he strove. 
 The mighty power of mother's love 
 
 Tore down the useless brand. 
 
THE LEGEND OF HAWKSTONE CASTLE. 79 
 
 Trembling he stands before her now ; 
 She signs the cross upon his brow, 
 
 The cross upon his breast. 
 And as he falls before her feet, 
 She hears in accents low and sweet, 
 
 " Lo, I have given thee rest." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Then through the forest's echoes broke 
 
 One long, low sob of joy, 
 As underneath the branching oak 
 
 She knelt to raise her boy. 
 
( 8o ) 
 
 THE LIFEBOAT. 
 
 The hollow voice of Winter 
 
 Came moaning to the land ; 
 With deepening frown, as the sun went down, 
 
 She scowled upon the strand. 
 Her blast came o'er the waters 
 
 In fitful gusts, and strong. 
 As she howled to the waves of coming death, 
 
 And hurried them along. 
 The startled billows heard her. 
 
 And tossed their crests on high ; 
 And, rushing madly to the shore. 
 
 They shouted in reply. 
 The white cliffs heard the summons. 
 
 As onward still it flew ; 
 And rock and cavern, echoing loud, 
 
 Screamed forth the curse anew. 
 As the sword that swept through Egypt 
 
 'Ere Israel's sons were free. 
 As the stream that breaks its channel 
 
 And dashes to the sea, 
 
THE LIFEBOAT. 8i 
 
 That mighty roar burst on us, 
 
 And the earth reeled ta and fro 
 With the wild lament of thousands, 
 
 With mourning and with woe. 
 
 Through all the coasts of England 
 
 It was a fearful night — 
 A night of doubt and horror. 
 
 Of trembling and affright. 
 The waters boiled with caverned wind. 
 
 The blast was thick with foam. 
 The very elements themselves 
 
 Were battling for a home ; 
 And through the shadows of the night 
 
 Uprose the crested waves, 
 Like headstones in a field that held 
 
 A myriad years of graves. 
 No fitful gust, no stop, no stay, 
 
 No whispers now were there. 
 No dubious note of mystic tone 
 
 Those warring forces bare ; 
 But winds and waves and crags gave forth 
 
 One long continued roar. 
 There had not been so fierce a storm 
 
 For forty years and more. 
 
 It came — a low, dull murmur 
 
 Along the tempest came, 
 A long, low sound that followed hard 
 
 On the phantom of a flame. 
 
 G 
 
82 THE LIFEBOAT. 
 
 And there were men who heard it, 
 
 And stood with straining eyes, 
 And hearts that flew towards the spot 
 
 Whence the Hght seemed to rise. 
 Again upon the waiting eye 
 
 That flashing message broke, 
 And to the listening ear again 
 
 That pleading murmur spoke. 
 Away ! away ! each moment 
 
 Is fraught with a human life. 
 Now, who are they will be men to-day, 
 
 And venture for the strife ? 
 Now, who will dare the tempest 
 
 On such a night as this ? 
 Who loveth man for the sake of man. 
 
 And will danger a life for his ? 
 
 'Tis answered. Calm and steady, 
 With hearts prepared they come. 
 
 Cast but one glance upon the storm, 
 And one long look on home. 
 
 There is no regal splendour, 
 
 No banner streaming far. 
 No thrilling deeds of high-drawn birth. 
 
 To cheer them to the war. 
 No lovely maiden lights them 
 
 To battle with her smile ; 
 No trumpet flourish breaks the air 
 
 For many a leaguered mile ; 
 
THE LIFEBOAT. 83 
 
 No nation waits with triumph 
 
 To bring them home again, 
 Or tasks herself to find rewards 
 
 For the remnant from the slain : 
 But there, within yon hollow. 
 
 That hardly you can see, 
 Are wives and mothers weeping, 
 
 And infants round the knee. 
 And all before is darkness, 
 
 And all behind is fear ; 
 And the rising sob, but half suppressed, 
 
 Mingles with words of cheer. 
 
 Dressed in their fishers' garments, 
 
 A gallant band and true. 
 There stood they, nothing daunted 
 
 That raging flood to view. 
 They looked on the roaring mountains, 
 
 All white with angry foam. 
 And the prayer went up and a blessing dwelt 
 
 In one long look on home. 
 
 That look was past, and bringing 
 
 The lifeboat to the shore, 
 Each man stept boldly to his place. 
 
 And firmly grasped his oar ; 
 And with a will she darted 
 
 Right on the thunderiiig tide. 
 Now Heaven preserve that boat and crew. 
 
 And make it safely ride ! 
 
84 THE LIFEBOAT. 
 
 The fierce tornado saw them, 
 
 And called on the waves to rise : 
 " These be the sons of men who dare 
 
 Our empire to despise." 
 And fiercer still, and fiercer 
 
 The awful tumult grew, 
 And faster rolled the deepening swell, 
 And furious the tempest fell 
 
 On the devoted crew. 
 
 And once and twice and thrice again 
 
 It bore them sternly back ; 
 But the strong arms leant and the stout oars bent, 
 
 They parted on the track. 
 As a lion 'midst the hunters 
 
 Who compass him around. 
 Upstarting from his noonday lair, 
 Breaks headlong through the circling snare 
 
 And frees him with a bound, 
 So gallantly the lifeboat 
 
 Swept through the raging spray, 
 And, like a conquering spirit, passed 
 
 Along the hostile way. 
 
 She lay upon the waters, 
 
 A ship that none could save. 
 One broadside turned to heaven. 
 
 And one towards the wave. 
 
THE LIFEBOAT. 85 
 
 Circled with broken timbers 
 
 That pinnacled the sea, 
 And spars and shrouds and shivered masts 
 
 And cordage floating free, 
 And angry foam and drowning men— 
 
 A piteous sight to see. 
 
 She lay upon the waters, 
 
 And every wave that passed 
 Just raised her up to meet the next 
 
 That hurried on the blast. 
 And groaning joints and creaking bends 
 
 In mournful accents told 
 How sternly broke each following stroke 
 
 Unceasingly that rolled. 
 
 " The lifeboat ! " " Ay, the lifeboat 1 " 
 
 And blessings rose on high, 
 And fluttering sobs and shouts of joy, 
 
 And many a broken cry. 
 And hands told one another, 
 
 In long and close impress. 
 The depth of misery that had filled 
 
 The hours of distress ; 
 And eyes that erst un wetted^ 
 
 Wept like a little child, 
 And, looking down on eyes that loved, 
 
 Spake happiness and smiled. 
 
S6 THE LIFEBOAT. 
 
 She paused but for a moment, 
 
 As onward still she passed 
 To save a beaten wretch who dung 
 
 Unto a broken mast. 
 And then again, in answer 
 
 To piteous cries for aid, 
 Another and another life 
 
 A glory round her made. 
 
 Yet even while she rescued, 
 
 Still while she strove to save, 
 The demons of the storm spurred hard 
 
 On the remorseless wave ; 
 And full upon her counter 
 
 The hostile torrent smote. 
 And dashing on in frantic pride 
 The water poured from every side 
 
 Into the gallant boat 
 
 She quivered for a moment 
 
 Before the angry main : 
 The hand of God was on her, 
 
 She righted well again. 
 She righted well, and dashing 
 
 But faster for the check, 
 Still nearer drew where clung the few 
 
 Still lingering on the wreck. 
 
THE LIFEBOAT. Sy 
 
 Hard task it was, and weary, 
 
 To get them safely down 
 'Midst breaking seas and sudden plunge. 
 And dashing timbers' fearful lunge, 
 
 And nature's blackest frown. 
 But one by one descended, 
 
 Till she could hold no more ; 
 Then, with a promise to return 
 Soon as they reached the destined bourne,. 
 
 They parted for the shore. 
 
 And lids were wet at parting, 
 
 Though eyes looked back to smile. 
 And welcomed hopes that, scarce believeci. 
 
 Still cheered them for a while. 
 But from the few survivors 
 
 Who must perforce abide 
 Burst forth a cheer that shook the winds,. 
 
 And thundered o'er the tide. 
 They knew the weak and helpless 
 
 In the hand of God were safe ; 
 What care they now though tempests blow. 
 
 And angry waters chafe ! 
 
 The strong arms leant and the stout oars bent, 
 
 The waters felt their force. 
 As onward right to the guiding light 
 
 They set the homeward course, 
 
88 THE LIFEBOAT. 
 
 And dashing o'er the billows, 
 
 Approached the whitened strand, 
 Swept through the surges of the coast. 
 
 And felt the welcome land. 
 Then, by the past undaunted, 
 
 Again they dared the war. 
 Until the last survivor stood 
 
 In safety on the shore. 
 
 The waters roared and the tempest blew, 
 
 But louder round the throne 
 The blessings pealed from those whom Death 
 
 Had counted as his own. 
 And, writ in tears of praises, 
 
 Stampt with the seal of light, 
 Shone bright in heaven each glorious name 
 Who boldly through the tempest came 
 
 On that disastrous night. 
 
( 89 ) 
 
 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 In the year A.D. 787 the first of the Danish ships appears to 
 have visited the shores of England. Some years prior to this 
 the Saxons had learned from tales of travellers of a people whose 
 homes were found amongst the creeks and waterways on the 
 shores to the east of the Northern Ocean, but they knew little of 
 that race which was afterwards to play so important a part in 
 the history of our country. In the year above named, the crew 
 of one of their ships landed on the coast of Dorset. The reeve 
 of the shire, not knowing who or what manner of men they were, 
 caused them to be taken to Dorchester that they might there 
 render an account of themselves, and this they appear to have 
 done in an unexpected manner, for we read that " they slew 
 men." Within a very few years after this, not only the Saxons 
 on the seaboard, but those far in the interior of the country 
 along the east coast, right up to Northumbria, learnt by bitter 
 experience who and what the Danes were. Callous plunderers, 
 they had no pity for those whom they attacked. Men and women 
 fell before them or were reserved for torture ; children were 
 tossed from pike to pike, and girls were carried away into slavery. 
 Harrying far and wide, they robbed monasteries and treasures, 
 slew the priests at the altar, and carried fire and sword into the 
 heart of the country. At first their attacks were made with the 
 sole object of shedding blood and obtaining booty ; but after- 
 wards "they were ready to ransack a province, and to return 
 with their ships filled with goods from the homesteads of the 
 
90 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 land kings, and they were equally prepared, if the chance came 
 in their way, to hold the land for themselves and send for their 
 families to join them in the new home across the sea." 
 
 At first, and probably at times afterwards, a few ships only 
 would dart down on the coast, and retreat with their plunder as 
 rapidly as they came ; but as years went on larger expeditions 
 were fitted out, and the mere foray of sea-robbers met by the 
 sheriff and those whom he could hastily gather together, was 
 changed into the invasion of an array to be opposed only by a 
 royal force. 
 
 Whether in small or large numbers, the Danes swept over the 
 sea in their long black ships, swan-necked, dragon-prowed, 
 driven along either by a bank of oars, or, when the wind was 
 favourable, by huge dark red sails. From the descriptions re- 
 ceived, and from one or two examples lately unearthed, these 
 ships appear to have been half-decked, between sixty and seventy 
 feet in length, and from twelve to sixteen feet broad. They were 
 somewhat roughly made, the timbers in some instances only 
 lashed together or fastened with wooden pegs or forks. Drawing 
 only about three or four feet of water, they were capable of being 
 driven at considerable speed, and from their lightness could easily 
 be drawn up upon a beach or carried by the crew over shallows 
 when ascending inland waters. Round their ships, when they 
 disembarked and had drawn them out of the reach of the tide, 
 the pirates made a. fortified camp, and chose out from among 
 themselves those to whom was allotted the duty of protecting 
 their means of return. To this camp, if they were opposed too 
 strongly, they could retreat, and from thence keep their enemies 
 at bay until they had pushed their vessels into the water and were 
 able to embark and sail away. Their manner was, after over- 
 coming any opposition offered, to seize such horses as they could 
 find, and then, after scouring the neighbouring countiy, killing, 
 burning, and robbing, they returned with their spoil to the ships. 
 
 Axes, clubs, brown shining swords, and long rough-handled 
 spears were their principal weapons ; while, in addition to such 
 other defensive arms as each one might carry, they in many 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 91 
 
 cases wore over or above the face the likeness of a boar's head 
 painted in divers colours and hardened in the fire. Well skilled 
 as they were in warfare, greedy for spoil, and ruthless in fight, 
 it is not to be wondered at if the prayer went up from the whole 
 of Britain, "Deliver us, O Lord, from the frenzy of the 
 Northmen." 
 
 In those days the soldier was a robber, warfare was the noblest 
 occupation of man, death in the field the only fitting end to life. 
 But when their arms were thrown aside, the Danes seem to have 
 been gentle and loving to their home ties, and filled with a weird 
 poetry, partly the result of their natural disposition, and partly 
 that of training and of surrounding circumstances. Winning their 
 way through the gloom of tangled forests or on broken shores, 
 they dreamt of elves and supernatural powers, and in the flash 
 of the lightning and the roar of the thunder they recognized the 
 majesty of Wodin, the ringing of the hammer of Thor. They 
 knew, too, or felt that there had been a time when, in the first 
 creation, all things had been bright and glorious, but that by 
 the fatal power of the blind demon of war, Baldr, the sun-god, 
 the spirit of joy and beauty, had been overthrown and laid in 
 death in the lap of Hel. Whether it was part of an old legend, 
 or whether it was the result of the mixture of the religion of 
 "the White Christ" with that of the Norse gods, we do not 
 know ; but very beautiful is the description given by their 
 writers of the fate which falls on the world in the twilight of the 
 gods and the prophecy of brighter days. " The sword age, the 
 wolf age is coming, when the love of money shall scatter murder 
 and harlotry over the earth. The powers of evil will be un- 
 loosed ; the gods themselves fall in the desperate death struggle ; 
 fire consume the tree of life, and the solid earth and the dimmed 
 sun sink for ever in the ocean. But a greener earth will rise 
 out of the sea, lighted up by a brighter heaven, and Baldr will 
 ascend from Hel to reign over new gods and nobler men. " * 
 
 * Prose "Edda," c. 49, JI. Pearson's " Early and Middle 
 Ages," 156. 
 
92 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 Of this higher part of the Danish nature the Saxons knew 
 nothing. They only recognized their enemies as robbers and 
 murderers ; and it wants but little imagination to tell with what 
 consternation " the track of the destroying bark " must have been 
 marked by the inhabitants of the coast. From the watch-towers, 
 standing on the heights, the fire-signal would ascend. All the 
 goods that could be hastily collected would be sent along with 
 the old, the women, and the children to the nearest place of 
 defence, and the men would gather together im arms to defend 
 their families and their lives from the blow of the enemy. Unity 
 of action would be the only chance of safety, and the reeve or 
 the headman of the district would give the necessary directions 
 for the coming struggle. Such a place as an old British encamp- 
 ment or mound thrown up for the purpose of protection, not 
 only against the attacks of tribal foes, but also against those of 
 the wolves in winter, would, if near enough, be utilized, and on 
 the spot most likely to be chosen for the attack the Saxon Chief 
 would post his little army. 
 
 The Danes did not always succeed ; but we may be certain that 
 in any case the fighting would be furious and their losses great. 
 In such a case as that which I have endeavoured to describe, 
 the successful Danes, too much weakened to venture inland, 
 would retreat to their ships, with the intention of returning to 
 their own country with such spoil as they had been able to 
 secure. 
 
 Whether the effect of a roller wave, produced by sub-oceanic 
 volcanic agency, even if aided by a simultaneous depression of 
 the coast line, would be such as is stated in the concluding lines, 
 I cannot tell. It may be that in the sudden inburst of water, 
 followed by a certain amount of refluence, every tree and build- 
 ing would be so completely destroyed or overthrown that no 
 trace would be left of that which had been. But even if this be 
 so, can we be surprised if the fishermen and coast-dwellers of 
 old, having heard from their forefathers of an attack by the 
 Danes on the old mound, desperately defended by the Saxon 
 valesmen, and how the baffled pirates on their return murdered 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 93 
 
 the father and child in Hilda's Tower, connected these facts 
 with the submergence of the coast, and out of many scattered 
 details wove a legend which taught them and their children how 
 the murderers were cut ofif in the moment of their crime by the 
 sudden dispensation of Divine power ? 
 
 There is tumult in the valley, there is gathering on 
 
 the height, 
 And hands and shaded eyes are strained toward the 
 
 dawning light : 
 To the far away, where the coming day glides between 
 
 main and sky, 
 And the sea-line catches the ray from beyond and 
 
 flashes it on to the eye. 
 O'er sky and sea, o'er wood and lea, the glorious light 
 
 is spread ; 
 O'er the low lands that stretch to the south, and o'er 
 
 the northern head. 
 There's not a breath upon the deep that lies so vast 
 
 and still. 
 And scarcely speak the waves that break on the sand 
 
 at the foot of the hill : 
 But not upon the hill-top are peace and silence found ; 
 Through all the hamlets in the vale the warning calls 
 
 resound. 
 And men, in sudden roused from sleep, rush up the 
 
 mountain side 
 To where the Peel Tower rests in guard above the 
 eastern tide ; 
 
94 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 And boys and wildered elders wait, or follow as they 
 
 may; 
 And startled mothers snatch their babes and, weeping, 
 
 kneel and pray. 
 
 IL 
 
 Around the watchers on the height the growing 
 
 numbers stand ; 
 Half clothed, half armed, with panting breasts, a wild 
 
 and anxious band. 
 Quick question, quick reply, — the finger pointing o'er 
 
 the sea, 
 And rugged locks tossed from the brow and backward 
 
 floating free. 
 A long stern look ; breath short and hard ; a silence in 
 
 the crowd, 
 And a low murmuring sound that grows to words and 
 
 cries aloud ; 
 As the true eye descries far off upon the distant 
 
 main 
 The fearful messengers of death — the warships of the 
 
 Dane. 
 
 III. 
 
 Still on the hill above the beach the ruined tower is 
 
 seen; 
 Still to the east the pathway winds through rocks and 
 
 slopes of green ; 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 05 
 
 And still within the valley the earth upturned will 
 
 show 
 Relics and bones of warriors who died there long 
 
 ago. 
 But up the sloping strand, along the south side of the 
 
 height, 
 Have rushed the waves of ocean — the ocean in its 
 
 might ; 
 And when the winds are silent, and the tide, all lulled 
 
 to sleep, 
 Clear and smooth, reveals to light the secrets of the 
 
 deep. 
 Still may you trace the outlined walls far down beneath 
 
 the wave — 
 The walls of Saxon homesteads wrapped in a crystal 
 
 grave. 
 And when the tide is running low, there, farthest from 
 
 the shore, 
 Are the lines of a broken circle, with green weed 
 
 covered o'er. 
 For many an age that circle unchangeable hath stood. 
 Save in the change of the tinted weed that grows 
 
 beneath the flood ; 
 And still the toilers on the coast the ancient legend 
 
 know 
 Of the old tower that breaks the wave when the tide 
 
 is running low. 
 
96 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Up the vale on the rising ground 
 British hands had raised a mound 
 With triple banks embattled round, — 
 A tribal fort, strengthened anew 
 What time the Roman eagles flew ; 
 
 And then, as years rolled on, 
 Neglected now, and now repaired ; 
 Cumbered with growth, then surface bared ; 
 Reduced or lengthened in its range. 
 But losing still from every change. 
 
 Till half its strength was gone. 
 
 V. 
 
 Short time for action. To the Hold 
 In haste are sent the weak and old. 
 The elder halts on his oaken staff. 
 
 With faint and bended head ; 
 The mother bears her living babe,. 
 
 Or the treasures of the dead. 
 And, sobbing, calls her children round, 
 
 And sends them on before. 
 Each burdened with a little load 
 
 Clutched from the garnered store. 
 Cattle and carts with fruit and grain 
 Are driven over the threatened plain, 
 'Midst mingled shout and cry. 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 97 
 
 'Midst barking of dogs, and clang of thong, 
 And tramp of feet from the hurrying throng ; 
 'Midst lowing of herds and bleating of sheep, 
 Onward they press toward the keep, 
 
 The tumult rises high. 
 Onward they press ; and in the rear. 
 From every hamlet circled near, 
 Gathers in arms with sword and spear, 
 With daggers wrought from pointed bone, 
 With axe of steel and hatchet of stone. 
 
 The little Saxon host. 
 Onward they press, and the goal is won 
 Ere yet beneath the noontide sun 
 
 The Dane has trod the coast. 
 
 VI. 
 
 On the shore where the wrack is strown 
 Stands a tower of rough-hewn stone. 
 Half a thousand years of storm 
 Have dashed upon its massive form. 
 The broken waves their foam have sent 
 High o'er its topmost battlement. 
 Wave and wind and snow and rain 
 Beat on its bulk, but beat in vain. 
 All unfingered by decay, 
 Winter and summer, night and day. 
 Found it and left it bare. 
 
9« THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 Time seemed to it a thing of nought, 
 And petty years around it wrought 
 
 To leave it in despair. 
 And there, in strong but narrowed room, 
 Anlaf, the Saxon, made his home. 
 Warrior and chief. The valesmen heard, 
 And owned the guidance of his word. 
 Brave and wise and mighty of hand. 
 He led the council in the land. 
 Kindly and true, he freely gave, 
 Nor turned him from the meanest slave ; 
 And loved by freeman and by thrall, 
 Meted his equal laws to all. 
 Wealthy, as riches then were given, 
 His garners owned the gifts of Heaven ; 
 But richer in the child that grew. 
 With golden hair and eyes of blue. 
 
 Beneath his tending love — 
 A gentle maiden, sweet and good, 
 Just dawning into womanhood, 
 Who knelt before her father's chair. 
 And blessed his toil and soothed his care. 
 Or sat and prattled at his side, 
 And sung to him at eventide. 
 
 Like an angel from above. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When through the vale the warning rolled, 
 Hilda was sent to the British Hold : 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 59 
 
 And Anlaf, seizing axe and shield, 
 
 Headed his warriors in the field ; 
 
 And silence reigned upon the strand, 
 
 Save for the wavelets that lapped on the sand. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Onwards still across the waters, sweeping with resist- 
 less sway, 
 Come the war-ships — comes the raven, ever croaking 
 
 for the prey ; 
 Come the hearts that know no pity, come the swords 
 
 that never spare, 
 Come the feet beneath whose iron all is blackened, 
 
 burned, and bare. 
 Men and maidens fall before them, till the reeking 
 
 stream of gore 
 Fills for them the cup that mantles in the paradise of 
 
 Thor. 
 And the grating of the vessel-keels upon the flinching 
 
 strand 
 Like the poison of an adder runs through all the 
 
 sickening land ; 
 From the oars in serried motion gleams the radiance 
 
 of the sun. 
 Gleams in fiercer glow from weapons that a hundred 
 
 fights have won. 
 Falls on clubs and dinted targets reddened with a 
 
 darker stain. 
 On the flashing helm of Guthrac, mightiest leader of 
 
 the Dane. 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The ships were beached ; the pirate host 
 
 Arrayed in order due ; 
 High o'er the midst in fatal boast 
 
 The bannered raven flew. 
 The sun shone on the bird of death, 
 
 And on its ground of gold, 
 Outborne upon the ocean's breath 
 
 The flashing hues were rolled. 
 It flew, but not, as oft of yore. 
 
 With beak and wings outspread, 
 As glorying in the battle's roar, 
 
 And hungering for the dead ; 
 But the wings seemed weak arid listless, 
 
 And weary the head and low. 
 And there was a sound as of mourning 
 
 As the flag waved to and fro. 
 And he seemed as one who listens 
 
 To the voice of the fatal call, 
 And sees from afar the portals 
 
 That lead to Odin's hall. 
 Yet still he strained in earnest flight 
 
 Towards the battle-field, 
 As a chief who would spend his failing might, 
 
 And die beneath his shield. 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 X. 
 
 On that omen, dark and drear, 
 Gazed the host with looks of fear ; 
 Men of war, they knew full well 
 The face of death when warriors fell. 
 Little they recked when the strife was high 
 Who should live or who should die- 
 All too strong their souls and brave 
 To heed the terrors of the grave ; 
 But none so bold but his heart sank low 
 As on that augury of woe 
 
 His upward glance was thrown. 
 And his eye turned to his neighbour's face, 
 And sought, nor sought in vain, to trace 
 
 The doubts that marked his own. 
 But Guthrac spake : " The conqueror's soul 
 
 Is wasted by delay, 
 The power of the raven's wing 
 
 Faints for the lack of prey.'' 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then swords and axes flashed on high, 
 And loudly rang the battle-cry. 
 It seemed as though the mystic bird 
 That gallant shout of war had heard, 
 And roused his strength again : 
 No longer drooping at his side. 
 His glossy pinions opened wide ; 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 His head was raised, his straining beak 
 In wonted accents seemed to speak, 
 And clamour for the slain. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Forwards ! " Again the shout upsprings. 
 The march is set, the armour rings, 
 The pillaged tower is left behind, 
 Across the broken shore they wind 
 With heedful tread, as men who know 
 To meet and foil an ambushed foe, 
 
 If ambushed foe there be. 
 A needless care. Nor human sound, 
 Nor low of kine, nor bay of hound 
 Is heard, nor seen a hostile band ; 
 And silence lies upon the land 
 
 As moonlight on the sea. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The nearest homesteads yield a prize 
 Of little worth to eager eyes ; 
 A few small loads of meal and grain 
 And rustic tools are all they gain, 
 As through deserted barn and hall 
 Their rushing footsteps echoing fall. 
 Then disappointment to the hand. 
 In anger brings the kindled brand, 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 103 
 
 And the strong fire roars its tale 
 Of spiteful fury up the vale. 
 
 When first the Saxons saw their foes, 
 Nor word nor cry nor shout arose, — 
 
 Such was the chiefs command ; 
 But when in quick succession fell 
 Before the desecrating spell 
 The simple beauties love had wrought, 
 The homes to which that love was brought. 
 The porches twined with clustering flowers, 
 The labours of their peaceful hours. 
 Reddened in flame or lost in smoke, 
 A wild fierce yell of vengeance broke 
 
 From all the patriot band. 
 And as the blackened volumes rolled 
 Up the long glen and past the Hold, 
 
 O'er plain and wood and down 
 Rang man's deep curse and woman's cry. 
 While frightened children veiled the eye 
 Behind their mother's gown. 
 
 XV. 
 
 That shout, that cry rang far and wide. 
 In accents hoarse the Danes replied. 
 And at their leader's signal drew 
 Round where the bannered raven flew, 
 
I04 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 And man by man and shield by shield 
 In order moved along the field, 
 And placed their flag and ranged the host 
 A bowshot from the Saxon post. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The beams of the failing sun are shed 
 
 On the clouds that roll o'er the mountain head, 
 
 O'er the mountain rolling slow, 
 
 Rimmed with silver and with snow j 
 
 And the rise of the wind, with moan and wail, 
 
 Sweeps in gusts along the vale. 
 
 And still and again is heard the roar 
 
 Of the waves as they beat upon the shore. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then, as wolves upon the quarry. 
 
 Pealing loud their battle-song. 
 Rushed the foremost of the Danesmen, 
 
 Rushed the strongest of the strong, 
 Lightly bounded through the heather. 
 
 Lightly bounded o'er the rill. 
 Crossed the banks, and stemmed the boulders. 
 
 At the rising of the hill. 
 There was seen the sword of Eric, 
 
 Oswald's ponderous axe was there ; 
 There the iron mace of Baldur, 
 
 Mighty nurseling of the bear. 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 105 
 
 On they come, the chief and warriors, 
 
 Where their ward the Saxons keep ; 
 Darts are flying, men are dying, 
 
 As they labour up the steep. 
 On they press, while still above them 
 
 Rings the shouting of the foe ; 
 On they press, while still around them 
 
 Gallant heads are sinking low. 
 
 Blood and groans and death behind them. 
 Round them hurl of dart and stone. 
 
 Up they press, the living heroes. 
 Heroes that the gods may own, — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Up, and in the shock of battle. 
 
 In the war steel's blinding flash, 
 All unseen the distant lightning. 
 
 All unheard the thunder crash. 
 On and back the battle surges. 
 
 Till, with numbers overpressed, 
 Cloven is the shield of Eric, 
 
 Fallen Oswald's dragon crest. 
 Backward driven, faint and bleeding, 
 
 Baldur stumbles o'er the slain. 
 Hark ! the shouting — comes the rescue, 
 
 Guthrac comes, nor comes in vain ; 
 Fresh upon the mingled tumult. 
 
 Comes the fury of the Dane. 
 
io6 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Louder then the shouts of battle, 
 
 Blow for blow and thrust for thrust, 
 Dane and Saxon sink together 
 
 In the violated dust. 
 Backward borne, yet still defying, 
 
 Broken in the desperate strife. 
 Not one Saxon foot is flying, 
 
 Not one cry is raised for life. 
 Overborne, the bleeding warrior 
 
 Flings his useless club away, 
 Binds his arms around his foemen, 
 
 Drives his teeth into the prey. 
 Till the writhing coils are stiffened, 
 
 Life out-trodden in the fray. 
 Still with dying men surrounded, 
 
 Stained with blood from head to heel. 
 Still unwearied, still unwounded, 
 
 Anlaf wields his fatal steel. 
 Hark ! the Danes have won the fortress : 
 
 Woman's scream and children's wail, 
 Shouts of victors, groans of victim, 
 
 Bear afar the fearful tale. 
 God ! is there no room for pity ? 
 
 Is the witness heard on high ? 
 Demons hold the earth in terror, 
 
 And the weak and helpless die. 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 107 
 
 XX. 
 
 Weary, wounded, armour broken. 
 
 Blunted axe and failing hands, 
 All his kinsmen dead around him. 
 
 Lone, undaunted, Anlaf stands. 
 Loud and louder roars the thunder. 
 
 Tempest floods are falling fast. 
 When, amid the closing battle, 
 
 Chief to chief they. meet at last. 
 Axe to axe. The lightning's power 
 
 Gleams on weapons poised to smite, 
 And the crashing blow re-echoes 
 
 In the darkness of the night ; 
 Falls the blow as bolt of heaven, 
 
 Guthrac's crest is rent in twain. 
 But the Saxon axe is shivered 
 
 On the helmet of the Dane. 
 For a moment bent the warrior ; 
 
 Then, with reeling limb and eye, 
 Rushed again upon the foeman. 
 
 Raised once more his blade on high : 
 But ere yet that axe descended, 
 
 Mustering all his failing breath. 
 With his clenched fist undefended 
 
 Anlaf smote the blow of death, 
 And before that mighty war-stroke 
 
 Mingled blood and bone and brain, 
 And the smiter and the smitten 
 
 Fell together on the plain. 
 
lo8 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Yet some escaped : the night and the storm 
 Have shielded many a shrinking form, 
 And the neighbouring thickets lend their aid 
 And the dark woods a darker shade. 
 The pillagers have ceased their quest, 
 And slowly turned them back to rest 
 To the trysting place beyond the rill, 
 Where the raven is floating still. 
 Few the numbers that are left ; 
 Of their mightiest chief bereft. 
 They must wait till the light shall tell 
 Who are they in strife that fell. 
 Sleep and death together reign 
 Over the living and the slain. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 'Midst the helpless band that prayed 
 
 Stood the chieftain's little maid, 
 
 Motionless, with straining eye, 
 
 Tearless in its misery : 
 
 Had it not been for her waving hair 
 
 She might have been a statue there. 
 
 Ever she gazed where Anlaf's crest 
 
 Towered high above the rest ; 
 
 She watched his blade as it rose and fell, 
 
 She heard his shout o'er the battle's swell j 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 109 
 
 On him alone her looks were bent, 
 
 For him alone her prayers were sent, 
 
 As though he only bore the strife, 
 
 And in his fate was wrapped her life. 
 
 And when the Danesmen stormed the Hold, 
 
 And death and rapine round her rolled. 
 
 Still had she stood ; but, borne along 
 
 In the fierce pressure of the throng, 
 
 And lost the hero of the fight 
 
 'Midst deepening gloom and driving flight, 
 
 Her spirit broken by the strain. 
 
 With one low fluttering sob of pain 
 
 Fainting she fell ; and as she lay 
 
 The sounds of murder passed away. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The storm had ceased ere life anew 
 O'er the faint soul remembrance threw. 
 And bade the dreadful past arise 
 Once more before her swimming eyes. 
 And deeper still its record burned 
 Till, thought and consciousness returned, 
 Stamped the sad knowledge on her heart. 
 And bade her fill a daughter's part. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Where the shattered war is strown, 
 Where the dying writhe and groan ; 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE, 
 
 O'er the soil with blood embrued, 
 
 'Midst the corpses pierced and hewed 
 
 Hilda passed on ; nor sight nor sound, 
 
 Nor treacherous hold on the trampled ground, 
 
 Might check the instinct that possessed 
 
 And thrilled its power in her breast. 
 
 The pitying stars looked down to bless 
 
 The maiden in her loneliness. 
 
 Oft had she wandered, in days of old, 
 
 Up and down the ancient Hold, 
 
 Chasing her mates in girlish play, 
 
 Or culling the blooms of the summer day. 
 
 Well she knew the way to trace 
 
 Through all the mazes of the place. 
 
 And on in the strength of her will she sped 
 
 To where the bravest champions bled. 
 
 Where thick on the earth the harvest lay 
 
 As the wrack-strewed beach on a stormy day. 
 
 With throbbing heart and anxious hand 
 
 She searched among the silent band. 
 
 Some power Divine her footsteps brought 
 
 Whete the latest strife was fought. 
 
 Her trembling fingers gently led. 
 
 And placed them on her father's head. 
 
 " Not dead— not dead ! " The broken cry, 
 Where hope itself is agony. 
 
THE PRISON OF TBE DANE. 
 
 The hope that fills the soul with fears, 
 Dims the parched eye with rushing tears, 
 Till breaking on with sudden start 
 The life-blood strains the labouring heart, 
 And surges on through nerve and vein. 
 " Was dead, and is alive again." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The winds of night with cooling breath 
 Had stayed the coming foot of death. 
 Down by her father's side she knelt, 
 
 O'erburdened by the weight of bliss, 
 And his returning spirit felt 
 
 The loving touch, the tender kiss, 
 And faintly to that love replied, 
 
 And spake in accents weak and low. 
 And blessed him that he had not died 
 
 And left his darling to the foe. 
 Then, from her garments torn, she bound 
 And strove to close each open wound, 
 And filled a helm from a little tide 
 That welled unstained from the fortress' side. 
 And gave him drink, and sobbed and smiled, 
 As a mother o'er her child. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Then Anlaf spake. " We may not stay 
 Here on the Hold till break of day. 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 For the foemen that remain 
 
 Will count the dead and spoil the slain. 
 
 None will escape upon the field, 
 
 And scarce the wood can shelter yield. 
 
 Refuge know I only one 
 
 Where their vengeance we may shun. 
 
 In the deep cell of our sea-girt tower 
 
 We perchance can foil their power 
 
 Till the spoilers have left the shore, 
 
 And their voices are heard on the coast no more." 
 
 XXVIII, 
 
 Taught by his word, the maid with speed 
 
 Hath sought and found his tethered steed ; 
 
 And, aided by her loving strength, 
 
 Hath Anlaf raised his frame at length ; 
 
 But stern the strain on the faithless limb. 
 
 And the brain reeled round and the eye grew dim, 
 
 And hardly might he gain his feet, 
 
 And win with pain the waiting seat. 
 
 But the strain had loosed what the hand had bound, 
 
 And the bandage sank from the clotted wound. 
 
 And scarce can Hilda staunch again 
 
 The blood that dropped from the opened vein. 
 
 'Twere hard to tell how oft her care 
 
 The burden of his weakness bare, 
 
 As on, with heedful eye and tread, 
 
 Adown the glen the steed she led. 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. nj 
 
 Far in the gloom the ships lay beached, 
 And the long strand before her reached. 
 Then, o'er the stony causeway passed, 
 She brought her father home at last, 
 Upheld the broken strength that freed 
 His burden from the patient steed ; 
 Then barred secure the oaken door, 
 And laid him fainting on the floor. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The dying star-song of the night sinks in the dawning 
 
 day. 
 And the dark-blue sheen is changed to green, and the 
 
 green fades into grey. 
 And the sleepers are roused from their slumbers, and 
 
 at last the Danesmen know 
 How few of all their numbers are left them by the 
 
 foe. 
 Few ; and their mightiest warriors lie cold in the 
 
 springing fern. 
 Short rede is in their council — no course but to return ; 
 But the spoils of war must be gathered, and the earth 
 
 piled over the slain ; 
 Never the kites of England shall batten on the Dane. 
 Still stands the heap in the valley — men call it 
 
 Guthrac's Mound — 
 Where the chieftain sleeps with his followers in silence 
 
 ranged around. 
 
114 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 Then down the path with hearts of wrath they turn 
 
 toward the shore, 
 Nor stop till where the causeway shows the deep red 
 
 stains of gore, 
 And one by one those stains lead on till they come 
 
 to the oaken door. 
 Then the murder fiend was wakened, and far across 
 
 the strand 
 Echoed the thundering strokes that fell from axe and 
 
 club and brand, 
 Till the strong gate was broken, and through the 
 
 opening poured. 
 In the dread power of vengeance, the leaders of the 
 
 horde. 
 No warrior stood to meet them. A little girlish 
 
 hand 
 Upraised unarmed a moment stayed the fury of the 
 
 band. 
 " Oh, spare him, spare my father ! " She clasps the 
 
 leader's knee. 
 His hand is in her golden hair ; his blade is flashing 
 
 free. 
 Stern fell the blow. The tide of life poured from her 
 
 smitten side. 
 And o'er her slaughtered sire she fell, and on his 
 breast she died. 
 
THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 115 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And then, — there came no warning, no sign of the 
 
 coming woe ; 
 The sun shone bright in the heavens, and the wind 
 
 was hushed and low^ — 
 But the Spirit of God was moving, as of old, on the 
 
 face of the sea. 
 And nature waited in silence to know what the end 
 
 would be. 
 Then the great depths were troubled, and the waters 
 
 rose on an heap — 
 Rose at the Master's bidding as a giant aroused from 
 
 sleep ; 
 And o'er the plain of the ocean, with white plumes on 
 
 its crest. 
 Awful in pitiless strength the giant wave rolled on to 
 
 the west. 
 And night closed on the tower as with a sullen roar 
 That mighty bank of water rolled up the fated 
 
 shore. 
 It rolled over sand and boulder, it rolled up the 
 
 sloping glen, 
 And its crest of white round the south of the height 
 
 hid the ruined homes of men ; 
 And a feeble cry rose here and there from the surface 
 
 of the wave, 
 But that wave rolled on and the cry was gone, and 
 
 the living found a grave. 
 
ii6 THE PRISON OF THE DANE. 
 
 And never more on sea or shore the pirate host was 
 
 seen, 
 And never more their ships shall ride upon the ocean's 
 
 green; 
 And wheresoever those waters went, o'er strand and 
 
 shining plain, 
 The veil they cast as on they passed shall ne'er be 
 
 drawn again. 
 But often o'er the silver sea at night will Hilda glide, 
 And sing again the blessbd songs she sang at the 
 
 eventide. 
 Still in the tower are Hving souls, so the old legends 
 
 say, 
 And captive there the murderers wait till the dread 
 
 judgment day j 
 And high above the wild winds' cry, when the storm 
 
 is on the main. 
 Is heard the hopeless wail that rings from the Prison 
 
 of the Dane. 
 
( "7 ) 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 Ye know that I am old and weak, and that I soon 
 
 must die, 
 For ye hear the halting footstep, and mark the wearied 
 
 eya 
 To you the day is warm and bright, the song-bird's 
 
 voice is clear. 
 The world is beauty to the sight and music to the ear. 
 I cannot joy in the balm of spring that comes from 
 
 o'er the lea ; 
 The very beating of my heart is burdensome to me. 
 I linger on the doorstep, yet scarcely feel the sun ; 
 I only know how long the course, the goal how nearly 
 
 won. 
 I have beaten the world in the race of time, and, 
 
 passing on before. 
 By God's own grace I'll find a place at His appointed 
 
 door. 
 
 The day hath been to me, as now it is to all of you. 
 When a blessing came with the early rain, a blessing 
 with the dew. 
 
ii8 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 My heart was light, my eye was bright, my step was 
 
 free and strong, 
 And my soul took in the broad fair world and turned 
 
 it into song ; 
 The lark rose up before iny feet ; the cliffs, the sky, 
 
 the sea 
 Had but one voice, the voice of joy, and ever sang 
 
 to me. 
 Far-stretched and fair my lands were spread, and rich 
 
 my yearly store, 
 And with a grateful hand I fed the hungry and the 
 
 poor. 
 Within my home a holy ray in soft effulgence shone, 
 The gentlest heart beneath the day was wedded to 
 
 my own ; 
 And years went on, and tiny feet around my hearth 
 
 were heard, 
 And gentle prattlings soft and sweet as music of a 
 
 bird; 
 Between my knees, in infant grace, a little angel stood. 
 What wonder if my Maker's face to me was very 
 
 good? 
 
 'Twas first a scarcely noticed word, and then a doubtful 
 
 tale, 
 A rumour told with bated breath, with trembling lips 
 
 and. pale ; 
 And then the talk of ancient men in converse deep 
 
 and low, 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 119 
 
 And in the heart a heavy gloom, the harbinger of woe ; 
 And then a blight upon the land, like to that cloud 
 
 of old. 
 That, spreading from a little hand, o'er all the heaven 
 
 rolled ; 
 And then we knew that it must come. If it were 
 
 given to man 
 The power to work on earth the wrath and fulness of 
 
 his ban, 
 Oh, what a fearful doom had been on him whose 
 
 serpent-sting 
 Struck down the life of peace between the people and 
 
 the king ! 
 We knew that it must come at last, so dark the times 
 
 had grown. 
 So heavy on the nation's life the burden of the 
 
 throne ; 
 So deep and rankling was the steel oppression's hand 
 
 had driven, 
 So loud and sad the daily cry that rose from earth to 
 
 heaven. 
 In vain we struggled with the Lord in vigil, fast, and 
 
 prayer ; 
 The very sheath forsook the sword, and left it keen 
 
 and bare. 
 We could not see them set at nought, and idly stand 
 
 aside, — 
 The rights for which our fathers fought, for which our 
 
 fathers died. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 And with the charter sealed in blood, and by the 
 
 champions' graves, 
 Could we deny our title good, and own our children 
 
 slaves ? 
 
 So the dark night of civil war reigned o'er the 
 
 trembling land ; 
 Her edicts were the cannon-bursts, her sceptre was 
 
 the brand. 
 O God, it was a fearful price, ay, even to be free, 
 That fratricidal sacrifice, that weight of misery ! 
 Beneath the royal standard fought the chiefs whom 
 
 feudal pride 
 And long descent of lordly rule won to the tyrant's 
 
 side ; 
 And single-hearted loyalty, that only asked to own 
 A thankless master, and to die unnoticed and unknown. 
 And wily priests their meshes spread, and gathered as 
 
 their prey 
 Men who had learned to bow the head, to listen and 
 
 obey. 
 A gallant host. We fought and won. 'Twere need- 
 less now to tell 
 The shouts and garments rolled in blood before the 
 
 monarch fell. 
 Not unto us ; by Thee alone, O Lord, the right was 
 
 weighed. 
 By Thee alone the conquest won : to Thee be glory 
 
 paid. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 As arrows hurtling from the bow, shot with a master's 
 
 skill, 
 Our lot it was to deal the blow, but it was Thine to will. 
 
 I look across the long-drawn space of parted years. 
 
 Once more 
 I see my father's ancient hall ; I see an open door. 
 The faces I have loved are there — the mother and the 
 
 child, — 
 With the sweet looks that warmed my heart as heaven 
 
 when they smiled. 
 The loving eyes are filled with tears. The parting 
 
 hour has come ; 
 I hear the sound of hoof and steel, the bugle and the 
 
 drum. 
 And as the tendrils to the staff round which their curls 
 
 are thrown, 
 I feel the little trembling hands that gather round my 
 
 own; 
 I feel the little trembling hands that bind me as a chain, 
 And the soft touch that as a prayer entreats me to 
 
 remain. 
 The hour has come. Lip clings to lip. There is a 
 
 smothered sigh, 
 A broken chord within the heart, a last, a sad good- 
 bye. 
 The vision fades away, but thus in dreams I often see 
 Those faces full of tender love, that were so dear to 
 
 me. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 The tale of love that could not die — that love is 
 
 living now ; 
 I feel their lips upon my cheek, their breath upon my 
 
 brow ; 
 The brightest angels in the sky to me in meircy 
 
 given, 
 That on my darlings' gentle wings I may be borne to 
 
 heaven. 
 
 I thought that I had found a friend, one whom my 
 
 soul could hold 
 Warm as a sunbeam in the heart, and pure as tested 
 
 gold. 
 How oft together have we held sweet converse by the 
 
 way ; 
 Together stemmed the tide of fight, together knelt to 
 
 pray. 
 He was the casket of my thoughts ; my hopes and 
 
 fears he knew ; 
 His life was prized above my own, for I believed him 
 
 true. 
 And stronger than a brother's claim the wondrous 
 
 links that bind 
 Two chosen hearts together in the brotherhood of 
 
 kind. 
 When sorely wounded he was laid I was his help and 
 
 shield. 
 What time fierce Rupert's charge was made on 
 
 Marston's bloody field. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 123 
 
 The blows fell fast. I held my own till Cromwell 
 
 turned the day, 
 And then we staunched his bleeding wounds and bore 
 
 him from the fray. 
 We laid him on the heathery bed ; it seemed the bed 
 
 of death, 
 So deep and sore his wounds had bled, so weary was 
 
 the breath ; 
 And many a long and anxious watch my sleepless 
 
 eyes have kept, 
 Until the fevered brow was cool, the burdened spirit 
 
 slept. 
 For slowly came the wave of life back from that tide- 
 less sea 
 Where sleep the woes of human strife in vast 
 
 eternity. 
 He lived. The glow of wonted strength by daily steps 
 
 returned, 
 And I — my heart received at length the guerdon it 
 
 had earned. 
 
 'Twas night, and not a star was seen. So dense and 
 
 broad the cloud. 
 Of some vast city of the dead it might have been the 
 
 shroud. 
 The distant fires of the camp shone lurid through the 
 
 haze, 
 And strangely marked the slumbering forms around 
 
 the changing blaze. 
 
124 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 I could not rest, I could not sleep, for thoughts and 
 
 hopes and fears. 
 And readings from the roll of love that filled my 
 
 bygone years. 
 So crowded through the fevered brain in wild and 
 
 mystic race. 
 That sleep, though welcome, tried in vain to find a 
 
 resting-place. 
 Scarce knowing where, with ample cloak across my 
 
 shoulders cast, 
 O'er the soft turf of early spring all silently I 
 
 passed. 
 There was no sound upon the plain, no sound upon 
 
 the hill. 
 And, save the tumult in my brain, 'twas very dark and 
 
 still. 
 My wandering footsteps paused at length beneath an 
 
 ancient tree. 
 And there I struggled with my thoughts, and bade the 
 
 soul be free. 
 
 There came two voices speaking low close to my 
 resting-place, 
 
 Low, but so near that every sound my startled sense 
 could trace. 
 
 Full well I knew the one. (It was so dark that none 
 could see 
 
 The silent covered form that lay beneath the branch- 
 ing tree.) 
 
TEE OLD MAN'S TALE. 125 
 
 Silent, I held my breath with pain, for every little 
 
 word 
 That told the treason of a friend went through me 
 
 like a sword. 
 Slowly they came ; they paused a while ; then slowly 
 
 wended on, 
 Leaving the echo of their speech e'en when themselves 
 
 were gone. 
 Such words ! — and I had heard them all. Till then 
 
 I ne'er had thought, 
 Foul as it was, how very foul the sin that Judas 
 
 wrought. 
 It seemed as though the air was full of perjury and 
 
 crime. 
 And Heaven was hidden from the world, and devils 
 
 ruled the time. 
 
 I followed where the voices led as hunter stalks the 
 
 deer, 
 The falling step no sound betrayed to wake the victim's 
 
 ear. 
 With weapon bared I followed close. At last so near 
 
 I stood 
 I marvelled that they had not heard the pulses of my 
 
 blood ; 
 Then, as they paused upon the heath, through all my 
 
 heart there went 
 A feeling that to give it words the very sky had 
 
 rent, 
 
126 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 And on the tempter's head was hurled the fury of my 
 
 sword, 
 And at my feet in blood he fell, and died before the 
 
 Lord. 
 
 Round Thornton turned. His sword was drawn ere 
 
 yet a moment sped, 
 Ere yet my own, all dank with gore, had risen from 
 
 its dead. 
 Perchance he might have struck me down, but ere his 
 
 weapon fell 
 I spake and cursed him in that name that I had loved 
 
 so well. 
 He stood as one that doubts his ear hath told its tale 
 
 aright, 
 Then quickly turned without a word and vanished in 
 
 the night. 
 
 The plot was spoilt, the victory won. From east to 
 
 western coast 
 Were heard the chants, were seen the arms and banners 
 
 of the host — 
 The host before whose battle brow had horse and foot 
 
 gone down. 
 And every power and link that bound the kingdom to 
 
 the crown. 
 
 The fleetest steed is slow of foot, and hard the 
 
 smoothest way 
 When love impatient aims the goal, still chafing at delay. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 127 
 
 And thought speeds on its course before, and checked 
 
 returns again 
 To urge the rowels' deeper goad, and shake the 
 
 slackened rein. 
 The road was long. For many a mile each moment 
 
 as it passed 
 Was numbered in a heart that wished that moment 
 
 was the last, 
 That wished that moment was the last of all the 
 
 tedious hours 
 That stood before the blessfed love within my homely 
 
 towers. 
 At length, at length, another day, another setting 
 
 sun. 
 My own would be my own again, and all my toil be 
 done ! 
 
 But then there came a nameless dread, an awful sense 
 
 of fear. 
 Like his who in the visioned night felt God Himself 
 
 was near. 
 There was no sound, there was no sight; and yet 
 
 within my brain 
 I seemed to see a stream of blood, to hear a shriek of 
 
 pain; 
 And then, it was no mortal sleep that o'er my senses 
 
 stole. 
 It was no mortal dream that stamped its impress on 
 rny soul. 
 
128 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 But like the seer's inspired trance, that, passing time 
 
 and space. 
 Commands the days unborn to live, and meets them 
 
 face to face. 
 
 The long-drawn sweep, the terraced walk, the ivy- 
 painted hall, 
 
 The shadows and the lights that traced each casement, 
 door, and wall. 
 
 The kennel and the sleeping hound, the copse and 
 silent stream. 
 
 That in its flowing scarcely seemed to break the silver 
 beam ; 
 
 The grand old forest far away, the hill, the drooping vale. 
 
 All pictured in the light that shone so bright and yet 
 so pale j 
 
 The broad white orb, the distant gems that glittered 
 in the sky, 
 
 The clear dark hue all infinite that mocked the search- 
 ing eye ; 
 
 The snowy flakes of peaceful cloud, pure as a soul 
 forgiven, 
 
 Like down that from an angel's wing still lingers in 
 the heaven ; — 
 
 I saw them all, as still as though a spirit had imprest: 
 
 On all the everlasting seal of deep and holy rest. 
 
 There was a hand upon my heart ; I could not speak 
 or move, 
 
 But sat in silent prayer before the temple of my love. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 129 
 
 My very charger felt the spell, and stayed his panting 
 
 breath, 
 Like an image carved at midnight by the pulseless 
 
 hand of death. 
 
 Then came a change. The moon was hid, the sky 
 
 grew black with cloud, 
 And 'midst the bending of the trees the tempest 
 
 screamed aloud ; 
 Then through the loopholes in the wall my eye caught 
 
 here and there 
 A little light that rose and sank, and then a lurid 
 
 glare. 
 It grew. By Heaven ! 'twas all aglow : a flame and 
 
 bursts of smoke, 
 Like the dashing spray when a giant rock hath 
 
 trembled at the stroke. 
 Tossed aloft and hurled abroad by the winds in their 
 
 headlong might; 
 Gloom and blaze and blaze and gloom breaking the 
 
 sceptre of night, 
 Spreading its poison o'er lintel and beam, bursting 
 
 each window and door, 
 Gathering strength from destruction and death, and 
 
 mocking the wind in its roar ; 
 And that fell hand was on my heart, and I sat as 
 
 locked in steel, 
 As one that had not life to move, and yet had the life 
 
 to feel, 
 
 Ji 
 
130 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 There were voices that screamed, and struggling forms ; 
 
 and few, and but here and there, 
 Would strong men battle a path to life, blackened and 
 
 scorched, and bare, — 
 Few and faint, for e'en to the strong the fight was 
 
 hardly won. 
 Oh, woe for the old, and the weak, and the young, for 
 
 rescue there was none j 
 And the flames still rose, and I strove in vain to turn 
 
 away my eye. 
 
 God, or ease my maddened brain, or give me 
 
 strength to die ! 
 Higher and stronger grew the flames, and I knew that 
 
 the doom was cast ; 
 No breath of life could hold its own within that fiery blast. 
 But even then— oh ! passing sweet — like a whisper 
 
 they seemed so near, 
 
 1 heard the voices that I loved, soft and gentle and clear; 
 Yet I knew in the depth of my inmost heart that those 
 
 sweet accents came — 
 Near as they seemed — from the chamber of death, 
 
 from the midst of the belt of flame. 
 They uttered the words I had loved to hear on many 
 
 an earlier day. 
 When the mother trained the childish lips, and taught 
 
 them how to pray 
 Those blessed words that angels bear rejoicing to the 
 
 throne, 
 The burden of the infant's prayer that Jesus makes 
 
 His own — 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 131 
 
 The words that I so oft had heard lisped at the 
 
 mother's knee ; 
 And now, as then, although in death, I heard them 
 
 pray for me. 
 And then the flames shot up to the clouds, and the 
 
 smoke rolled far and wide. 
 And as the roof fell crashingin I knew that they had died. 
 
 A grasp was laid upon my arm. 'Twas Thornton's 
 
 voice that spake 
 In low and hissing accents like a serpent in the brake : 
 " Fool to instruct the hand that time or chance may 
 
 make a foe. 
 How best to reach the life, and where to strike the 
 
 surest blow. 
 I wot the quittance of revenge is written fair and plain ; 
 Rase if thou canst the seal of blood." He spake, and 
 
 turned the rein. 
 And down the road and o'er the moor I heard his 
 
 courser's tread ; 
 Then a great void came upon my soul, as I were with 
 
 the dead. 
 
 I woke, and lo ! it was a dream, a vision of unrest, 
 The working of a wearied soul with hope and fear 
 
 opprest. 
 The blessfed sun was in the sky, the morn was bright 
 
 and fair, 
 And the sweet notes of the song-birds were ringing in 
 
 the air. 
 
132 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 It was a dream. The night was gone, yet like a veil 
 
 unrolled 
 There stood between the day and me all that the night 
 
 had told — 
 A leprous spot on memory's, life no stream could wash 
 
 away, 
 A record on the page of time plain as the light of day. 
 
 On, on ! no mortal man could bear to rest with such 
 
 a load 
 Of sinking hopes and rising fears. We sped along 
 
 the road. 
 On, on ! no stop beside the stream, no loiter in the 
 
 shade ; 
 My thoughts but led the path before, and well my 
 
 steed obeyed. 
 Past moor and hamlet, town and dell, swift as the 
 
 winter's wind. 
 The very echoes of our tread, we left them far 
 
 behind, 
 Till sudden, on the latest steep, the foam-flecked rein 
 
 I drew. 
 Below me was a blackened pile ; my dream was only 
 
 true. 
 
 How time went on, and life came back, it lists not 
 
 here to tell ; 
 Or how I gathered proofs of all I knew before so 
 
 well — 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 133 
 
 Proofs, damning proofs, that bore the guilt red to the 
 
 murderer's hand, 
 Or how I traced him to the port from whence he fled 
 
 the land. 
 I followed as a sleuth-hound tracks his flying victim's 
 
 tread ; 
 No spot through which his feet had passed but there 
 
 my vengeance sped. 
 O'er mighty seas and long-drawn wastes and woods 
 
 I held the chase. 
 In many climes, through many tribes of stern and 
 
 savage race. 
 Unchanged, 'midst changing times, my hate as when 
 
 I first began ; 
 The whole world was my hunting-field, my prey a 
 
 fellow-man. 
 
 Ye know not, ye whose daily life is filled with daily 
 
 cares, 
 Who in your labour entertain an angel unawares, 
 How foul a thing the soul will grow that through long 
 
 years of time 
 Lives but to do one single act, and that one act a crime. 
 I thought not in my happier days thus to exist for hate 
 My life a gleam of distant blood, my labour but to wait. 
 Eye for an eye, revenge for wrong, was all my heart 
 
 could know ; 
 And God was nought unless He wrought damnation 
 
 on my foe. 
 
134 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 Say I was mad. 'Tis no less true. I lived as others 
 
 live, 
 Who in the depths of sin have lost the power to forgive. 
 
 There's mercy for a living man, refuse it as he will ; 
 
 The love that suffers him to live through life pursues 
 him still ; 
 
 E'en on the hardest heart there falls the dew of saving 
 grace, 
 
 And falls and falls perchance at last to find a resting- 
 place. 
 
 I know not how it came, but for a moment now and then 
 
 I felt as power were given to love and bless my fellow- 
 men. 
 
 A moment, and it passed away, and deeper was the 
 night, 
 
 The blackness of my erring soul, for that one ray of light. 
 
 It was but, at first, like a little gleam that shineth from 
 afar. 
 
 As the fitful glow in the dead of night of a very distant 
 star; 
 
 But it came, and again, as the tide from the ebb turns 
 and returns to the shore ; 
 
 I was a man, a broken man, but still a man once more. 
 
 The bow that hath too long been bent, unstrung its 
 
 bend retains ; 
 The ransomed captive long can show the fester of his 
 
 chains. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 135 
 
 I could not feel as others felt, nor join the mingling 
 
 throng, 
 The busy world, the daily talk, the laughter and the 
 
 song; 
 Far, far away from man's abode, toward the trackless 
 
 west, 
 I thought to learn the secret road that guides the soul 
 
 to rest. 
 
 'Twas winter, and the world was bare, and thick and 
 
 fast the snow. 
 And without the wind was howling as the trees went 
 
 to and fro. 
 Within, the pine logs glowed ; my dog was sleeping at 
 
 my side ; 
 The Book was open at the tale of how the Saviour 
 
 died. 
 I read as one that readeth on, to whom the words are 
 
 nought. 
 As one whose ears receive the sound, but cannot feel 
 
 the thought ; 
 Yet there I sat still reading, and reading o'er 
 
 again, 
 Striving as man to feel for God, but striving still in 
 
 vain. 
 All cold and dead at heart, I closed the volume in 
 
 despair. 
 Nor was there strength within the soul to seek relief 
 
 in prayer. 
 
136 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 The slumbering dog had heard a sound, and started 
 
 from his rest, 
 With bending neck and eager eyes, white fangs, and 
 
 angry crest. 
 So deep the growl 'twas scarcely heard above the 
 
 tempest's roar. 
 As slowly from the hearth he strode up to the guarded 
 
 door. 
 I seized a gun, and stood prepared. The voice of 
 
 human kind. 
 So weak no wonder it was lost in the howling of the wind, 
 A pleading voice in English tongue. I cast the gun 
 
 aside, 
 And strongly in a far recess the struggling mastiff tied. 
 The bolts were drawn, the door flung wide ; a traveller 
 
 worn with cold, 
 A single, weary, ghost-like man, a grizzled man, and old. 
 With failing step ; he scarce had strength to answer to 
 
 my call. 
 And raised a trembling hand to rest against the cottage 
 
 wall. 
 He entered, and I closed the door, and led his faltering 
 
 feet, 
 Half bearing him, he was so weak, and placed him on 
 
 Piled up fresh wood upon the hearth, and brought him 
 
 drink and food, 
 And chafed his weary limbs, and strove to warm the 
 
 frozen blood. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 137 
 
 And then I gazed upon him, on his thin grey locks of 
 hair ; 
 
 The poor, worn face, that told of years, of long, long 
 years of care ; 
 
 His starting bones and sunken eyes. And like a dart 
 of flame, 
 
 Flashed forth a well-remembered face, and lo ! it was 
 the same. 
 
 The tempter to my very hearth had brought my long- 
 sought foe. 
 
 Had given his life into my hand, and bid me deal the 
 blow. 
 
 My blood was mad as the days rose up, those evil 
 
 days of yore ; 
 A murderous hand was at his throat, and dashed him 
 
 to the floor ; 
 Shrieking, I hurled him from his seat. He knew me 
 
 as he fell ; 
 One little glance — a moment's glance — and nought 
 
 remained to tell. 
 And a short low cry burst from him, a bitter, painful 
 
 cry, 
 The cry as of a hunted beast that feels that it must 
 
 die. 
 A pause. No human hand it was that stayed the lifted 
 
 knife, 
 It was no voice of living flesh that pleaded for his 
 
 life; 
 
138 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 But I heard the rush of angel wings swift darting 
 
 through the air, 
 I heard again those voices that last were heard in prayer, 
 And a great light burst upon my soul as through an 
 
 open door, 
 And I felt that heaven was nearer then than e'er it 
 
 was before. 
 Slowly I spoke : "Thy crime was great, and I have 
 
 waited long, 
 And every day hath deeper stamped the memory of 
 
 wrong. 
 In all my ways, in all my thoughts, in visions of the 
 
 night, 
 This hour reddened with thy blood hath been before 
 
 my sight ; 
 These twenty years for this alone my soul hatb cared 
 
 to live, 
 And now that vengeance is my own, I feel I must 
 
 forgive. 
 And for His love by whose sweet grace my soul from 
 
 sin is shriven, 
 I say to thee ' Depart in peace, uninjured and for- 
 given.' " 
 Forgiven ? Ah ! how vain the thought ; the word 
 
 how strange and wild. 
 And he, the murderer of my wife, the murderer of my 
 
 child ! 
 I stood aside. He slowly rose, pale as the dead white 
 
 snow: 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 139 
 
 One choking sob he gave, and then, with faltering 
 
 steps and slow, 
 Without a word, as one from whom all living hopes 
 
 are driven, 
 Passed outward to that dreadful gloom that barred the 
 
 face of heaven. 
 
 I closed the door. His withered form was hidden 
 
 from my gaze. 
 The fire within burned warm and bright. I sat before 
 
 the blaze, 
 And strove to think that I had done, obedient to the 
 
 Word, 
 The whole commandment, and had won the blessing 
 
 of the Lord. 
 Had I not spared my direst foe when he was in my 
 
 hand? 
 Had I not checked the lifted blow and cast away the 
 
 brand ? 
 Had I not stilled the raging blood, wild as an angry 
 
 sea? 
 Wherefore, my God, for all my good in love remember 
 
 me. 
 
 The fire within was warm and clear. I sat before the 
 
 light. 
 Without were meanings wild and drear, the moanings 
 
 of the night; 
 
140 THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 
 
 The snow was falling thick and fast. No other refuge 
 
 nigh, 
 The homeless in that fearful blast had but one home 
 
 — to die. 
 And words seemed borne in every gust, in every fitful 
 
 sound — • 
 "What hast thou done? Thy brother's blood is 
 
 calling from the ground." 
 Brother ! Could such a wretch as he for one brief 
 
 moment claim 
 From man, and least of all from me, so near, so dear 
 
 a name ? 
 But then a writing on the wall stood plain and dread 
 
 to see : 
 " In that thou didst it not for him, thou didst it not 
 
 for Me." 
 
 I could not rest. But few short yards those faltering 
 steps had sped ; 
 
 I found him all so cold and stiff it seemed as he were 
 dead. 
 
 I bore him home, and many an hour with ever watch- 
 ful care. 
 
 As mother tends her little one, I sat and nursed him 
 there ; 
 
 And reason came again, and life, but all too weak to 
 stay. 
 
 And from between these arms at last his spirit passed 
 away. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 141 
 
 He died, and blessed me as he died. Ay, there are 
 few who know 
 
 The mercy that is stored for him who can forgive 
 a foe ; 
 
 But few can tell how deep and pure the peace that 
 Heaven can send. 
 
 For who gives vengeance up to God makes God Him- 
 self a friend. 
 
( 142 ) 
 
 PHILIP LEE. 
 
 (Originally inserted in "Temple Bar Magazine," 1869.) 
 
 A BiTi'ER and a stormy night ; the wind was keen and 
 
 strong, 
 And the white foam flew as the wild gusts blew, and 
 
 bore the waves along. 
 Athwart the sky, athwart the moon, the scud was flying 
 
 free, 
 And the foam that dashed through the firmament was 
 
 like the foam of the sea. 
 My heart was at one with the changing light and the 
 
 shadows hurrying past, 
 With the sound of the waves as they rose and fell, 
 
 with the wind in its lull and blast ; 
 For the blood of life was full and strong, and the 
 
 world was all before. 
 And 'twas better to stand on the beaten strand than 
 
 to sit within the door ; 
 And I cared not whither my steps were bent, so I was 
 
 alone on the shore. 
 
PHILIP LEE. 143 
 
 For the plunge of the tide, and the song of the gale, 
 
 and the phantoms of the mind, 
 Little I recked as I moved along how the waves rolled 
 
 up behind. 
 Foot by foot they followed me close, as a lion that 
 
 stalks his prey ; 
 One by one the marks I had left in the sand were 
 
 washed away ; 
 Until I found I was compassed round with the cliffs 
 
 and the boiling tide. 
 The heights behind and the waves before, and death 
 
 on every side. 
 Stem and grand, and on either hand rounding out to 
 
 the sea, 
 The broad cliffs raised their heads so high they could 
 
 not care for me. 
 With a spring and a roar the waves rushed in, as a 
 
 tiger that stretches his chain, 
 And for every check came thundering on with a 
 
 spring and a roar again. 
 No kindly ledge, no winding path, nought but the 
 
 pale blank wall ; 
 No sound but the whirl of the mocking winds and the 
 
 waves in their rise and fall — 
 The pitiless waves ; and there was none but God on 
 
 whom to call. 
 
 To wait and watch the shadow of death as it cometh 
 on and on, 
 
144 PHILIP LEE. 
 
 With none to bless the parting breath or weep when 
 
 the spirit is gone ; 
 To die like a dog without a word save only the broken 
 
 prayer 
 That Cometh not from the heart of faith, but the 
 
 gasping of despair ; 
 With the cold sea-spray, like a serpent's slime, wreath- 
 ing o'er body and limb, 
 Till the heart is faint and the brain swims round, and 
 
 the sight is bleared and dim ; 
 With never a hope that God will hear, or, hearing, 
 
 heed the cry ; 
 To be beaten down with the doom of hell even before 
 
 I die ; — 
 I had not thought so deep a curse had been beneath 
 
 the sky. 
 
 Weary, weary in heart and brain, drenched, and 
 
 stiffened, and numb. 
 On a broken rock beneath the cliff I waited till death 
 
 should come. 
 Closed in between the rock and the cliff, or I had 
 
 been swept to the sea ; 
 For the broad stone quivered at every stroke, and 
 
 the waves came over my knee. 
 Soft and low, dreamy and slow, as the toll of a distant 
 
 bell. 
 To and fro the pulses go like the sea in its summer 
 
 swell, — 
 
PHILIP LEE. 145 
 
 So gentle and slow the ebb and flow I might have 
 
 been counted as dead, 
 So weak and loose the chain of life, it seemed that the 
 
 spirit had fled. 
 
 A shout and a cry from the cliffs on high, twice, and 
 
 thrice, and again, — 
 A shout and a hail above the gale, above the roar of 
 
 the main. 
 'Twas heard, but I answered not, nor moved from the 
 
 spot whereon I lay. 
 For it seemed to me, in my lethargy, as if life had 
 
 wearied away ; 
 It seemed to me, in my lethargy, that I lay beneath the 
 
 wave. 
 And 'twas only the cry of a dying wretch as he joined 
 
 me in the grave ; 
 And it was but at first like a little spot of rain on 
 
 a summer day. 
 Scarce noticed, or perchance forgot ere it hath passed 
 
 away. 
 But breathed anew it gathered strength, and would 
 
 not be denied. 
 And I heard again the whirl of the wind, and the roar 
 
 and the dash of the tide. 
 It was a bitter agony to feel that I had not died. 
 
 A moment, and again the shout down from the hill-top 
 came, 
 
146 PHILIP LEE. 
 
 And I heard and knew my father's voice as he called 
 
 me by my name ; 
 And straight above me, bending o'er the margin of the 
 
 height, 
 Were faces of men, like stars of God, all in the clear 
 
 moonlight : 
 And the love of life came over my heart as a spring in 
 
 a thirsty land, 
 And I strove to answer them back again, and feebly 
 
 raised my hand. 
 " He lives ! " And I heard the shout of joy \ but 
 
 mingled with the rest 
 Was a cry like the sob of a weary child as it sinks on 
 
 its mother's breast ; 
 A cry that burst from a heart o'erstrained with the 
 
 burden of its care, 
 And hurried from the quivering lips in mingled praise 
 
 and prayer. 
 
 " Mine is the task," said Phihp Lee ; " for though your 
 
 heart is bold, 
 The cliff is high, and the wind is strong, and you are 
 
 weak and old ; 
 My eye is clear, my arms are young, my life is bound 
 
 to none, 
 And for the holy love of God I go to help your 
 
 son.'' 
 They brought the rope ; with careful heed he bound 
 
 it round his breast ; 
 
PHILIP LEE. 147 
 
 And with a blessing and a prayer they launched him 
 
 o'er the crest. 
 It was fending of foot and arm and hand as he swung 
 
 there to and fro 
 In the whirl of the wind, with the rocks and the sea 
 
 a hundred feet below. 
 " Steadily 1 Steadily ! Lower again ! " And longer 
 
 grew the line, 
 Till he stood beside me under the cliff, and placed 
 
 a hand on mine. 
 
 Higher and higher, the run of the tide came almost 
 
 over the stone, 
 As he loosed the rope from off his waist and passed it 
 
 round my own. 
 And fixed a slender cord to guide. Then, as a mother 
 
 bends 
 To raise and bless the helpless babe that lovingly she 
 
 tends. 
 He stooped and raised me tenderly, and for a moment 
 
 stood, 
 And in his strength he held me up above the dashing 
 
 flood. 
 " Ready ? "—above. " Ready ! "—below. "The time 
 
 is short," said he, 
 " But even as I have kept faith with thine will God 
 
 keep faith with me." 
 Then I was raised in the midnight air, and he was left 
 
 in the sea. 
 
148 PHILIP LEE. 
 
 My weakened sense went round and round ; I felt 
 
 and knew no more, 
 But still I seemed as one that hath dreamed of death 
 
 on a beaten shore ; 
 Till on the height in the moonbeams bright I opened 
 
 my eyes at last, 
 And knew that life had come again, and the dream 
 
 was in the past. 
 And I heard afar the song of the sea — it seemed but 
 
 a song to me then, 
 For the strong earth bore me up, and around were the 
 
 kindly tones of men. 
 
 Strong in hand and strong in heart, still holding to the 
 
 guide, 
 Philip had stood at the foot of the cliff in the tangle 
 
 and coil of the tide. 
 He guided me safe, though headlong waves behind 
 
 and round him broke, 
 And 'twas grapple of hand and grip of foot at each 
 
 repeated stroke. 
 In the bursting swell it was hard to tell the sea from 
 
 the mist of spray. 
 And the hungry waves, like living things, fought with 
 
 a living prey. 
 Yet still he held his purpose sure till o'er the dizzy 
 
 height 
 Kind hands stretched forth to take me in, and bore 
 
 me from his sight. 
 
PHILIP LEE. 149 
 
 " Unloose the cords.'' The time is short ; the battle 
 
 is for life, 
 And none may abide in the rage of the tide, nor weary 
 
 of the strife. 
 The knots are loosed ; the cord is swung, and caught 
 
 as it descends. 
 One struggle more and the fight is o'er, the victor with 
 
 his friends ; 
 One struggle more and the fight is o'er. The rope is 
 
 firmly bound. 
 " Ready ? " But from below there came no answer to 
 
 the sound, 
 But they heard a roar and a sullen plunge, and the 
 
 spray dashed wild and free. 
 And they saw the broad white sheet of foam that lay 
 
 on the angry sea, 
 And the light on the stone as the wave rolled back ; 
 
 but where was Philip Lee ? 
 
 The wave rolled back, but the knots held true. With 
 
 drooped and bleeding head. 
 With mangled limbs all crushed and torn, and helpless 
 
 as the dead, 
 A form was rescued from the wave. The very wind 
 
 was still 
 As they raised him out of the boiling surf up to the 
 
 crest of the hill. 
 
 Time passed away, but evermore Lee was a crippled 
 man, 
 
150 PHILIP LEE. 
 
 Weary and weak, as one whose years are broken in 
 
 their span. 
 Loving and loved of all he lived, loving and loved he 
 
 died, 
 The noblest, bravest, gentlest heart in all the country 
 
 side. 
 Then ask not why, when I shall die, I'll rest by Philip 
 
 Lee, 
 For well I ween that he hath been a neighbour unto 
 
 me. 
 
SHORT PIECES. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Joys of the future, we hail your advancing 
 Sunbeams of bliss in the mine of despair ; 
 
 Lights of the earth in the firmament dancing, 
 Pillows of rest for the sickness of care. 
 
 What though the blast of the present be o'er us, 
 Dark though the surges through which we have past ; 
 
 To-morrow's a haven of beauty before us, 
 Filled with the joys that shall bless us at last. 
 
 ^^^hen man from the Garden of Eden was driven, 
 And Memory embittered his way with her tears, 
 
 It was Hope that directed his footsteps to heaven, 
 And lit the heart fire that melted his fears. 
 
 Dead is the past, and the present is dying, 
 Hope stretches its sceptre of life to the soul, 
 
 And all the dark shadows that round us are flying 
 Are lost in the light that encircles the goal. 
 
( 152 ) 
 
 MARCH, 1862. 
 
 Came a little sunbeam 
 Floating on the morn, 
 
 Pure as words of heaven 
 By an angel borne. 
 
 And we blessed the Giver 
 For the gift He sent, 
 
 For the blessfed gift that came 
 From the firmament. 
 
 It was half in heaven. 
 
 Only half on earth ; 
 And we knew it clinging 
 
 To its place of birth. 
 
 Yet our spirits trusted 
 
 That its loving ray 
 Still would smile upon us, 
 
 Even through the day ; 
 
MARCH, 1862. 153 
 
 Hoped that it would warm us 
 
 Even in the grave ; 
 So we blessed the Giver 
 
 For the gift He gave. 
 
 Came a cloud of sorrow 
 
 Rolling up the sky, 
 Came a mighty shadow, 
 
 Came a wailing cry ; 
 
 And with eyes of weeping, 
 
 Hearts bowed down with pain, 
 
 Looked we for the sunbeam ; 
 But we looked in vain. 
 
 Still the cloud is o'er us. 
 
 Still the gale is there ; 
 But it speaks no longer 
 
 Accents of despair. 
 
 For we know the sunbeam 
 
 Still is in the sky, 
 Though with beauty hidden 
 
 From the mortal eye ; 
 
 Still it beams in Heaven 
 But with brighter wave ; 
 
 Still we bless the Giver 
 For the gift He gave. 
 
( 154 ) 
 
 CAN A OF GALILEE. 
 
 It was but water from the well, 
 
 But they filled the pots to the brim. 
 The duty that the Master taught 
 They questioned not, but simply wrought, 
 Obedient unto Him. 
 
 Put thou no value on the gift. 
 
 Give freely that is thine ; 
 Unto the Master leave the rest : 
 Thine is but water at the best — 
 
 God turns it into wine. 
 
( 155 ) 
 
 THE LAND OF GOD'S DELIGHT. 
 
 I HEAR the angels whisper in the silent midnight air — 
 They tell me of another land where all is bright and 
 
 fair, 
 A land of rest from struggle, of triumph after fight, 
 A land of joy and rapture, the land of God's delight. 
 
 Oh, lovely is the springtime, when the corn is young 
 
 and green. 
 And the holy sunshine clothes the earth in robes of 
 
 glowing sheen ; 
 And glorious is the mighty sea, when winds and 
 
 tempest cease. 
 And her broad bosom seems to be the home of God's 
 
 own peace. 
 
 But lovelier far than any scene upon this world of 
 
 ours 
 Is the sea before the emerald throne and the sheen in 
 
 the heavenly bowers, 
 
156 THE LAND OF GOD'S DELIGHT. 
 
 And sweeter far than any note upraised by mortal 
 
 tongue 
 Is the glorious song of praises by ransomed voices 
 
 sung. 
 
 Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, nor human 
 
 lips can tell. 
 The blessings God hath treasured up for those who 
 
 love Him well ; 
 The bliss of those whom Christ Himself hath clothed 
 
 in robes of white, 
 Whose rest is found for ever in the land of God's 
 
 delight. 
 
( IS7 ) 
 
 THE ANSWER TO "THE LAND OF 
 
 LITTLE people:' BY F. E. 
 
 WE A THERLE Y. 
 
 Yes ; the land of little people is a lovelier land than 
 
 ours, 
 With its mines of new-found treasures, mossy glades, 
 
 and fairy bowers ; 
 Earth her robe of choicest beauty spreads to woo the 
 
 tender feet, 
 And the angels whispering round them thrill the air 
 
 with accents sweet. 
 Memory brings no pang of sorrow, troubles lightly 
 
 pass away ; 
 Hope's horizon is to-morrow, and the sun is bright 
 
 to-day ; 
 Every moment has its blessing, sweeter thoughts, and 
 
 fairer flowers. 
 Yes ; the land of little people is a lovelier land than 
 
 ours. 
 
158 THE ANSWER. 
 
 But from o'er the silent river comes to us a purer 
 
 glow — 
 Purer even than the sunbeams that the little people 
 
 know; 
 And the love-song of the heavens steals upon the 
 
 wearied ear, 
 Swe.eter than the angels' whispers that the little people 
 
 hear; 
 And the wanderer overstriven, humbled as a little 
 
 child, 
 Knows the past is all forgiven, and his God is 
 
 reconciled. 
 When around his faltering footsteps comes the blessing 
 
 of the dove, 
 From the fairest world of any, from the home of 
 
 peace and love. 
 
 Brighter are the rays of morning that the dread of 
 
 night is lost. 
 Dearer far the sheltering haven that the barque was 
 
 tempest tossed ; 
 And the simple child can never learn the beauty of 
 
 that shore 
 Where the gloom of sin hath rested, where it resteth 
 
 nevermore. 
 Weary feet may rest unsummoned, hopes downstricken 
 
 rise again. 
 And the rainbow's glories sparkle on the far-oif clouds 
 
 of pain ; 
 
THE ANSWER. 159 
 
 There are beauties aye unfading, gifts that Time can 
 
 ne'er recall, 
 For the country of the blessbd is the loveliest land 
 
 of all. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 4 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE Act t 
 
 Salar. My wind, cooling my broth, 
 
 Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
 What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 
 I should not see the sandy hour-glass run 
 But I should think of shallows and of flats. 
 And see my wealthy Andrew, dock'd in sand, 
 Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs ^j^ 
 
 To kiss her burial. Should I go to church 
 And see the holy edifice of stone. 
 And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks. 
 Which touching but my gentle vessel's side. 
 Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
 Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks. 
 And, in a word, but even now worth this, 
 And now worth nothing ? Shall I have the thought 
 To think on this, and shall I lack the thought 
 That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad ? 
 But tell not me : I know Antonio 
 Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 
 
 Ant. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for it, 
 My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, 
 Nor to one place j nor Is my whole estate 
 Upon the fortune of this present year : 
 Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 
 
 Salar. Why, then you are in love. 
 
 Ant. Fie, fie ! 
 
 Salar. Not in love neither ? Then let us say yon 
 are sad. 
 Because you are not merry ; and 'twere as easy 
 For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are merry, 
 Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed 
 
 Janus, 
 Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time : 
 Some that will evermore peep through their eyes 
 And laugh like parrots at a bag- piper ; 
 And other of such vinegar aspect 
 
 London :,iKEGAN .Paul, Trench & Co., i. Paternoster Square, 
 
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