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(From The Grave of the Last Saxon)
TIME has reft the shrine | |
| Where the last Saxon, canonizéd, lay, | |
| And every trace has vanished, like the light | |
| That from the high-arched eastern window fell, | |
| With broken sunshine on his marble tomb— | 5 |
| So have they passed; and silent are the choirs | |
| That to his spirit sang eternal rest; | |
| And scattered are his bones who raised those walls | |
| Where, from the field of blood slowly conveyed, | |
| His mangled corse, with torch and orison, | 10 |
| Before the altar and in holy earth | |
| Was laid! Yet oft I muse upon the theme; | |
| And now, whilst solemn the slow curfew tolls, | |
| Years and dim centuries seem to unfold | |
| Their shroud, as at the summons; and I think | 15 |
| How sad that sound on every English heart | |
| Smote, when along these darkening vales, where Lea | |
| Beneath the woods of Waltham winds, it broke | |
| First on the silence of the night, far heard | |
| Through the deep forest! Phantoms of the past, | 20 |
| Ye gather round me! Voices of the dead, | |
| Ye come by fits! And now I hear, far off, | |
| Faint Eleesons swell, whilst to the fane | |
| The long procession, and the pomp of death, | |
| Moves visible: and now one voice is heard | 25 |
| From a vast multitude, “Harold, farewell! | |
| Farewell, and rest in peace!” That sable car | |
| Bears the last Saxon to his grave; the last | |
| From Hengist, of the long illustrious line | |
| That swayed the English sceptre. Hark! a cry! | 30 |
| ’T is from his mother, who with frantic mien | |
| Follows the bier: with manly look composed, | |
| Godwin, his eldest-born, and Adela, | |
| Her head declined, her hand upon her brow | |
| Beneath the veil, supported by his arm, | 35 |
| Sorrowing succeed! Lo! pensive Edmund there | |
| Leads Wolfe, the least and youngest, by the hand! | |
| Brothers and sisters, silent and in tears, | |
| Follow their father to the dust, beneath | |
| Whose eye they grew. Last and alone, behold, | 40 |
| Magnus, subduing the deep sigh, with brow | |
| Of sterner acquiescence. Slowly pace | |
| The sad remains of England’s chivalry, | |
| The few whom Hastings’ field of carnage spared, | |
| To follow their slain monarch’s hearse this night, | 45 |
| Whose corse is borne beneath the escutcheoned pall, | |
| To rest in Waltham Abbey. So the train, | |
| Imagination thus embodies it, | |
| Moves onward to the abbey’s western porch, | |
| Whose windows and retiring aisles reflect | 50 |
| The long funereal lights. Twelve stoléd monks, | |
| Each with a torch, and pacing, two and two, | |
| Along the pillared nave, with crucifix | |
| Aloft, begin the supplicating chant, | |
| Intoning, “Miserere Domine.” * * * * * | 55 |
| One parting sunbeam yet upon the floor | |
| Rested,—it passed away, and darker gloom | |
| Was gathering in the aisles. Each footstep’s sound | |
| Was more distinctly heard, for all beside | |
| Was silent. Slow along the glimmering fane | 60 |
| They passed, like shadows risen from the tombs. | |
| The entrance door was closed, lest aught intrude | |
| Upon the sanctity of this sad hour. | |
| The inner choir they enter, part in shade | |
| And part in light, for now the rising moon | 65 |
| Began to glance upon the shrines and tombs | |
| And pillars. Trembling through the windows high, | |
| One beam, a moment, on that cold gray stone | |
| Is flung,—the word “Infelix” is scarce seen. | |
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