Ode: The Death of Harold

Fly, ye Base, at William's call!
Abject seek his crouded hall!
Thyra weeps her Harold slain,
Who with Thyra dares remain?
Beauteous Editha is there,
With neck of swan, and raven hair,
Mangled by the spear and sword
Well She knew her much-loved Lord.
Stripp'd amid the vulgar crew
She her much-lov'd Harold knew.
Waltham sees his tomb arise,
Waltham marks her echoing sighs.
Down her cheeks the pearly tear
Drops from sorrow's spring sincere.
Who with her will mourn the slain?
Who with misery dares remain?

Near her, generous Algar stands,
He detests the selfish bands,
Slaves, who when misfortune lowers,
Fly to pleasure's rosy bowers.
Minstrel He, of liberal soul
Oft had tasted Harold's bowl;
In the Abbey's darkling cells
Now with her and Thyra dwells.
Pour thy praises on his herse!
Pour for him th' emphatic verse!
Let the strain of music flow,
Soothe a Wife's, a Mother's woe!
O'er the harp his fingers stray,
Thus the Bard attunes his lay.

While the Sun enthroned on high,
Matchless ruler of the sky,
Shakes his radiant locks unbound,
Darting streams of brightness round;
While the purest rays are shed
On our Harold's sacred head;
While beneath his feet arise
Flowerets of a thousand dies;
While the laurel shades his brow,
While his willing subjects bow,
Proud his mandates to obey,
Freedom join'd with kingly sway.
Why those mists of pitchy night
Rolling horrid to my sight?
Why with dreadful force upsprings
The gloomy storm on Dragon wings?
From yonder coast the clouds ascend!
Hither! hither! lo! they bend!
Wreathe involving wreathe, they sweep
Aweful o'er the groaning deep.
Wide-disclosed, at once, their womb—
Navies, numerous navies come!
Fraught with war, with fury dire,
Treachery close, and raging ire.
Shouts, and clashing arms I hear,
Shrilling trumpets pierce my ear.
Lances bristling thick I view,
Swords, and bows of toughest yew.
Warriors samed for prowest deeds,
Spear-men bold, and fiery steeds.
Fierce with hope, with grasping mind,
Europe's various realms combined
Speed their Legions o'er the sea,
This devoted Isle their prey.
Who directs the battle's tide?
Norman William's lawless pride.
Oh! holy Father, could'st Thou see
How ill his thoughts and words agree,
His murmuring conscience could'st Thou hear,
Did his treason dark appear,
Thy standard would not there unfold
It's consecrated web of gold:
Nor would thy plains, O Sussex! feel
His horses' hoofs, and ponderous steel.

Haste, Harold! wherefore this delay?
Again to contest urge thy way!
From the fields of battle haste,
With Norweïan trophies graced.
From York's high towers, and Derwent's floo
Streaming warm with Danish blood.
Where sunk the fair-hair'd King in night,
And vengeful Tosto's rebel might.
He comes, prepared the storm to meet,
With glowing bosom, eager feet,
His limbs by new-born victory drest,
On his helm her eagle crest,
Wondering Hosts behold him move,
Striking terror, claiming love.

Prepare! the feast of mirth prepare!
Their's be it's joys who bravely dare!
Waken music's sprightly sound,
Push the sparkling flagon round;
'Tis our nuptial feast we spread,
Death, or Glory, bound to wed.

With the morn his armour shines,
Glittering thro the closing lines.
Who, my Prince! thy words can trace,
Their rapid ardour, native grace?
Thy exalted mien to paint
All the powers of song are faint.
I beheld the glances fly,
Th' enkindling transports of his eye.
I beheld the beams which play'd,
Beams of glory, round his head.
On him we fix'd our raptured sight,
And trod the crimson paths of fight.

Who thy actions can record?
Who thy slaughter-dealing sword?
Who, my Prince! thy blood-stain'd course?
Who thy unexampled force?
Who thy Heroes firm and strong?
Wither'd are the powers of song.

Met they cowards on the plain?
The Prime of Europe strove in vain.
Pierced with many a mortal wound,
Bathed in gore they strew'd the ground.
Wedged secure on every side,
Who our Phalanx can divide?
William's cheeks are pale with fear,
The frosty ensigns of despair.

Fiends of Hell! by your decree,
Wild, fictitious rout I see.
Fiends of Hell! your arts supplied
What valour's utmost toil denied.

Whose banner waves on yonder hill!
His shouts arise, intrepid still;
Round him throng th' unvanquisht bands,
For there, intrepid, Harold stands.
His look, his voice, with warm desire
The dastard's bosom might inspire
The flaming falchion high to wield,
And litigate th' uncertain field.

The Norman trembles thus to view
The cloud distent with sanguine dew,
The tempest fraught with death He dreads,
Terrific gathering o'er their heads.
I saw the barbed arrows fly
Innumerous thro the darken'd sky,
The closer war He dared not wage,
Nor tempt again the Lion's rage.

Curst be the Bender of the bow
Which laid undaunted Harold low!
And curst the shaft athirst for blood
Which slew the young, the brave, the good!
With him I saw, extinct her fire,
Deep-wounded, Liberty expire.
I saw th' Usurper's rigid smile,
Elate He seized the prostrate Isle,
His sweepy mace oppression bore,
And Slavery clank'd her chains before.

Fly ye Base! attend his call!
Abject seek his crouded hall!
Be it mine to weep the slain,
Mine with misery to remain,
Bid th' harmonious numbers flow,
And soothe a wife's, a mother's woe.