At the Conqueror's side,
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide;
And they chanted the deeds of Roland.
Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires, And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshalled our chivalry's sires.
On each turf of that mead,
Stood the captors of England's domains, That ennobled her breed
And high-mettled the blood of her veins.
Over hauberk and helm,
As the sun's setting splendor was thrown, Thence they looked over a realm,—
And to-morrow beheld it their own.
In a volume of verse entitled " The Ancoat's
Skylark," by the writer of the present volume, will
be found a sonnet on " A high tide at Hastings."
A thousand wavelets and a thousand waves, That leap and strive with never-ceasing roar And sing incessant o'er the pebbly shore A song of wrecks and myriad ocean graves.
The sea leaps forward like a soul that craves The full fruition that comes nevermore. The moon—as in the primal days of yore— Rains liquid music on the sombre waves.
The rushing waters headlong onward dash Against the strong sea-wall, in endless fret, And hurled aloft in many a futile jet, Fall back repulsed from their endeavour rash.