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forth among the Norman troops that Duke William was killed. Duke William took off his helmet, in order that his face might be distinctly seen, and rode along the line before his men. This gave them courage.

As they turned again to face the English, some of their Norman horse divided the pursuing body of the English from the rest, and thus all that foremost portion of the English army fell, fighting bravely. The main body still remaining firm, heedless of the Norman arrows, and with their battle-axes cutting down the crowds of horsemen when they rode up, like forests of young trees, Duke William pretended to retreat. The eager English followed. The Norman army closed again, and fell upon them with great slaughter.

"Still," said Duke William, "there are thousands of the English firm as rocks around their king. Shoot upward, Norman archers, that your arrows may fall down upon their faces!" The sun rose high and sank; and the battle still raged. Through all the wild October day, the clash and din resounded in the air. In the red sunset, and in the white moonlight, heaps upon heaps of dead men lay strewn, a dreadful spectacle, all over the ground.

King Harold, wounded with an arrow in the eye, was nearly blind. His brothers were already killed. Twenty Norman knights, whose battered armor had flashed fiery and golden in the sunshine all day long, and now looked silvery in the moonlight, dashed forward to seize the royal banner from the English knights and soldiers, still faithfully collected round their blinded

king. The king received a mortal wound and dropped. The English broke and fled as the Normans rallied, and the day was lost.

O, what a sight beneath the moon and stars, when lights were shining in the tent of the victorious Duke William, — which was pitched near the spot where Harold fell, and he and his knights were carousing within; and soldiers with torches, going slowly to and fro, without, sought for the corpse of Harold among piles of dead; and the warrior, worked in golden thread and precious stones, lay low, all torn and soiled with blood; and the three Norman Lions kept watch over the field!

KING HAROLD'S SPEECH TO HIS ARMY BEFORE THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

THIS day, O friends and Englishmen, sons of our common land—this day ye fight for liberty. The count of the Normans hath, I know, a mighty army; I disguise not its strength. That army he hath collected together by promising to each man a share in the spoils of England. Already, in his court and his camp, he hath parcelled out the lands of this kingdom; and fierce are the robbers that fight for the hope of plunder! But he cannot offer to his greatest chief boons nobler than those I offer to my meanest freeman— - liberty, and right, and law, on the soil of his fathers!

Ye have heard of the miseries endured, in the old

time, under the Dane; but they were slight indeed to those which ye may expect from the Norman. The Dane was kindred to us in language and in law, and who now can tell Saxon from Dane? But yon men would rule ye in a language ye know not; by a law that claims the crown as the right of the sword, and divides the land among the hirelings of an army. We baptized the Dane, and the church tamed his fierce soul into peace; but yon men make the church itself their ally, and march to carnage under the banner profaned to the foulest of human wrongs!

Offscourings of all nations, they come against you: ye fight as brothers under the eyes of your fathers and chosen chiefs; ye fight for the women ye would save; ye fight for the children ye would guard from eternal bondage; ye fight for the altars which yon banner now darkens! Foreign priest is a tyrant as ruthless and stern as ye shall find foreign baron and king!

Let no men dream of retreat; every inch of ground that ye yield is the soil of your native land. For me, on this field I peril all. Think that mine eye is upon you, wherever ye are. If a line waver or shrink, ye shall hear in the midst the voice of your king. Hold fast to your ranks. Remember, such among you as fought with me against Hardrada — remember it was not till the Norsemen lost, by rash sallies, their serried array, that our arms prevailed against them! Be warned by their fatal error, break not the form of the battle; and I tell you, on the faith of a soldier, who never yet hath left field without victory, that ye cannot

be beaten. While I speak, the wind swells the sails of the Norse ships, bearing home the corpse of Hardrada.

Accomplish, this day, the last triumph of England; add to these hills a new mount of the conquered dead! And when, in far times and strange lands, scald and scop shall praise the brave man for some valiant deed, wrought in some holy cause, they shall say: “He was brave as those who fought by the side of Harold, and swept from the sward of England the host of the haughty Norman !"

SIR GALAHAD.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel :

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favors fall!

For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall:

But all

my heart is drawn above,

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love,

Nor maiden's hand in mine.

More bounteous aspects on me beam,

Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair through faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims.
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns:

Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice, but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.

Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chants resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;

I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail.

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