Hastings Battle-field
The Abbot of Waltham deeply sigh’d
When he heard the tragical story
That Harold the king had lost his life
On Hastings battle-field gory.
Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik, he
As messengers then selected,
To seek at Hastings amongst the dead
For Harold’s body neglected.
The monks went forth with sorrowing hearts,
And return’d with faces averted:
“O Father, the world goes wrong with us now,
“We seem by Fortune deserted.
“The better man has fallen in fight,
“O’ercome by that bastard demon;
“Arm’d thieves amongst them divide the land,
“And make a slave of the freeman.
“The veriest rascal in Normandy now
“Is lord of the island of Britain;
“A tailor from Bayeux with golden spurs
“We saw as gay as a kitten.
“Woe, woe to the man of Saxon birth!
“Ye Saxon sainted ones even,
“Ye had better take care, ye’re not safe from disgrace,
“E’en now in the kingdom of heaven.
“The meaning now we can understand
“Of the blood-red comet which lately
“On a broomstick of fire rode through the sky
“One night, and astonish’d us greatly.
“At Hastings there was realized
“The evil star’s prediction;
“Amongst the dead on the battle-field there
“We sought with deep affliction.
“Till every hope had disappear’d
“We sought in each direction;
“The corpse of King Harold, we grieve to say,
“Escaped our close inspection.”
’Twas thus that Asgod and Ailrik spoke;
His hands wrung the Abbot, while moan’d he
Then sank in deep thought, and finally said,
As heavily sigh’d and groan’d he:
“At Grendelfield, by the bards’ old stone,
“In a hut in the forest, is dwelling
“Her whom they Edith the Swanneck call,
“In beauty once so excelling.
“They call’d her Edith the Swanneck erst,
“Because her neck in its splendour
“Resembled the neck of the swan; the king
“Loved the maid with affection tender.
“He loved, kiss’d, fondled her long, and then
“Forgot, like a faithless lover;
Time’s fleeting on, full sixteen years
“Have since those days pass’d over.
“Now, brethren, go to this woman straight,
“And bid her return with you quickly
“To Hastings; her eye will discover the king
“‘Mid the corpses scatter’d so thickly.
“And when you have found his body, with speed
“To Waltham Abbey transfer him,
“That we for his soul due masses may sing,
“And like a Christian inter him.”
At midnight’s hour the messengers reach’d
The hut in the forest, saying:
“Awake, O Edith the Swanneck, awake,
“And follow without delaying.
“The Duke of the Normans as victor hath come,
“And the routed Saxons are flying,
“And on the field of Hastings the corpse
“Of Harold the King is lying.
“Come with us to Hastings, we’re seeking there
“The body beneath the dead hidden,
“To bring it to Waltham Abbey with care,
“As we by the Abbot are bidden.”
Then Edith the Swanneck girded herself,
And not one word she utter’d,
But follow’d the monks, while her grizzly hair
In the wind all wildly flutter’d.
The poor woman follow’d with naked feet,
And through marsh, wood, and briar on hied they,
Till the chalky cliffs on the Hastings coast
At the dawning of day descried they.
The mist, which like a snowy veil,
The battle-field was cloaking,
Dispersed by degrees; the noisy daws
Were flapping their wings and croaking.
Many thousand corpses were lying there
On the earth with blood bespatter’d,
Stripp’d naked, and mangled, with many a steed
Among the carcases scatter’d.
Poor Edith the Swanneck in the blood
With naked feet now waded;
No single spot the searching glance
Of her piercing eye evaded.
Both here and there she sought, and she oft
Had to scare away the devouring
Black troop of ravens that prey’d on the dead;
The monks behind her were cowering.
She sought throughout the livelong day,
Till the shades of the evening were falling;
When out of the poor woman’s breast there burst
A shriek both wild and appalling.
For Edith the Swanneck had found at last
The corpse of the king, poor creature!
No word she utter’d, no tear she wept,
She kiss’d each pallid feature.
She kiss’d his forehead, she kiss’d his mouth,
Her arms encircled him tightly;
She kiss’d the bloody breast of the king,
Disfigured by wounds unsightly.
Upon his shoulder she likewise spied,—
And cover’d them over with kisses,—
Three little scars that her teeth had made,
The signs of their former blisses.
And in the meantime the pair of monks
Some branches of trees collected;
These form’d the bier, on which they bore
The body, with hearts dejected.
To Waltham Abbey the body they took,
To bury it rightly and duly,
And Edith the Swanneck follow’d the corpse
Of him she had loved so truly.
The litanies for the dead she sang
In childlike pious fashion,
And in the night they fearfully rang,—
The monks pray’d, full of compassion.