Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529311" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Battle Of Hastings - I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O CHRYSTE, it is a grief for me to tell;<br>HOW manie a nobil erle and valrous knyghte<br>In fyghtynge for Kynge Harrold noblie fell,<br>Al sleyne in Hastyngs feeld in bloudie fyghte.<br>O sea! our teeming donore han thy floude,<br>Han anie fructuous entendement,<br>Thou wouldst have rose and sank wyth tydes of bloude,<br>Before Duke Wyllyam's knyghts han hither went;<br>Whose cowart arrows manie erles sleyne,<br>And brued the feeld wyth bloude as season rayne. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And of his knyghtes did eke full manie die,<br>All passyng hie, of mickle myghte echone,<br>Whose poygnant arrowes, typp'd with destynie,<br>Caus'd manie wydowes to make myckle mone.<br>Lordynges, avaunt, that chycken-harted are,<br>From out of hearynge quicklie now deparle;<br>Full well I wote, to synge of bloudie warre<br>Will greeve your tenderlie and mayden harte.<br>Go, do the weaklie womman inn mann's geare,<br>And scond your mansion if grymm war come there. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Soone as the erlie maten belle was tolde,<br>And sonne was come to byd us all good daie,<br>Bothe armies on the feeld, both brave and bolde,<br>Prepar'd for fyghte in champyon arraie.<br>As when two bulles, destynde for Hocktide fyghte,<br>Are yoked bie the necke within a sparre,<br>Theie rend the erthe, and travellyrs affryghte,<br>Lackynge to gage the sportive bloudie warre;<br>Soe lacked Harroldes menne to come to blowes,<br>The Normans lacked for to wielde their bowes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Kynge Harrolde turnynge to hys leegemen spake;<br>My merrie men, be not caste downe in mynde;<br>Your onlie lode for aye to mar or make,<br>Before yon sunne has donde his welke, you'll fynde.<br>Your lovyng wife, who erst dyd rid the londe<br>Of Lurdanes, and the treasure that you han,<br>Wyll falle into the Normanne robber's honde,<br>Unlesse with honde and harte you plaie the manne.<br>Cheer up youre hartes, chase sorrowe farre awaie,<br>Godde and Seyncte Cuthbert be the worde to daie. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And thenne Duke Wyllyam to his knyghtes did saie;<br>My merrie menne, be bravelie everiche;<br>Gif I do gayn the honore of the daie,<br>Ech one of you I will make myckle riche.<br>Beer you in mynde, we for a kyngdomm fyghte;<br>Lordshippes and honores echone shall possesse;<br>Be this the worde to daie, God and my Ryghte;<br>Ne doubte but God will oure true cause blesse.<br>The clarions then sounded sharpe and shrille;<br>Deathdoeynge blades were out intent to kille. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And brave Kyng Harrolde had nowe donde hys saie;<br>He threwe wythe myghte amayne hys shorte horse-spear,<br>The noise it made the duke to turn awaie,<br>And hytt his knyghte, de Beque, upon the ear.<br>His cristede beaver dyd him smalle abounde; <br>The cruel spear went thorough all his hede;<br>The purpel blonde came goushynge to the ground;<br>And at Duke Wyllyam's feet he tumbled deade:<br>So fell the myghtie tower of Standrip, whenne<br>It felte the furie of the Danish menne. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Afflem, son of Cuthbert, holie Sayncte,<br>Come ayde thy freend, and shewe Duke Wyllyams payne;<br>Take up thy pencyl, all hys features paincte;<br>Thy coloryng excells a synger strayne.<br>Duke Wyllyam sawe hys freende sleyne piteouslie,<br>Hys lovynge freende whome he muche honored,<br>For he han lovd hym from puerilitie,<br>And theie together bothe han bin ybred:<br>O! in Duke Wyllyam's harte it raysde a flame,<br>To whiche the rage of emptie wolves is tame. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He tooke a brasen crosse-bowe in his honde,<br>And drewe it harde with all hys myghte amein,<br>Ne doubtyng but the bravest in the londe<br>Han by his soundynge arrowe-lede bene sleyne.<br>Alured's stede, the fynest stede alive,<br>Bye comelie forme knowlached from the rest;<br>But nowe his destind howre did aryve,<br>The arrowe hyt upon his milkwhite breste.<br>So have I seen a ladie-smock soe white,<br>Blown in the mornynge, and mowd downe at night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">With thilk a force it dyd his bodie gore,<br>That in his tender guttes it entered,<br>In veritee a fulle clothe yarde or more,<br>And downe with flaiten noyse he sunken dede <br>Brave Alured, benethe his faithfull horse,<br>Was smeerd all over withe the gorie duste,<br>And on hym laie the recer's lukewarme corse,<br>That Alured coulde not hymself aluste.<br>The standyng Normans drew theyr bowe echone,<br>And broght full manie Englysh champyons downe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Normans kept aloofe, at distaunce stylle,<br>The Englysh nete but short horse-spears could welde;<br>The Englysh manie dethe-sure dartes did kille,<br>And manie arrowes twang'd upon the sheelde.<br>Kynge Haroldes knyghts desir'de for hendie stroke,<br>And marched furious o'er the bloudie pleyne,<br>In bodie close, and made the pleyne to smoke;<br>Theire sheelds rebounded arrowes back agayne.<br>The Normans stode aloof; nor hede the same,<br>Their arrowes woulde do dethe, tho' from far of they came. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Duke Wyllyam drewe agen hys arrowe strynge,<br>An arrowe withe a sylver-hede drewe he;<br>The arrowe dauncynge in the ayre dyd synge,<br>And hytt the horse of Tosselyn on the knee.<br>At this brave Tosslyn threwe his short horse-speare;<br>Duke Wyllyam stooped to avoyde the blowe;<br>The yrone weapon hummed in his eare,<br>And hitte Sir Doullie Naibor on the prowe.<br>Upon his helme foe surious was the stroke,<br>It splete his bever, and the ryvets broke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Downe fell the beaver by Tosslyn splete in tweine,<br>And onn his hede expos'd a punie wounde,<br>But on Destoutvilles sholder came ameine,<br>And fell'd the champyon to the bloudie grounde.<br>Then Doullie myghte his bowestrynge drewe,<br>Enthoughte to gyve brave Tosslyn bloudie wounde,<br>But Harolde's asenglave stopp'd it as it flewe,<br>And it fell bootless on the bloudie grounde.<br>Siere Doullie, when he sawe hys venge thus broke,<br>Death-doynge blade from out the scabard toke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now the battail closde on everych syde,<br>And face to face appeard the knyghts full brave;<br>They lifted up theire bylles with myckle pryde,<br>And manie woundes unto the Normans gave.<br>So have I sene two weirs at once give grounde,<br>White fomyng hygh to rorynge combat runne;<br>In roaryng dyn and heaven-breaking sounde,<br>Burste waves on waves, and spangle in the sunne;<br>And when their myghte in burstynge waves is fled,<br>Like cowards, stele alonge their ozy bede. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yonge Egelrede, a knyghte of comelie mien,<br>Affynd unto the kynge of Dynefarre,<br>At echone tylte and tourney he was seene,<br>And lov'd to be amonge the bloudie warre;<br>He couch'd hys launce, and ran wyth mickle myghte<br>Ageinste the brest of Sieur de Bonoboe;<br>He grond and sunken on the place of fyghte,<br>O Chryste! to fele his wounde, his harte was woe.<br>Ten thousand thoughtes push'd in upon his mynde,<br>Not for hymself, but those he left behynde. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He dy'd and leffed wyfe and chyldren tweine,<br>Whom he wyth cheryshment did dearlie love;<br>In England's court, in goode Kynge Edwarde's regne,<br>He wonne the tylte, and ware her crymson glove;<br>And thence unto the place where he was borne,<br>Together with hys welthe & better wyfe,<br>To Normandie he dyd perdie returne,<br>In peace and quietnesse to lead his lyfe;<br>And now with sovrayn Wyllyam he came,<br>To die in battel, or get welthe and fame. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, swefte as lyghtnynge, Egelredus set<br>Agaynst du Barlie of the mounten head;<br>In his dere hartes bloude his longe launce was wett,<br>And from his courser down he tumbled dede.<br>So have I sene a mountayne oak, that longe<br>Has caste his shadowe to the mountayne syde,<br>Brave all the wyndes, tho' ever they so stronge,<br>And view the briers belowe with self-taught pride;<br>But, whan throwne downe by mightie thunder stroke,<br>He'de rather bee a bryer than an oke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then Egelred dyd in a declynie<br>Hys launce uprere with all hys myghte ameine,<br>And strok Fitzport upon the dexter eye,<br>And at his pole the spear came out agayne.<br>Butt as he drewe it forthe, an arrowe fledde<br>Wyth mickle myght lent from de Tracy's bowe,<br>And at hys syde the arrowe entered,<br>And oute the crymson streme of bloude gan flowe;<br>In purple strekes it dyd his armer staine,<br>And smok'd in puddles on the dustie plaine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But Egelred, before he sunken downe,<br>With all his myghte amein his spear besped,<br>It hytte Bertrammil Manne upon the crowne,<br>And bothe together quicklie sunken dede.<br>So have I seen a roche o'er others hang;<br>Who stronglie plac'd laughde at his slippry state,<br>But when he falls with heaven-peercynge bange<br>That he the sleeve unravels all theire fate,<br>And broken onn the beech thys lesson speak,<br>The stronge and firme should not defame the weake. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Howel ap Jevah came from Matraval,<br>Where he by chaunce han slayne a noble's son,<br>And now was come to fyghte at Harold's call,<br>And in the battel he much goode han done;<br>Unto Kyng Harold he foughte mickle near,<br>For he was yeoman of the bodie guard;<br>And with a targyt and a fyghtyng spear,<br>He of his boddie han kepte watch and ward<br>True as a shadow to a substant thynge,<br>So true he guarded Harold hys good kynge. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when Egelred tumbled to the grounde,<br>He from Kynge Harolde quicklie dyd advaunce,<br>And strooke de Tracie thilk a crewel wounde,<br>Hys harte and lever came out on the launce.<br>And then retreted for to guarde his kynge,<br>On dented launce he bore the harte awaie;<br>An arrowe came from Auffroie Griel's strynge,<br>Into hys heele betwyxt hys yron staie;<br>The grey-goose pynion, that thereon was sett,<br>Eftsoons wyth stnokyng crymson blond was wett. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His bloude at this was waxen flaminge hotte,<br>Without adoe he turned once agayne,<br>And hytt de Griel thilk a blowe, God wote,<br>Maugre hys helm, he splete his hede in twayne.<br>This Auffroie was a manne of mickle pryde,<br>Whose featliest bewty ladden in his face;<br>His chaunce in warr he ne before han tryde,<br>But lyv'd in love and Rosaline's embrace;<br>And like a useless weede amonge the haie<br>Amonge the sleine warriours Griel laie. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Kynge Harolde then he putt his yeomen bie,<br>And ferslie ryd into the bloudie fyghte;<br>Erle Ethelwolf, and Goodrick, and Alfie,<br>Cuthbert, and Goddard, mical menne of myghte,<br>Ethelwin, Ethelbert, and Edwyn too,<br>Effred the famous, and Erle Ethelwarde,<br>Kynge Harolde's leegemenn, erlies hie and true,<br>Rode after hym, his bodie for to guarde;<br>The reste of erlies, fyghtynge other wheres,<br>Stained with Norman bloude theire fyghtynge speres. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As when some ryver with the season raynes<br>White fomynge hie doth breke the bridges oft,<br>Oerturns the hamelet and all conteins,<br>And layeth oer the hylls a muddie soft;<br>So Harold ranne upon his Normanne foes.<br>And layde the greate and small upon the grounde,<br>And delte among them thilke a store of blowes,<br>Full manie a Normanne fell by him dede wounde;<br>So who he be that ouphant faieries strike,<br>Their soules will wander to Kynge Offa's dyke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fitz Salnarville, Duke William's favourite knyghte,<br>To noble Edelwarde his life dyd yielde;<br>Withe hys tylte launce hee stroke with thilk a myghte,<br>The Norman's bowels steemde upon the feeld.<br>Old Salnarville beheld hys son lie ded,<br>Against Erle Edelward his bowe-strynge drewe;<br>But Harold at one blowe made tweine his head;<br>He dy'd before the poignant arrowe slew.<br>So was the hope of all the issue gone,<br>And in one battle fell the sire and son. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">De Aubignee rod fercely thro' the fyghte,<br>To where the boddie of Salnarville laie;<br>Quod he; And art thou ded, thou manne of myghte?<br>I'll be revengd, or die for thee this daie.<br>Die then thou shalt, Erle Ethelwarde he said;<br>I am a cunnynge Erle, and that can tell;<br>Then drewe hys swerde, and ghastlie cut hys hede,<br>And on his freend eftsoons he lifeless fell,<br>Stretch'd on the bloudie pleyne; great God forefend,<br>It be the fate of no such trustie freende! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then Egwin Sieur Pikeny did attaque;<br>He turned aboute and vilely souten flie;<br>But Egwyn cutt so deepe into his backe,<br>He rolled on the grounde and soon dyd die.<br>His distant sonne, Sire Romara de Biere,<br>Soughte to revenge his fallen kynsman's lote,<br>But soone Erle Cuthbert's dented fyghtyng spear<br>Stucke in his harte, and stayd his speed, God wote.<br>He tumbled downe close by hys kynsman's syde,<br>Myngle their stremes of pourple bloude, and dy'd. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now an arrowe from a bowe unwote<br>Into Erle Cuthbert's harte eftsoons dyd flee;<br>Who dying sayd; ah me! how hard my lote!<br>Now slayne, mayhap, of one of lowe degree.<br>So have I seen a leafie elm of yore<br>Have been the pride and glorie of the pleine;<br>But, when the spendyng landlord is growne poore,<br>It falls benethe the axe of some rude sweine;<br>And like the oke, the sovran of the woode,<br>It's fallen boddie tells you how it stoode. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Edelward perceevd Erle Cuthbert die,<br>On Hubert strongest of the Normanne crewe,<br>As wolfs when hungred on the cattel flie,<br>So Edelward amaine upon him slewe.<br>With thilk a force he hyt hym to the grounde;<br>And was demasing howe to take his life,<br>When he behynde received a ghastlie wounde<br>Gyven by de Torcie, with a stabbyng knyfe;<br>Base trecherous Normannes, if such actes you doe,<br>The conquer'd maie clame victorie of you. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The erlie felt de Torcie's trecherous knyfe<br>Han made his crymson bloude and spirits floe;<br>And knowlachyng he soon must quyt this lyfe,<br>Resolved Hubert should too with hym goe.<br>He held hys trustie swerd against his breste,<br>And down he fell, and peerc'd him to the harte;<br>And both together then did take their reste,<br>Their soules from corpses unaknell'd depart;<br>And both together soughte the unknown shore,<br>Where we shall goe, where manie's gon before. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Kynge Harolde Torcie's trechery dyd spie,<br>And hie alofe his temper'd swerde dyd welde,<br>Cut offe his arm; and made the bloude to flie,<br>His proofe steel armoure did him littel sheelde;<br>And not contente, he splete his hede in twaine,<br>And down he tumbled on the bloudie grounde;<br>Mean while the other erlies on the playne<br>Gave and received manie a bloudie wounde,<br>Such as the arts in warre han learnt with care,<br>But manie knyghtes were women in men's geer. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Herrewald, borne on Sarim's spreddyng plaine,<br>Where Thor's fam'd temple manie ages stoode;<br>Where Druids, auncient preests, did ryghtes ordaine,<br>And in the middle shed the victyms bloude;<br>Where auncient Bards dyd their verses synge<br>Of Cæsar conquer'd, and his mighty hoste,<br>And how old Tynyan, necromancing kynge,<br>Wreck'd all hys shyppyng on the Brittish coaste,<br>And made hym in his tatter'd barks to flie,<br>'Till Tynyan's dethe and opportunity. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">To make it more renomed than before,<br>(I, tho a Saxon, yet the truthe will telle)<br>The Saxonnes steynd the place wyth Brittish gore,<br>Where nete but bloud of sacrifices felle.<br>Tho' Chrystians, stylle they thoghte mouche of the pile,<br>And here theie mett when causes dyd it neede;<br>'Twas here the auncient Elders of the Isle<br>Dyd by the trecherie of Hengist bleede;<br>O Hengist! han thy cause bin good and true,<br>Thou wouldst such murdrous acts as these eschew. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The erlie was a manne of hie degree,<br>And han that daie full manie Normannes sleine;<br>Three Norman Champyons of hie degree<br>He lefte to smoke upon the bloudie pleine.<br>The Sier Fitzbotevilleine did then advaunce,<br>And with his bowe he smote the erlies hede;<br>Who eftsoons gored hym with his tylting launce,<br>And at his horses feet he tumbled dede.<br>His partyng spirit hovered o'er the floude<br>Of soddayne roushynge mouche lov'd pourple bloude. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">De Viponte then, a squier of low degree,<br>An arrowe drewe with all his myghte ameine;<br>The arrowe graz'd upon the erlies knee,<br>A punie wounde, that causd but littel peine.<br>So have I seene a Dolthead place a stone,<br>Enthoghte to staie a driving rivers course;<br>But better han it bin to lett alone,<br>It onlie drives it on with mickle force;<br>The erlie, wounded by so base a hynde,<br>Rays'd furyous doyngs in his noble mynde. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Siere Chatillion, yonger of that name,<br>Advaunced next before the erlie's syghte;<br>His fader was a manne of mickle fame,<br>And he renomde and valorous in fyghte.<br>Chatillion his trustie swerd forth drew;<br>The Erle drawes his, menne both of mickle myghte;<br>And at eche other vengouslie they flewe,<br>As mastie dogs at Hocktide set to fyghte;<br>Bothe scornd to yeelde, and bothe abhor'de to flie,<br>Resolv'd to vanquishe, or resolv'd to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Chatillion hyt the erlie on the hede,<br>Thatt splytte eftsoons his cristed helm in twayne;<br>Whiche he perforce withe target covered,<br>And to the battel went with myghte ameine.<br>The erlie hytte Chatillion thilke a blowe<br>Upon his breste, his harte was plein to see;<br>He tumbled at the horses feet alsoe,<br>And in dethe panges he seez'd the recer's knee.<br>Faste as the ivy rounde the oke doth clymbe,<br>So faste he dying gryp'd the recer's lymbe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The recer then beganne to flynge and kicke,<br>And toste the erlie farr off to the grounde;<br>The erlie's squier then a swerde did sticke<br>Into his harte, a dedlie ghastlie wounde;<br>And downe he felle upon the crymson pleine,<br>Upon Chatillion's soulless corse of claie;<br>A puddlie streme of bloude flow'd oute ameine;<br>Stretch'd out at length besmer'd with gore he laie;<br>As some tall oke fell'd from the greenie plaine,<br>To live a second time upon the main. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The erlie nowe an horse and beaver han,<br>And nowe agayne appered on the feeld;<br>And manie a mickle knyghte and mightie manne<br>To his dethe-doyng swerd his life did yeeld;<br>When Siere de Broque an arrowe longe lett flie,<br>Intending Herewaldus to have sleyne;<br>It miss'd; butt hytte Edardus on the eye,<br>And at his pole came out with horrid payne.<br>Edardus felle upon the bloudie grounde,<br>His noble soule came roushyng from the wounde. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thys Herewald perceevd, and full of ire<br>He on the Siere de Broque with furie came;<br>Quod he; thou'st slaughtred my beloved squier,<br>But I will be revenged for the same.<br>Into his bowels then his launce he thruste,<br>And drew thereout a steemie drerie lode;<br>Quod he; these offals are for ever curst,<br>Shall serve the choughs, and rooks, and dawes, for foode.<br>Then on the pleine the steemie lode hee throwde,<br>Smokynge wyth lyfe, and dy'd with crymson bloude. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fitz Broque, who saw his father killen lie,<br>Ah me! sayde he; what woeful syghte I seel<br>But now I must do somethyng more than sighe;<br>And then an arrowe from the bowe drew he.<br>Beneth the erlie's navil came the darte;<br>Fitz Broque on foote han drawne it from the bowe;<br>And upwards went into the erlie's harte,<br>And out the crymson streme of bloude 'gan flowe.<br>As fromm a hatch, drawne with a vehement geir,<br>White rushe the burstynge waves, and roar along the weir. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Erle with one honde grasp'd the recer's mayne,<br>And with the other he his launce besped;<br>And then felle bleedyng on the bloudie plaine.<br>His launce it hytte Fitz Broque upon the hede;<br>Upon his hede it made a wounde full slyghte,<br>But peerc'd his shoulder, ghastlie wounde inferne,<br>Before his optics daunced a shade of nyghte,<br>Whyche soone were closed ynn a sleepe eterne.<br>The noble erlie than, withote a grone,<br>Took flyghte, to fynde the regyons unknowne. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Brave Alured from binethe his noble horse<br>Was gotten on his leggs, with bloude all smore;<br>And now eletten on another horse,<br>Eftsoons he withe his launce did manie gore.<br>The cowart Norman knyghtes before hym fledde,<br>And from a distaunce sent their arrowes keene;<br>But noe such destinie awaits his hedde,<br>As to be sleyen by a wighte so meene.<br>Tho oft the oke falls by the villen's shock,<br>'Tys moe than hyndes can do, to move the rock. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon du Chatelet he ferselie sett,<br>And peerc'd his bodie with a force full grete;<br>The asenglave of his tylt-launce was wett,<br>The rollynge bloude alonge the launce did fleet.<br>Advauncynge, as a mastie at a bull,<br>He rann his launce into Fitz Warren's harte;<br>From Partaies bowe, a wight unmercifull,<br>Within his owne he felt a cruel darte;<br>Close by the Norman champyons he han sleine,<br>He fell; and mixd his bloude with theirs upon the pleine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Erle Ethelbert then hove, with clinie just,<br>A launce, that stroke Partaie upon the thighe,<br>And pinn'd him downe unto the gorie duste;<br>Cruel, quod he, thou cruellie shalt die.<br>With that his launce he enterd at his throte;<br>He scritch'd and screem'd in melancholie mood;<br>And at his backe eftsoons came out, God wote,<br>And after it a crymson streme of bloude.<br>In agonie and peine he there dyd lie,<br>While life and dethe strove for the masterrie, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He gryped hard the bloudie murdring launce,<br>And in a grone he left this mortel lyfe.<br>Behynde the erlie Fiscampe did advaunce,<br>Bethoghte to kill him with a stabbynge knife;<br>But Egward, who perceevd his fowle intent,<br>Eftsoons his trustie swerde he forthwyth drewe,<br>And thilke a cruel blowe to Fiscampe sent,<br>That soule and bodie's bloude at one gate flewe.<br>Thilk deeds do all deserve, whose deeds so fowle<br>Will black theire earthlie name, if not their soule. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When lo! an arrowe from Walleris honde,<br>Winged with fate and dethe daunced alonge;<br>And slewe the noble flower of Powyslonde,<br>Howel ap Jevah, who yclepd the stronge.<br>Whan he the first mischaunce received han,<br>With horsemans haste he from the armie rodde;<br>And did repaire unto the cunnynge manne,<br>Who sange a charme, that dyd it mickle goode;<br>Then praid Seyncte Cuthbert, and our holie Dame<br>To blesse his labour, and to heal the same. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then drewe the arrowe, and the wounde did seck,<br>And putt the teint of holie herbies on;<br>And putt a rowe of bloude-stones round his neck;<br>And then did say; go, champyon, get agone.<br>And now was comynge Harrolde to defend,<br>And metten with Walleris cruel darte;<br>His sheelde of wolf-skinn did him not attend,<br>The arrow peerced into his noble harte.<br>As some tall oke, hewn from the mountayne hed,<br>Fall to the pleine; so fell the warriour dede. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His countryman, brave Mervyn ap Teudor,<br>Who love of hym han from his country gone,<br>When he perceevd his friend lie in his gore,<br>As furious as a mountayne wolf he ranne.<br>As ouphant faieries, whan the moone sheenes bryghte,<br>In littel circles daunce upon the greene,<br>All living creatures flie far from their syghte,<br>Ne by the race of destinie be seen;<br>For what he be that ouphant faieries stryke,<br>Their soules will wander to Kyng Offa's dyke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So from the face of Mervyn Tewdor brave<br>The Normans eftsoons fled awaie aghaste;<br>And lefte behynde their bowe and asenglave,<br>For fear of hym, in thilk a cowart haste.<br>His garb sufficient were to move affryghte;<br>A wolf skin girded round his myddle was;<br>A bear skyn, from Norwegians wan in fyghte,<br>Was tytend round his shoulders by the claws.<br>So Hercules, 'tis sunge, much like to him,<br>Upon his sholder wore a lyon's skin. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon his thyghes and harte-swefte legges he wore<br>A hugie goat skyn, all of one grete peice;<br>A boar skyn sheelde on his bare armes he bore;<br>His gauntletts were the skynn of harte of greece.<br>They fledde; he followed close upon their heels,<br>Vowynge vengeance for his deare countrymanne;<br>And Siere de Sancelotte his vengeance feels;<br>He peerc'd hys backe, and out the bloude ytt ranne.<br>His bloude went downe the swerde unto his arme,<br>In springing rivulet, alive and warme. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His swerde was shorte, and broade, and myckle keene,<br>And no mann's bone could stonde to stoppe itts waie;<br>The Normann's harte in partes two cutt cleane,<br>He clos'd his eyne, and clos'd hys eyne for aie.<br>Then with his swerde he sett on Fitz du Valle,<br>A knyghte mouch famous for to runne at tylte;<br>With thilk a furie on hym he dyd falle,<br>Into his neck he ranne the swerde and hylte;<br>As myghtie lyghtenynge often has been founde<br>To drive an oke into unfallow'd grounde. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And with the swerde, that in his neck yet stoke,<br>The Norman fell unto the bloudie grounde;<br>And with the fall ap Tewdore's swerde he broke,<br>And bloude afreshe came trickling from the wounde<br>As whan the hyndes, before a mountayne wolfe,<br>Flie from his paws, and angrie vysage grym;<br>But when he falls into the pittie golphe,<br>They dare hym to his bearde, and battone hym;<br>And cause he fryghted them so muche before,<br>Lyke cowart hyndes, they battone hym the more. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So, whan they sawe ap Tewdore was bereft<br>Of his keen swerde, thatt wroghte thilke great dismaie<br>They turned about, eftsoons upon hym lept,<br>And full a score engaged in the fraie.<br>Mervyn ap Tewdore, ragyng as a bear,<br>Seiz'd on the beaver of the Sier de Laque;<br>And wring'd his hedde with such a vehement gier,<br>His visage was turned round unto his backe.<br>Backe to his harte retyr'd the useless gore,<br>And felle upon the pleine to rise no more. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then on the mightie Siere Fitz Pierce he flew,<br>And broke his helm and seiz'd hym bie the throte.<br>Then manie Normann knyghtes their arrowes drew,<br>That enter'd into Mervyn's harte, God woote.<br>In dying panges he gryp'd his throte more stronge,<br>And from their sockets started out his eyes;<br>And from his mouthe came out his blameless tonge<br>And bothe in peyne and anguishe eftsoon dies.<br>As some rude rocke torne from his bed of claie,<br>Stretch'd onn the pleyne the brave ap Tewdore laie. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now Erle Ethelbert and Egward came<br>Brave Mervyn from the Normannes to assist;<br>A myghtie siere, Fitz Chatulet bie name,<br>An arrowe drew, that dyd them littel list.<br>Erle Egward points his launce at Chatulet,<br>And Ethelbert at Walleris set his;<br>And Egwald dyd the siere a hard blowe hytt,<br>But Ethelbert by a myschaunce dyd miss.<br>Fear laide Walleris flat upon the strande,<br>He ne deserved a death from erlies hande. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Betwyxt the ribbes of Sire Fitz Chatelet<br>The poynted launce of Egward did ypass;<br>The distaunt syde thereof was ruddie wet,<br>And he fell breathless on the bloudie grass.<br>As cowart Walleris laie on the grounde,<br>The dreaded weapon hummed oer his heade,<br>And hytt the squier thylke a lethal wounde,<br>Upon his fallen lorde he tumbled dead.<br>Oh shame to Norman armes! a lord a slave,<br>A captyve villeyn than a lorde more brave! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From Chatelet hys launce Erle Egward drew,<br>And hit Wallerie on the dexter cheek;<br>Peerc'd to his braine, and cut his tongue in two.<br>There, knyght, quod he, let that thy actions speak --</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Chatterton">Thomas Chatterton</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529311" data-title="Battle Of Hastings - I de Thomas Chatterton" data-description="O CHRYSTE, it is a grief for me to tell;
HOW manie a nobil erle and valrous knyghte
In fyghtynge for Kynge Harrold noblie fell,
Al sleyne in Hastyngs feeld in bloudie fyghte.
O sea! our teeming donore han thy floude,
Han anie fructuous entendement..."></div>
</div>
</div>