<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529312" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Battle Of Hastings - II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">OH Truth! immortal daughter of the skies,<br>Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies,<br>Teach me, fayre Saincte! hy passynge worthe to pryze,<br>To blame a friend and give a foeman prayse.<br>The fickle moone, bedeckt wythe sylver rays,<br>Leadynge a traine of starres of feeble lyghte,<br>With look adigne the worlde belowe surveies,<br>The world, that wotted not it coud be nyghte;<br>Wyth armour dyd, with human gore ydeyd,<br>The sees Kynge Harolde stande, fayre Englands curse and pryde. <br>With ale and vernage drunk his souldiers lay;<br>Here was an hynde, anie an erlie spredde;<br>Sad keepynge of their leaders natal daie!<br>This even in drinke, toomorrow with the dead!<br>Thro' everie troope disorder reer'd her hedde;<br>Dancynge and heideignes was the onlie theme;<br>Sad dome was theires, who lefte this easie bedde,<br>And wak'd in torments from so sweet a dream.<br>Duke Williams menne, of comeing dethe afraide,<br>All nyghte to the great Godde for succour askd and praied. <br>Thus Harolde to his wites that stoode arounde;<br>Goe, Gyrthe and Eilward, take bills halfe a score,<br>And search how farre our foeman's campe doth bound;<br>Yourself have rede; I nede to saie ne more.<br>My brother best belov'd of anie ore,<br>My Leofwinus, goe to everich wite,<br>Tell them to raunge the battel to the grore,<br>And waiten tyll I sende the hest for fyghte.<br>He saide; the loieaul broders lefte the place,<br>Success and cheerfulness depicted on ech face. <br>Slowelie brave Gyrthe and Eilwarde dyd advaunce,<br>And markd wyth care the armies dystant syde,<br>When the dyre clatterynge of the shielde and launce<br>Made them to be by Hugh Fitzhugh espyd.<br>He lyfted up his voice, and lowdlie cryd;<br>Like wolfs in wintere did the Normanne yell<br>Girthe drew hys swerde, and cutte hys burled hyde;<br>The proto-slene manne of the fielde he felle;<br>Out streemd the bloude, and ran in smokynge curles,<br>Reflected bie the moone seemd rubies mixt wyth pearles. <br>A troope of Normannes from the mass-songe came,<br>Rousd from their praiers by the flotting crie;<br>Thoughe Girthe and Ailwardus perceevd the same,<br>Not once theie stoode abashd, or thoghte to flie.<br>He seizd a bill, to conquer or to die;<br>Fierce as a clevis from a rocke ytorne,<br>That makes a vallie wheresoe're it lie; <br>Fierce as a ryver burstynge from the borne;<br>So fiercelie Gyrthe hitte Fitz du Gore a blowe,<br>And on the verdaunt playne he layde the champyone lowe. <br>Tancarville thus; alle peace in Williams name;<br>Let none edraw his arcublaster bowe.<br>Girthe cas'd his weppone, as he hearde the same,<br>And vengynge Normannes staid the flyinge floe.<br>The sire wente onne; ye menne, what mean ye so<br>Thus unprovokd to courte a bloudie fyghte?<br>Quod Gyrthe; oure meanynge we ne care to showe,<br>Nor dread thy duke wyth all his men of myghte;<br>Here single onlie these to all thie crewe<br>Shall shewe what Englysh handes and heartes can doe. <br>Seek not for bloude, Tancarville calme replyd,<br>Nor joie in dethe, lyke madmen most distraught;<br>In peace and mercy is a Chrystians pryde;<br>He that dothe contestes pryze is in a faulte.<br>And now the news was to Duke William brought,<br>That men of Haroldes armie taken were;<br>For theyre good cheere all caties were enthoughte,<br>And Gyrthe and Eilwardus enjoi'd goode cheere.<br>Quod Willyam; thus shall Willyam be founde<br>A friend to everie manne that treades on English ground. <br>Erle Leofwinus throwghe the campe ypass'd,<br>And sawe bothe men and erlies on the grounde;<br>They slepte, as thoughe they woulde have slepte theyr last,<br>And hadd alreadie felte theyr fatale wounde.<br>He started back; and was wyth shame astownd;<br>Loked wanne wyth anger, and he shooke wyth rage;<br>When throughe the hollow tentes these wordes dyd sound,<br>Rowse from your sleepe, detratours of the age!<br>Was it for thys the stoute Norwegian bledde?<br>Awake, ye huscarles, now, or waken wyth the dead. <br>As when the shepster in the shadie bowre<br>In jintle slumbers chase the heat of daie,<br>Hears doublyng echoe wind the wolfins rore,<br>That neare hys flocke is watchynge for a praie,<br>He tremblynge for his sheep drives dreeme awaie,<br>Gripes faste hys burled croke, and sore adradde<br>Wyth fleeting strides he hastens to the fraie,<br>And rage and prowess fyres the coistrell lad;<br>With trustie talbots to the battel flies,<br>And yell of men and dogs and wolfins tear the skies. <br>Such was the dire confusion of eche wite,<br>That rose from sleep and walsome power of wine;<br>Theie thoughte the foe by trechit yn the nyghte<br>Had broke theyr camp and gotten paste the line;<br>Now here now there the burnysht sheeldes and byll-spear shine;<br>Throwote the campe a wild confusionne spredde;<br>Eche bracd hys armlace siker ne desygne,<br>The crested helmet nodded on the hedde;<br>Some caught a slughorne, and an onsett wounde;<br>Kynge Harolde hearde the charge, and wondred at the sounde. <br>Thus Leofwine; O women cas'd in stele!<br>Was itte for thys Norwegia's stubborn sede<br>Throughe the black armoure dyd the anlace fele,<br>And rybbes of solid brasse were made to bleede?<br>Whylst yet the worlde was wondrynge at the deede.<br>You souldiers, that shoulde stand with byll in hand,<br>Get full of wine, devoid of any rede.<br>Oh shame! oh dyre dishonoure to the lande!<br>He sayde; and shame on everie visage spredde,<br>Ne sawe the erlies face, but addawd hung their head. <br>Thus he; rowze yee, and forme the boddie tyghte.<br>The Kentysh menne in fronte, for strenght renownd,<br>Next the Brystowans dare the bloudie fyghte,<br>And last the numerous crewe shall presse the grounde.<br>I and my king be wyth the Kenters founde;<br>Bythric and Alfwold hedde the Brystowe bande;<br>And Bertrams sonne, the man of glorious wounde,<br>Lead in the rear the menged of the lande<br>And let the Londoners and Suffers plie<br>Bie Herewardes memuine and the lighte skyrts anie. <br>He saide; and as a packe of hounds belent,<br>When that the trackyng of the hare is gone,<br>If one perchaunce shall hit upon the scent,<br>With twa redubbled fhuir the alans run;<br>So styrrd the valiante Saxons everych one;<br>Soone linked man to man the champyones stoode;<br>To 'tone for their bewrate so soone 'twas done,<br>And lyfted bylls enseem'd an yron woode;<br>Here glorious Alfwold towr'd above the wites,<br>And seem'd to brave the fuir of twa ten thousand fights. <br>Thus Leofwine; today will Englandes dome<br>Be fyxt for aie, for gode or evill state;<br>This sunnes aunture be felt for years to come;<br>Then bravelie fyghte, and live till deathe of daie.<br>Thinke of brave Ælfridus, yclept the grete,<br>From porte to porte the red-haird Dane he chasd,<br>The Danes, with whomme not lyoncels coud mate,<br>Who made of peopled reaulms a barren waste;<br>Thinke how at once by you Norwegia bled<br>Whilste dethe and victorie for magystrie bested. <br>Meanwhile did Gyrthe unto Kynge Harolde ride,<br>And tolde howe he dyd with Duke Willyam fare.<br>Brave Harolde lookd askaunte, and thus replyd;<br>And can thie say be bowght wyth drunken cheer?<br>Gyrthe waxen hotte; fhuir in his eyne did glare;<br>And thus he saide; oh brother, friend, and kynge,<br>Have I deserved this fremed speche to heare?<br>Bie Goddes hie hallidome ne thoughte the thynge.<br>When Tostus sent me golde and sylver store,<br>I scornd hys present vile, and scorn'd hys treason more. <br>Forgive me, Gyrthe, the brave Kynge Harolde cryd;<br>Who can I trust, if brothers are not true?<br>I think of Tostus, once my joie and pryde.<br>Girthe saide, with looke adigne; my lord, I doe.<br>But what oure foemen are, quod Girth, I'll shewe;<br>By Gods hie hallidome they preestes are.<br>Do not, quod Harold, Girthe, mystell them so,<br>For theie are everich one brave men at warre.<br>Quod Girthe; why will ye then provoke theyr hate?<br>Quod Harolde; great the foe, so is the glorie grete. <br>And nowe Duke Willyam mareschalled his band,<br>And stretchd his armie owte a goodlie rowe.<br>First did a ranke of arcublastries stande,<br>Next those on horsebacke drewe the ascendyng flo,<br>Brave champyones, eche well lerned in the bowe,<br>Theyr asenglave acrosse theyr horses ty'd,<br>Or with the loverds squier behinde dyd goe,<br>Or waited squier lyke at the horses syde.<br>When thus Duke Willyam to a Monke dyd saie,<br>Prepare thyselse wyth spede, to Harolde haste awaie. <br>Telle hym from me one of these three to take;<br>That hee to mee do homage for thys lande,<br>Or mee hys heyre, when he deceasyth, make,<br>Or to the judgment of Chrysts vicar stande.<br>He saide; the Monke departyd out of hande,<br>And to Kyng Harolde dyd this message bear;<br>Who said; tell thou the duke, at his likand<br>If he can gette the crown hee may itte wear.<br>He said, and drove the Monke out of his syghte,<br>And with his brothers rouz'd each manne to bloudie fyghte. <br>A standarde made of sylke and jewells rare,<br>Wherein alle coloures wroughte aboute in bighes,<br>An armyd knyghte was seen deth-doynge there,<br>Under this motte, he conquers or he dies.<br>This standard rych, endazzlynge mortal eyes,<br>Was borne neare Harolde at the Kenters heade,<br>Who chargd hys broders for the grete empryze<br>That straite the hest for battle should be spredde.<br>To evry Erle and knyghte the worde is gyven,<br>And cries a guerre and slughornes shake the vaulted heaven, <br>As when the erthe, torne by convulsyons dyre,<br>In reaulmes of darkness hid from human syghte,<br>The warring force of water, air, and fyre,<br>Brast from the regions of eternal nyghte,<br>Thro the darke caverns seeke the reaulmes of lyght;<br>Some loftie mountaine, by its fury torne,<br>Dreadfully moves, and causes grete affryght;<br>Now here, now there, majestic nods the bourne,<br>And awfulie shakes, mov'd by the almighty force,<br>Whole woods and forests nod, and ryvers change theyr course. <br>So did the men of war at once advaunce,<br>Linkd man to man, enseemed one boddie light;<br>Above a wood, yform'd of bill and launce,<br>That noddyd in the ayre most straunge to syght.<br>Harde as the iron were the menne of mighte,<br>Ne neede of slughornes to enrowse theyr minde;<br>Eche shootynge spere yreaden for the fyghte,<br>More feerce than fallynge rocks, more swefte than wynd;<br>With solemne step, by ecchoe made more dyre,<br>One single boddie all theie marchd, theyr eyen on fyre. <br>And slow the greie-eyd morne with vi'lets drest,<br>Shakyng the dewdrops on the flourie meedes,<br>Fled with her rosie radiance to the West:<br>Forth from the Easterne gatte the fyerie steedes<br>Of the bright sunne awaytynge spirits leedes:<br>The sunne, in fierie pompe enthrond on hie,<br>Swyfter than thoughte alonge hys jernie gledes,<br>And scatters nyghtes remaynes from oute the skie.<br>He sawe the armies make for bloudie fraie,<br>And stopt his driving steeds, and hid his lyghtsome raye. <br>Kynge Harolde hie in ayre majestic raysd<br>His mightie arme, deckt with a manchyn rare;<br>With even hande a mighty javlyn paizde,<br>Then furyouse sent it whystlynge thro the ayre.<br>It struck the helmet of the Sieur de Beer;<br>In vayne did brasse or yron stop its waie;<br>Above his eyne it came, the bones dyd tare,<br>Peercynge quite thro, before it dyd allaie;<br>He tumbled, scritchyng wyth hys horrid payne;<br>His hollow cuishes rang upon the bloudie pleyne. <br>This Willyam saw, and soundynge Rowlandes songe<br>He bent his yron interwoven bowe,<br>Makynge bothe endes to meet with myghte full stronge,<br>From out of mortals syght fhot up the floe;<br>Then swyfte as fallynge starres to earthe belowe<br>It slaunted down on Alfwoldes payncted sheelde;<br>Quite thro the silver-bordurd crosse did goe,<br>Nor loste its force, but stuck into the feelde;<br>The Normannes, like theyr sovrin, dyd prepare,<br>And shotte ten thousande floes uprysynge in the aire. <br>As when a flyghte of cranes, that takes their waie<br>In householde armies thro the flanched skie,<br>Alike the cause, or companie or prey,<br>Is that perchaunce some boggie fenne is nie.<br>Soon as the muddie natyon theie espie,<br>Inne one blacke cloude theie to the erth descende;<br>Feirce as the fallynge thunderbolte they flie;<br>In vayne do reedes the speckled folk defend:<br>So prone to heavie blowe the arrowes felle,<br>And peered thro brasse, and sente manie to heaven or helle. <br>Ælan Adelfred, of the stowe of Leigh,<br>Felte a dire arrowe burnynge in his breste;<br>Before he dyd, he sente hys spear awaie,<br>Thenne sunke to glorie and eternal reste.<br>Nevylle, a Normanne of alle Normannes beste,<br>Throw the joint cuishe dyd the javlyn feel,<br>As hee on horsebacke for the fyghte addressd,<br>And sawe hys bloude come smokynge oer the steele;<br>He sente the avengynge floe into the ayre,<br>And turnd hys horses hedde, and did to leeche repayre. <br>And now the javelyns, barbd with deathhis wynges,<br>Hurld from the Englysh handes by force aderne,<br>Whyzz dreare along; and songes of terror synges,<br>Such songes as alwaies clos'd in lyfe eterne.<br>Hurld by such strength along the ayre theie burne,<br>Not to be quenched butte ynn Normannes bloude;<br>Wherere theie came they were of lyfe forlorn,<br>And alwaies followed by a purple floude;<br>Like cloudes the Normanne arrowes did descend,<br>Like cloudes of carnage full in purple drops dyd end. <br>Nor, Leofwynus, dydst thou still estande;<br>Full soon thie pheon glytted in the aire;<br>The force of none but thyne and Harolds hande<br>Could hurle a javlyn with such lethal geer;<br>Itte whyzzd a ghastlie dynne in Normannes ear,<br>Then thundryng dyd upon hys greave alyghte,<br>Peirce to his hearte, and dyd hys bowels tear,<br>He closd hys eyne in everlastynge nyghte;<br>Ah! what avayld the lyons on his creste!<br>His hatchments rare with him upon the grounde was prest. <br>Willyam agayne ymade his bowe-ends meet,<br>And hie in ayre the arrowe wynged his waie,<br>Descendyng like a shafte of thunder fleete,<br>Lyke thunder rattling at the noon of daie,<br>Onne Algars sheelde the arrowe dyd allaie,<br>There throghe dyd peerse, and stycke into his groine;<br>In grypynge torments on the feelde he laie,<br>Tille welcome dethe came in and clos'd his eyne;<br>Distort with peyne he laie upon the borne,<br>Lyke sturdie elms by stormes in uncothe wrythynges torne. <br>Alrick his brother, when hee this perceevd,<br>He drewe his swerde, his lefte hande helde a speere,<br>Towards the duke he turnd his prauncyng steede,<br>And to the Godde of heaven he sent a prayre;<br>Then sent his lethale javlyn in the ayre,<br>On Hue de Beaumontes backe the javelyn came,<br>Thro his redde armour to hys harte it tare,<br>He felle and thondred on the place of fame;<br>Next with his swerde he 'sayld the Seiur de Roe,<br>And braste his sylver helme, so furyous was the blowe. <br>But Willyam, who had seen hys prowesse great,<br>And feered muche how farre his bronde might goe,<br>Tooke a strong arblaster, and bigge with fate<br>From twangynge iron sente the fleetynge floe.<br>As Alric hoistes hys arme for dedlie blowe,<br>Which, han it came, had been Du Roees laste,<br>The swyfte-wyngd messenger from Willyams bowe<br>Quite throwe his arme into his syde ypaste;<br>His eyne shotte fyre, lyke blazyng starre at nyghte,<br>He grypd his swerde, and felle upon the place of fyghte. <br>O Alfwolde, saie, how shalle I synge of thee<br>Or telle how manie dyd benethe thee falle;<br>Not Haroldes self more Normanne knyghtes did slee,<br>Not Haroldes self did for more praises call<br>How shall a penne like myne then shew it all?<br>Lyke thee their leader, eche Bristowyanne foughte;<br>Lyke thee, their blaze must be canonical,<br>Fore theie, like thee, that daie bewrecke yroughte.<br>Did thirtie Normannes fall upon the grounde,<br>Full half a score from thee and theie receive their fatale wounde.<br>First Fytz Chivelloys felt thie direful force;<br>Nete did hys helde out brazen sheelde availe;<br>Eftsoones throwe that thie drivynge speare did peerce<br>Nor was ytte stopped by his coate of mayle;<br>Into his breaste it quicklie did assayle;<br>Out ran the bloude, like hygra of the tyde;<br>With purple stayned all hys adventayle;<br>In scarlet was his cuishe of sylver dyde.<br>Upon the bloudie carnage house he laie,<br>Whylst hys longe sheelde dyd glem with the sun's rysing ray. <br>Next Fescampe felle; O Chrieste, howe harde his fate<br>To die the leckedst knyghte of all the thronge!<br>His sprite was made of malice deslavate,<br>Ne shoulden find a place in anie songe.<br>The broch'd keene javlyn hurld from honde so stronge<br>As thine came thundrynge on his crysted beave;<br>Ah! neete avayld the brass or iron thonge,<br>With mightie force his skulle in twoe dyd cleave;<br>Fallyng he shooken out his smokyng braine,<br>As witherd oakes or elmes are hewne from off the playne. <br>For, Norcie, could thie myghte and skilfulle lore<br>Preserve thee from the doom of Alfwold's speere;<br>Couldste thou not kenne, most skyll'd After la goure, <br>How in the battle it would wythe thee fare?<br>When Alfwolds javelyn, rattlynge in the ayre, <br>From hande dyvine on thie habergeon came,<br>Oute at thy backe it dyd thie hartes bloude bear,<br>It gave thee death and everlastynge fame;<br>Thy deathe could onlie come from Alfwolde arme,<br>As diamondes onlie can its fellow diamonds harme. <br>Next Sire du Mouline fell upon the grounde,<br>Quite throughe his throte the lethal javlyn preste,<br>His soule and bloude came roushynge from the wounde;<br>He closd his eyen, and opd them with the blest.<br>It can no be I should behight the rest,<br>That by the myghtie arme of Alfwolde felle,<br>Paste bie a penne to be counte or expreste,<br>How manie Alfwolde sent to heaven or helle;<br>As leaves from trees shook by derne Autumns hand,<br>So laie the Normannes slain by Alfwold on the strand. <br>As when a drove of wolves withe dreary yelles<br>Assayle some flocke, ne care if shepster ken't,<br>Besprenge destructione oer the woodes and delles;<br>The shepster swaynes in vayne theyr lees lement;<br>So foughte the Brystowe menne; ne one crevent,<br>Ne onne abashd enthoughten for to flee;<br>With fallen Normans all the playne besprent,<br>And like theyr leaders every man did slee;<br>In vayne on every syde the arrowes fled<br>The Brystowe menne styll ragd, for Alfwold was not dead. <br>Manie meanwhile by Haroldes arm did falle,<br>And Leofwyne and Gyrthe encreasd the slayne;<br>'Twould take a Nestor's age to synge them all,<br>Or telle how manie Normannes preste the playne;<br>But of the erles, whom recorde nete hath slayne,<br>O Truthe! for good of after-tymes relate,<br>That, thowe they're deade, theyr names may lyve agayne,<br>And be in deathe, as they in life were, greate;<br>So after-ages maie theyr actions see,<br>And like to them æternal alwaie stryve to be. <br>Adhelm, a knyghte, whose holie deathless sire<br>For ever bended to St. Cuthbert's shryne,<br>Whose breast for ever burnd with sacred fyre,<br>And een on erthe he myghte be calld dyvine;<br>To Cuthbert's church he dyd his goodes resygne,<br>And lefte hys son his God's and fortunes knyghte;<br>His son the Saincte behelde with looke adigne,<br>Made him in gemot wyse, and greate in fyghte;<br>Saincte Cuthberte dyd him ayde in all hys deedes,<br>His friends he lets to live, and all his fomen bleedes. <br>He married was to Kenewalchae faire,<br>The fynest dame the sun or moone adave;<br>She was the myghtie Aderedus heyre,<br>Who was alreadie hastynge to the grave;<br>As the blue Bruton, rysinge from the wave,<br>Like sea-gods seeme in most majestic guise,<br>And rounde aboute the risynge waters lave,<br>And their longe hayre arounde their bodie flies,<br>Such majestie was in her porte displaid,<br>To be excelld bie none but Homer's martial maid. <br>White as the chaulkie clyffes of Brittaines isle,<br>Red as the highest colour'd Gallic wine,<br>Gaie as all nature at the mornynge smile,<br>Those hues with pleasaunce on her lippes combine,<br>Her lippes more redde than summer evenynge skyne,<br>Or Phœbus rysinge in a frostie morne,<br>Her breste more white than snow in feeldes that lyene,<br>Or lillie lambes that never have been shorne,<br>Swellynge like bubbles in a boillynge welle,<br>Or new-braste brooklettes gently whyspringe in the delle. <br>Browne as the fylberte droppyng from the shelle,<br>Browne as the nappy ale at Hocktyde game,<br>So browne the crokyde rynges, that featlie fell<br>Over the neck of the all-beauteous dame.<br>Greie as the morne before the ruddie flame<br>Of Phebus charyotte rollynge thro the skie,<br>Greie as the steel-horn'd goats Conyan made tame,<br>So greie appeard her featly sparklyng eye;<br>Those eyne, that did oft mickle pleased look<br>On Adhelm valyaunt man, the virtues doomsday book. <br>Majestic as the grove of okes that stoode<br>Before the abbie buylt by Oswald kynge;<br>Majestic as Hybernies holie woode,<br>Where sainctes and soules departed masses synge;<br>Such awe from her sweete looke forth issuynge<br>At once for reveraunce and love did calle;<br>Sweet as the voice of thraslarkes in the Spring,<br>So sweet the wordes that from her lippes did falle;<br>None fell in vayne; all shewed some entent;<br>Her wordies did displaie her great entendement. <br>Tapre as candles layde at Cuthberts shryne,<br>Tapre as elmes that Goodrickes abbie shrove,<br>Tapre as silver chalices for wine,<br>So tapre was her armes and shape ygrove.<br>As skyllful mynemenne by the stones above<br>Can ken what metalle is ylach'd belowe,<br>So Kennewalcha's face, ymade for love,<br>The lovelie ymage of her soule did shewe;<br>Thus was she outward form'd; the sun her mind<br>Did guilde her mortal shape and all her charms refin'd. <br>What blazours then, what glorie shall he clayme,<br>What doughtie Homere shall hys praises synge,<br>That lefte the bosome of so fayre a dame<br>Uncall'd, unaskt, to serve his lorde the kynge?<br>To his fayre shrine goode subjects oughte to bringe<br>The armes, the helmets, all the spoyles of warre,<br>Throwe everie reaulm the poets blaze the thynge,<br>And travelling merchants spredde hys name to farre;<br>The stoute Norwegians had his anlace felte,<br>And nowe amonge his foes dethe-doynge blowes he delte. <br>As when a wolfyn gettynge in the meedes<br>He rageth sore, and doth about hym slee,<br>Nowe here a talbot, there a lambkin bleeds,<br>And alle the grasse with clotted gore doth stree;<br>As when a rivlette rolles impetuouslie,<br>And breaks the bankes that would its force restrayne,<br>Alonge the playne in fomynge rynges doth flee,<br>Gaynste walles and hedges doth its course maintayne;<br>As when a manne doth in a corn-fielde mowe,<br>With ease at one felle stroke full manie is laide lowe. <br>So manie, with such force, and with such ease,<br>Did Adhelm slaughtre on the bloudie playne;<br>Before hym manie dyd theyr hearts bloude lease,<br>Ofttymes he foughte on towres of smokynge slayne.<br>Angillian felte his force, nor felte in vayne;<br>He cutte hym with his swerde athur the breaste;<br>Out ran the bloude, and did hys armoure stayne,<br>He clos'd his eyen in æternal reste;<br>Lyke a tall oke by tempeste borne awaie,<br>Stretchd in the armes of dethe upon the plaine he laie. <br>Next thro the ayre he lent his javlyn feerce,<br>That on De Clearmoundes buckler did alyghte,<br>Throwe the vaste orbe the sharpe pheone did peerce,<br>Rang on his coate of mayle and spente its mighte.<br>But soon another wingd its aiery flyghte,<br>The keen broad pheon to his lungs did goe;<br>He felle, and groand upon the place of fighte,<br>Whilst lyfe and bloude came issuynge from the blowe.<br>Like a tall pyne upon his native playne,<br>So fell the mightie sire and mingled with the slaine. <br>Hue de Longeville, a force doughtre mere,<br>Advauncyd forwarde to provoke the darte,<br>When soone he founde that Adhelmes poynted speere<br>Had founde an easie passage to his hearte.<br>He drewe his bowe, nor was of dethe astarte,<br>Then fell down brethlesse to encrease the corse;<br>But as he drewe hys bowe devoid of arte,<br>So it came down upon Troyvillains horse;<br>Deep thro hys hatchmcnts wente the pointed floe;<br>Now here, now there, with rage bleedyng he rounde doth goe. <br>Nor does he hede his mastres known commands,<br>Tyll, growen furiouse by his bloudie wounde,<br>Erect upon his hynder feete he staundes,<br>And throwes hys mastre far off to the grounde.<br>Near Adhelms feete the Normanne laie astounde,<br>Besprengd his arrowes, loosend was his sheelde,<br>Thro his redde armoure, as he laie ensoond,<br>He peercd his swerde, and out upon the feelde<br>The Normannes bowels steemd, a dedlie syghte!<br>He opd and closd hys eyen in everlastynge nyghte. <br>Caverd, a Scot, who for the Normannes foughte,<br>A man well skilld in swerde and soundynge strynge,<br>Who fled his country for a crime enstrote,<br>For darynge with bolde worde hys loiaule kynge,<br>He at Erle Aldhelme with grete force did flynge<br>An heavie javlyn, made for bloudie wounde,<br>Alonge his sheelde askaunte the same did ringe,<br>Peercd thro the corner, then stuck in the grounde;<br>So when the thonder rauttles in the skie,<br>Thro some tall spyre the shaftes in a torn clevis flie. <br>Then Addhelm hurld a croched javlyn stronge,<br>With mighte that none but such grete championes know;<br>Swifter than thoughte the javlyn past alonge,<br>Ande hytte the Scot most feirclie on the prowe;<br>His helmet brasted at the thondring blowe,<br>Into his brain the tremblyn javlyn steck;<br>From eyther syde the bloude began to flow,<br>And run in circling ringlets rounde his neck;<br>Down fell the warriour on the lethal strande,<br>Lyke some tall vessel wreckt upon the tragick sande. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">CONTINUED.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where fruytless heathes and meadowes cladde in greie,<br>Save where derne hawthornes reare theyr humble heade,<br>The hungrie traveller upon his waie<br>Sees a huge desarte alle arounde hym spredde,<br>The distaunte citie scantlie to be spedde,<br>The curlynge force of smoke he sees in vayne,<br>Tis too far distaunte, and hys onlie bedde<br>Iwimpled in hys cloke ys on the playne,<br>Whylste rattlynge thonder forrey oer his hedde,<br>And raines come down to wette hys harde uncouthlie bedde. <br>A wondrous pyle of rugged mountaynes standes,<br>Placd on eche other in a dreare arraie,<br>It ne could be the worke of human handes,<br>It ne was reared up bie menne of daie.<br>Here did the Brutons adoration paye<br>To the false god whom they did Tauran name,<br>Dightynge hys altarre with greete fyres in Maie,<br>Roastynge theyr vyctualle round aboute the flame,<br>'Twas here that Hengyst did the Brytons slee,<br>As they were mette in council for to bee. <br>Neere on a loftie hylle a citie standes,<br>That lyftes yts scheafted heade ynto the skies,<br>And kynglie lookes arounde on lower landes,<br>And the longe browne playne that before itte lies.<br>Herewarde, borne of parentes brave and wyse,<br>Within this vylle fyrste adrewe the ayre,<br>A blessynge to the erthe sente from the skies,<br>In anie kyngdom nee coulde fynde his pheer;<br>Now rybbd in steele he rages yn the fyghte,<br>And sweeps whole armies to the reaulmes of nyghte. <br>So when derne Autumne wyth hys sallowe hande<br>Tares the green mantle from the lymed trees,<br>The leaves besprenged on the yellow strande<br>Flie in whole armies from the blataunte breeze;<br>Alle the whole fielde a carnage-howse he sees,<br>And sowles unknelled hover'd oer the bloude;<br>From place to place on either hand he slees,<br>And sweepes alle neere hym lyke a bronded floude<br>Dethe honge upon his arme; he sleed so maynt,<br>'Tis paste the pointel of a man to paynte. <br>Byghte sonne in haste han drove hys fierie wayne<br>A three howres course alonge the whited skyen,<br>Vewynge the swarthless bodies on the playne,<br>And longed greetlie to plonce in the bryne.<br>For as hys beemes and far-stretchynge eyne<br>Did view the pooles of gore yn purple sheene,<br>The wolsomme vapours rounde hys lockes dyd twyne.<br>And dyd disfygure all hys semmlikeen;<br>Then to harde actyon he hys wayne dyd rowse,<br>In hyssynge ocean to make glair hys browes. <br>Duke Wyllyam gave commaunde, eche Norman knyghte,<br>That beer war-token in a shielde so fyne,<br>Shoulde onward goe, and dare to closer fyghte<br>The Saxonne warryor, that dyd so entwyne,<br>Lyke the neshe bryon and the eglantine,<br>Orre Cornysh wrastlers at a Hocktyde game.<br>The Normannes, all emarchialld in a lyne,<br>To the ourt arraie of the thight Saxonnes came;<br>There 'twas the whaped Normannes on a parre<br>Dyd know that Saxonnes were the sonnes of warre. <br>Oh Turgotte, wheresoeer thie spryte dothe haunte,<br>Whither wyth thie lovd Adhelme by thie syde,<br>Where thou mayste heare the swotie nyghte larke chaunte,<br>Orre wyth some mokynge brooklette swetelie glide,<br>Or rowle in ferselie wythe ferse Severnes tyde,<br>Whereer thou art, come and my mynde enleme<br>Wyth such greete thoughtes as dyd with thee abyde,<br>Thou sonne, of whom I ofte have caught a beeme,<br>Send mee agayne a drybblette of thie lyghte,<br>That I the deeds of Englyshmenne maie wryte. <br>Harold, who saw the Normannes to advaunce,<br>Seizd a huge byll, and layd hym down hys spere;<br>Soe dyd ech wite laie downe the broched launce,<br>And groves of bylles did glitter in the ayre.<br>Wyth showtes the Normannes did to battel steere;<br>Campynon famous for his stature highe,<br>Fyrey wythe brasse, benethe a shyrte of lere,<br>In cloudie daie he reechd into the skie;<br>Neere to Kyng Harolde dyd he come alonge,<br>And drewe hys steele Morglaien sworde so stronge. <br>Thryce rounde hys heade hee swung hys anlace wyde,<br>On whyche the sunne his visage did agleeme,<br>Then straynynge, as hys membres would dyvyde,<br>Hee stroke on Haroldes sheelde yn manner breme;<br>Alonge the fielde it made an horrid cleembe,<br>Coupeynge Kyng Harolds payncted sheeld in twayne,<br>Then yn the bloude the fierie swerde dyd steeme,<br>And then dyd drive ynto the bloudie playne;<br>So when in ayre the vapours do abounde,<br>Some thunderbolte tares trees and dryves ynto the grounde. <br>Harolde upreer'd hys bylle, and furious sente<br>A stroke, lyke thondre, at the Normannes syde;<br>Upon the playne the broken brasse besprente<br>Dyd ne hys bodie from dethe-doeynge hyde;<br>He tournyd back; and dyd not there abyde;<br>With straught oute sheelde hee ayenwarde did goe,<br>Threwe downe the Normannes, did their rankes divide,<br>To save himselse lefte them unto the foe;<br>So olyphauntes, in kingdomme of the sunne,<br>When once provok'd doth throwe theyr owne troopes runne. <br>Harolde, who ken'd hee was his armies staie,<br>Nedeynge the rede of generaul so wyse,<br>Byd Alfwoulde to Campynon haste awaie,<br>As thro the armie ayenwarde he hies,<br>Swyfte as a feether'd takel Alfwoulde flies,<br>The steele bylle blushynge oer wyth lukewarm bloude;<br>Ten Kenters, ten Bristowans for th' emprize<br>Hasted wyth Alfwoulde where Campynon stood,<br>Who aynewarde went, whylste everie Normanne knyghte<br>Dyd blush to see their champyon put to flyghte. <br>As painctyd Bruton, when a wolfyn wylde,<br>When yt is cale and blustrynge wyndes do blowe,<br>Enters hys bordelle, taketh hys yonge chylde,<br>And wyth his bloude bestreynts the lillie snowe,<br>He thoroughe mountayne hie and dale doth goe,<br>Throwe the quyck torrent of the bollen ave,<br>Throwe Severne rollynge oer the sandes belowe<br>He skyms alofe, and blents the beatynge wave,<br>Ne stynts, ne lagges the chace, tylle for hys eyne<br>In peecies hee the morthering theef doth chyne. <br>So Alfoulde he dyd to Campynon haste;<br>Hys bloudie bylle awhap'd the Normannes eyne;<br>Hee fled, as wolfes when bie the talbots chac'd,<br>To bloudie byker he dyd ne enclyne.<br>Duke Wyllyam stroke hym on hys brigandyne,<br>And sayd; Campynon, is it thee I see?<br>Thee? who dydst actes of glorie so bewryen,<br>Now poorlie come to hyde thieselfe bie mee?<br>Awaie! thou dogge, and acte a warriors parte,<br>Or with mie swerde I'll perce thee to the harte. <br>Betweene Erle Alfwoulde and Duke Wyllyam's bronde<br>Campynon thoughte that nete but deathe coulde bee,<br>Seezed a huge swerde Morglaien yn his honde,<br>Mottrynge a praier to the Vyrgyne.<br>So hunted deere the dryvynge hounds will slee,<br>When theie dyscover they cannot escape;<br>And feerful lambkyns, when theie hunted bee,<br>Theyre ynfante hunters doe theie oft awhape;<br>Thus stoode Campynon, greete but hertlesse knyghte,<br>When feere of dethe made hym for deathe to fyghte. <br>Alfwoulde began to dyghte hymselse for fyghte,<br>Meanewhyle hys menne on everie syde dyd slee,<br>Whan on hys lyfted sheelde withe alle hys myghte<br>Campynon's swerde in burlie-brande dyd dree;<br>Bewopen Alfwoulde fellen on his knee;<br>Hys Brystowe menne came in hym for to save;<br>Eftsoons upgotten from the grounde was hee,<br>And dyd agayne the touring Norman brave;<br>Hee graspd hys bylle in syke a drear arraie,<br>Hee seem'd a lyon catchynge at hys preie. <br>Upon the Normannes brazen adventayle<br>The thondrynge bill of myghtie Alfwould came;<br>It made a dentful bruse, and then dyd fayle;<br>Fromme rattlynge weepons shotte a sparklynge flame;<br>Eftsoons agayne the thondrynge bill ycame,<br>Peers'd thro hys adventayle and skyrts of lare;<br>A tyde of purple gore came wyth the same,<br>As out hys bowells on the feelde it tare;<br>Campynon felle, as when some cittie-walle<br>Inne dolefulle terrours on its mynours falle. <br>He felle, and dyd the Norman rankes dyvide;<br>So when an oke, that shotte ynto the skie,<br>Feeles the broad axes peersynge his broade syde,<br>Slowlie hee falls and on the grounde doth lie,<br>Pressynge all downe that is wyth hym anighe,<br>And stoppynge wearie travellers on the waie;<br>So straught upon the playne the Norman hie<br>* * * * * * * * * *<br>Bled, gron'd, and dyed; the Normanne knyghtes astound<br>To see the bawsin champyon preste upon the grounde. <br>As when the hygra of the Severne roars, <br>And thunders ugsom on the sandes below,<br>The cleembe reboundes to Wedecesters shore,<br>And sweeps the black sande rounde its horie prowe;<br>So bremie Alfwoulde thro the warre dyd goe;<br>Hys Kenters and Brystowans slew ech syde,<br>Betreinted all alonge with bloudless foe,<br>And seemd to swymm alonge with bloudie tyde;<br>Fromme place to place besmeard with bloud they went,<br>And rounde aboute them swarthless corse besprente. <br>A famous Normanne who yclepd Aubene, <br>Of skyll in bow, in tylte, and handesworde fyghte<br>That daie yn feelde han manie Saxons sleene,<br>Forre hee in sothen was a manne of myghte;<br>Fyrste dyd his swerde on Adelgar alyghte,<br>As hee on horseback was, and peersd hys gryne,<br>Then upwarde wente: in everlastynge nyghte<br>Hee closd hys rollyng and dymsyghted eyne.<br>Next Eadlyn, Tatwyn, and fam'd Adelred,<br>Bie various causes sunkwn to the dead. <br>But now to Alfwoulde he opposynge went, <br>To whom compar'd hee was a man of stre,<br>And wyth bothe hondes a myghtie blowe he sente<br>At Alfwouldes head, as hard as hee could dree;<br>But on hys payncted sheelde so bismarlie<br>Aslaunte his swerde did go ynto the grounde;<br>Then Alfwould him attack'd most furyouslie,<br>Athrowe hys gaberdyne hee dyd him wounde,<br>Then soone agayne hys swerde hee dyd upryne,<br>And clove his creste and split hym to the eyne.</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=529312" data-title="Battle Of Hastings - II de Thomas Chatterton" data-description="OH Truth! immortal daughter of the skies, Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies, Teach me, fayre Saincte! hy passynge worthe to pryze, To blame a friend and give a foeman prayse. The fickle moone, bedeckt wythe sylver rays, Leadynge a traine ..."></div> </div> </div>

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