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With his bowmen and knights,
And his banner all burnished with gold.
At the Conqueror's side
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,
And they chanted the deeds of Roland.
Still the ramparted ground
And I hear the trump sound,
On each turf of that mead
Stood the captors of England's domains,
And high-mettled the blood of her veins.
Over hauberk and helm
As the sun's setting splendor was thrown,
FOR THE RUIN OF A VILLAGE CROSS, HATHERN, LEICESTERSHIRE.
THE simple folk once used to throng
These mouldering steps beneath,
In pious days of yore.
The workingmen at dawn of day
In Christian days of yore.
Till once a stalwart company
In quiet days of yore,
With savage hands pulled down the sign
But Providence from then till now
Of the good days of yore.
And still, whene'er the good and great
As in the days of yore;
Yet blessed thoughts upon their hearts
Blessing the days of yore.
THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK.
MIGHTY growth! The countyside
How lavishly he once did fling
To strike a thousand roots in fame,
Last spring he put forth one green bough,-
Elate, the thunderbolt he braved;
A welcome to the blast:
An oak of broadest girth he grew,
The monarch wore a leafy crown,
And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down,
And it were hard to fix the tale
He took no ill from Saxon spade,
And showed some inches from the ground
When nymphs owned bluer eyes than hose, When England measured men by blows, And measured time by candles.
Worn pilgrims blessed his grateful shade
And maidens led the dance
Where, boy and man, in summer time,
Stole hither to maid Marian
(And if they did not come, one can
They met beneath the mistletoe,
And this was called the traitors' branch,
Uncivil wars for them! The fair
Red rose and white still bloom, but where Are Lancaster and York?
A churchman once was England's hope,
He mourned our martyrs at the stake,