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For the mother, doomed unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,
Yet not behold its face !
Darkness in chieftain's hall
Sat mourning o'er her lot.
For blood hath flowed like rain,
Of England's homes again!
Heap the yule-faggots high,
Till the red light fills the room ; It is home's own hour,—when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening gloom. Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And, by its gladdening blaze, Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days.
ERE the morning's busy ray
REV. GEORGE CRABBE.
THE BURIAL OF William The
LOWLY upon his bier
The royal conqueror lay;
Silent, in war-array.
Down the long minster's aisle
Crowds mutely gazing streamed ;
Through mists of incense gleamed.
And, by the torches' blaze,
The stately priest had said
To the glory of the dead.
Of requiems, to repose ;
A solemn voice arose :
“Forbear! forbear!” it cried,
“In the holiest name, forbear! He hath conquered regions wide,
But he shall not slumber there!
“ By the violated hearth
Which made way for yon proud shrine ; By the harvests which this earth
Hath borne for me and mine;
"By the house e'en here o'erthrown,
On my brethren's native spot; Hence with his dark renown,
Cumber our birth-place not !
“Will my sire's unransomed field,
O’er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield
Soft slumbers in the grave ?
« The tree before him fell
Which we cherished many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell,
And heave against his bier.
« The land that I have tilled
Hath yet its brooding breast, With my home's wbite ashes filled,
And it shall not give him rest!
“Each pillar's massy bed
Hath been wet by weeping eyes; Away! bestow your dead
Where no wrong against him cries.” Shame glowed on each dark face
Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place
For their leaders' dust e'en then
A little earth for him
Whose banner flew so far!
The name a nation's star!
One deep voice thus arose
From a heart which wrongs had riven : Oh! who shall number those
That were but heard in heaven?
THE NORMAN BARON.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
In his chamber, weak and dying,
And the castle-turret shook.
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Written in the Doomsday Book.
By his bed a Monk was seated,
From the missal on his knee;
And, amid the tempest pealing,
Rang for the Nativity
Sang the minstrels and the waits. And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly,
Knocking at the castle-gates.
Till at length the lays they chaunted
Whispered at the baron's ear.
Turned his weary head to hear.
Christ is born to set us free !"
And the lightning showed the sainted
Justice, the Avenger, rise.
And the truth wore no disguise.
Every vassal of his banner,
By his hand were freed again.
And the Monk replied, " Amen!”