With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnished with gold. At the Conqueror's side There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide; And they chanted the deeds of Roland. Still the ramparted ground 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, And to-morrow beheld it their own. Thomas Campbell. Hathern. INSCRIPTION FOR THE RUIN OF A VILLAGE CROSS, HATHERN, LEICESTERSHIRE. HE simple folk once used to throng THE These mouldering steps beneath, And every child that passed along Its soft petitions breathe, In pious days of yore. The workingmen at dawn of day And to their labor bore away A calm of holy feeling, In Christian days of yore. Till once a stalwart company Unlike the men ye used to see In such-like holy places In quiet days of yore, With savage hands pulled down the sign And promised in more force to join, And break the rest to-morrow, Hating the days of yore. But Providence from then till now And by this shaft and time-worn steps 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 With calmer, holier feeling, Blessing the days of yore. Henry Alford. Hatfield Broadoak. THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK. A MIGHTY growth! The countyside For England loves her trees: What misty legends round him cling! His acorns to the breeze! To strike a thousand roots in fame, To give the district half its name, The fiat could not hinder; Last spring he put forth one green bough, Elate, the thunderbolt he braved; 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 Petitioner for dew; 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 Where, boy and man, in summer time, Stole hither to maid Marian (And if they did not come, one can At any rate suppose it); They met beneath the mistletoe, We did the same, and ought to know 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, When Tudor humbled Spain. |