Out drew Brihtnoth

His sword from the sword-case:

Broad and brown was the blade, and he bang'd it
Full on the corselet.

Swift came a back-stroke
Struck by a fleet-man,
Quelling the Earl's arm.
Out of his hands fell the
Sword with the fallow hilt

Might he no longer hold
Falchion, or wield again
Weapons of warfare.

XV.

Spake he a word yet,-
Hoar-headed hero,-

Cheering his comrades,
Bidding his brave youths
Fight and go forward.
Might he not long now
Fast on his feet stand.

Look'd he to heaven :-
"Thanks be to thee, Lord,

Wielder of nations;

;

Thank Thee for all the good

I in this world have known!

Now, O my Maker mild,

Need have I most that Thou

Good to my ghost shouldst grant,
E'en that my soul may pass
Safe to the Angels' land,

Where Thou art King and Lord,
In good peace journeying.

Yea, God, that never
Hell-fiends may hurt it,

Hear now my prayer!"

XVI.

Then the heathen soldiers hew'd him;
Hew'd the twain who stood to aid him.
There on the earth they lay

Fast by their chieftain,

Alfnoth and Wulfmaer ;

Sold they their lives.

A. C. AUCHMUTY (from the Old English).

III.

HAROLD AND STAMFORD-BRIDGE.

Address of Harold at a Banquet after the Battle. EARLS, Thanes, and all our countrymen! the day, Our day beside the Derwent will not shine Less than a star among the goldenest hours

Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son,

Or Athelstan, or English Ironside

Who fought with Knut, or Knut who coming Dane
Died English. Every man about his king

Fought like a king; the king like his own man,
No better; one for all, and all for one,

One soul! and therefore have we shatter'd back
The hugest wave from Norseland ever yet
Surged on us, and our battle-axes broken
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his carrion croak
From the gray sea for ever. Many are gone—
Drink to the dead who died for us, the living
Who fought and would have died, but happier lived,
If happier be to live; they both have life

In the large mouth of England, till her voice
Die with the world.

TENNYSON, Harold, Act IV. Sc. 3.

IV.

HAROLD AND SENLAC

William (on the field of the dead).

Wrap them together in a purple cloak

And lay them both upon the waste sea-shore

At Hastings, there to guard the land for which

He did forswear himself—a warrior-ay,

And but that Holy Peter fought for us,

And that the false Northumbrian held aloof,
And save for that chance arrow which the Saints
Sharpen'd and sent against him-who can tell ?--
Three horses had I slain beneath me: twice

I thought that all was lost.

Since I knew battle,

And that was from my boyhood, never yet—

No, by the splendour of God-have I fought men
Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard

Of English. Every man about his king

Fell where he stood. They loved him: and, pray God
My Normans may but move as true with me
To the door of death. Of one self-stock at first,
Make them again one people-Norman, English;
And English, Norman ; we should have a hand
To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp it . . .
Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. No more blood!

I am king of England, so they thwart me not,

And I will rule according to their laws.

TENNYSON, Harold, Act v. Sc. 2.

V.

CIVIL WAR, AND THE CRUSADES.

King Henry IV. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood ;
No more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way, and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies :
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master.

Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ—

Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross,
We are impressed, and engaged to fight—

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb
To chase these pagans in those holy fields
Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd
For our advantage on the bitter cross.

SHAKSPERE, I Henry IV., Act i. Sc. 1.