With well directed might;
Back came the lance into his hand,
Like urchin's ball, or juggler's wand,
And twice again, at his command,
Whirled its unerring flight.--
While doubting whether skill or charm
Had thus inspired the minstrel's arm,
The Saxons saw the wondrous dart
Fixed in their standard bearer's heart.

"Now thrice aloft his sword he threw,
'Midst sparkling sunbeams dancing,
And downward thrice the weapon flew,
Like meteor o'er the evening dew,
From summer sky swift glancing:
And while amazement gasped for breath,
Another Saxon groaned in death.

"More wonders yet!--on signal made,
With mane erect, and eye-balls flashing,
The well taught courser rears his head,
His teeth in ravenous fury gnashing;
He snorts--he foams--and upward springs--
Plunging he fastens on the foe,
And down his writhing victim flings,
Crushed by the wily minstrel's blow.
Thus seems it to the hostile band
Enchantment all, and fairy land.

"Fain would I leave the rest unsung:--
The Saxon ranks, to madness stung,
Headlong rushed with frenzied start,
Hurling javelin, mace, and dart;
No shelter from the iron shower
Sought Taillefer in that sad hour;
Yet still he beckoned to the field,
'Frenchman, come on--the Saxons yield--
Strike quick--strike home--in Roland's name--
For William's glory--Harold's shame.'
Then pierced with wounds, stretched side by side,
The minstrel and his courser died."

We have dwelt on the details of the tapestry with a prolixity which
some may deem tedious. Yet surely the subject is worthy of it; for, in
the first place, it is the oldest piece of needlework in the
world--the only piece of that era now existing; and this circumstance
in itself suggests many interesting ideas, on which, did our space
permit, we could readily dilate. Ages have rolled away; and the fair
hands that wrought this work have mouldered away into dust; and the
gentle and affectionate spirit that suggested this elaborate memorial
has long since passed from the scene which it adorned and dignified.
In no long period after the battle thus commemorated, an abbey,
consecrated to praise and prayer, raised its stately walls on the very
field that was ploughed with the strife and watered with the blood of
fierce and evil men. The air that erst rang with the sound