this idle Minstrel stay?
Proud are the guests, august the day;
And princes of the realm attend
The triumph of their sovereign's friend;--
Triumph of stratagem and fight
Gain'd o'er a young and gallant knight,
Who, the last fort compell'd to yield,
Perish'd, despairing, in the field.

The Norman Chief, whose sudden blow
Had laid fair England's banner low;
Spite of resistance firm and bold
Secur'd the latest, surest hold
Its sceptre touch'd across the main,
Important, difficult to gain,
Easy against her to retain;--
Baron de Brehan--seem'd to stand
An alien in his native land;
One whom no social ties endear'd
Except his child; and she appear'd
Unconsciously to prompt his toil,--
Unconsciously to take the spoil
Of hate and treason; and, 'twas said,
The pillage of a kinsman dead,
Whom, for his large domain, he slew:
'Twas whisper'd only,--no one knew.
At tale of murderous deed, his ear
No startling summons seem'd to hear;
Yet should some sudden theme intrude
Of friend betray'd--ingratitude;--
Or treacherous counsel--follies nurs'd
In ardent minds, who, dying, curs'd
The guileful author of their woes;
His troubled look would then disclose
Some secret anguish, inward care,
Which mutely, sternly, said, Forbear!

He spake of policy and right,
Of bold exploits in recent fight,--
Of interest, and the common weal,
Of distant empire, slow appeal.
Skill'd to elicit thoughts unknown
In other minds, and hide his own,
His brighter eye, in darting round
Their purposes and wishes found.
Praises, and smiles, and promise play'd
Around his speech; which yet convey'd
No meaning, when, the moment past,
Memory retold her stores at last.

Courtiers were there, the old and young,
Of high and haughty lineage sprung;
And jewell'd matrons: some had been,
Erewhile, spectators of a scene
Like this, with mien and manners gay;
Who now, their hearts consum'd away,
Held all the pageant in disdain,
And seem'd to smile and speak with pain.
Of such were widows, who deplor'd
Husbands long lost, but still ador'd;
To grace their children, fierce and proud,
Like martyrs led into the crowd:
Mothers, their sole remaining stay,
In some dear son, late snatch'd away;
Whose duty made them bette