eaks of fear or comfort to the heart
When all is still! But shroud thee in this cave
Till morning: such a sojourn may not please
A courtly knight, like echoing halls of joy. 217
I have but some wild roots, a bed of fern,
And no companion save this bloodhound here,
Who, at my beck, would tear thee to the earth;
Yet enter--fear not! And that poor abode
The proud knight entered, with rain-drenched plume.
Yet here I dwell in peace, the woman said,
Remote from towns, nor start at the dire sound
Of that accursed curfew! Soldier-knight,
Thou art a Norman! Had the invader spurned
All charities in thy own native land,
Yes, thou wouldst know what injured Britons feel!
Nay, Englishwoman, thou dost wrong our king,
The knight replied: conspiracy and fraud 230
Hourly surrounding him, at last compelled
Stern rigour to awake. What! shall the bird
Of thunder slumber on the citadel,
And blench his eye of fire, when, looking down,
He sees, in ceaseless enmity combined,
Those who would pluck his feathers from his breast,
And cast them to the winds! Woman, on thee,
Haply, the tempest of the times has beat
Too roughly; but thy griefs he can requite.
The indignant woman answered, He requite! 240
Can he bring back the dead? Can he restore
Joy to the broken-hearted? He requite!
Can he pour plenty on the vales his frown
Has blasted, bid sweet evening hear again
The village pipe, and the fair flowers revive
His bloody footstep crushed? For poverty,
I reck it not: what is to me the night,
Spent cheerless, and in gloom and solitude?
I fix my eye upon that crucifix,
I mourn for those that are not--for my brave, 250
My buried countrymen! Of this no more! 251
Thou art a foe; but a brave soldier-knight
Would scorn to wrong a woman; and if death
Could arm my hand this moment, thou wert safe
In a poor cottage as in royal halls.
Here rest a while till morning dawns--the way
No mortal could retrace:--'twill not be long,
And I can cheat the time with some old strain;
For, Norman though thou art, thy soul has felt
Even as a man, when sacred sympathy 260
This morning led thee to King Harold's grave.
The woman sat beside the hearth, and stirred
The embers,