Then manie Norman knyghtes their arrowes drew,
That enter'd into Merven's harte, God wote.
In dying pangs he gryp'd his throte more stronge,
And from their sockets started out his eyes;
And from his mouthe came out his blameless
And bothe in peyne and anguishe eftsoon dies.
As some rude rocke torne from his bed of claie, Stretch'd onn the pleyne the brave ap Tewdore laie.
And now erle Ethelbert and Egward came
Brave Mervyn from the Normannes to assist ;
A myghtie siere, Fitz Chatulet bie name,
An arrowe drew that dyd them littel list.
Erle Egward points his launce at Chatulet,
And Ethelbert at Walleris set his;
And Egward dyd the siere a hard blowe bytt,
But Ethelbert by a mischaunce dyd miss :
Fear laide Walleris flatt upon the strande,
He ne deserved a death from erlies hande.
Betwyxt the ribbes of sire Fitz Chatelet
The poynted launce of Egward dyd ypass :
The distaunt side thereof was ruddie wet,
And he fell breathless on the bloudie grass.
As cowart Walleris laie on the grounde,
The dreaded weapon hummed oer his heade,
And hytt the squier thilke a lethal wounde,
Upon his fallen lorde he tumbled dead:
Oh shame to Norman armes! A lord a slave,
A captyve villeyn than a lorde more brave!
From Chatelet hys launce erle Egward drew,
And hit Wallerie on the dexter cheek;
Peerc'd to his braine, and cut his tongue in two; There, knyghte, quod he, let that thy actions speak
On Truth! immortal daughter of the skies,
Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies,
Teach me, fayre saincte! thy passynge worthe to
To blame a friend and give a foeman prayse.
The fickle Moone, bedeckt wythe sylver rays,
Leadynge a traine of starres of feeble lyghte,
With look adigne the worlde belowe surveies,
The world, that wotted not it could be nyghte;
Wyth armour dyd, with human gore ydeyd,
Shee sees kynge Harolde stande, fayre Englands
curse and pryde.
With ale and vernage drunk his souldiers lay;
Here was an hynde, anie an erlie spredde;
Sad keepynge of their leaders natal daie!
This even in drinke toomorrow with the dead!
Thro' everie troope disorder reer'd her hedde;
Dancynge and heideignes was the onlie theme;
Sad dome was theires, who lefte this easie bedde,
And wak'd in torments from so sweet a dream.
Duke Williams menne of comeing dethe afraide,
All nyghte to the great Godde for succour askd
and praied.*
*The Englishmen spent the whole night in drinking, singing and dauncing, not sleeping one winke. on the other side the Normans gave themselves to acknowledge their sinnes, and to prayer all the night, and in the morning they communicated the Lord's body.-Stowe.
Thus Harolde to his wites that stoode arounde;
Goe! Gyrthe and Eilward, take bills half a score And search how farre our foreman's campe dothe
Yourself have rede; I nede to saie ne more.
My brother best belov'd of anie ore,
My Leofwinus, go to the everich wite,
Tell them to raunge the battle to the grore,
And waiten tyll I sende the hest for fyghte.'
He saide; the loieaul broders lefte the place,
Success and cheerfulness depicted on ech face.
Slowelie brave Gyrthe and Eilward dyd advaunce
And markd wyth care the armies dystant syde,
When the dyre clatterynge of the shielde and
launce
Made them to be by Hughe Fitzhugh espyd.
He lyfted up his voice, and loudlie cryd;
Like wolfs in wintere did the Normanne yell;
Gyrthe drew hys swerde, and cut hys burled hyde ;
The proto-slene manne of the fielde he felle;
Out streemd the bloude, and ran in smokinge
curles,
Reflected bie the Moone seemd rubies mixt wyth pearles.
A troope of Normannes from the mass-songe came, Rousd from their praiers by the flotting crie; Thoughe Gyrthe and Ailwardus perceevd the
Not once theie stood abashd, or thoghte to flie.
He seizd a bill, to conquer or to die;
Fierce as a clevis from a rocke ytorne,
That makes a vallie whersoe're it lie;
Fierce as a ryver burstynge from the borne ;*
So fiercelie Gyrthe hitte Fitz du Gore a blowe,
And on the verdaunt playne he layde the cham-
pyone lowe.
Tancarville thus;
in Williams name;
Let none edraw his arcublaster bowe.'
Gyrthe cas'd his weppone, as he hearde the same,
And vengynge Normannes staid the flying floe.
The sire wente onne; 'Ye menne, what mean ye so
Thus unprovokd to courte a bloudie fyghte?'
Quod Girthe; Oure meanynge we ne care to
showe,
Nor dread thy duke wyth all his men of myghte;
Here single onlie these to all thie crewe
Shall shewe what Englysh handes and heartes can doe.
Seek not for bloude, Tancarville calme replyd,
Nor joie in dethe, like madmen most distraught;
In peace and mercy is a Chrystians pryde;
He that dothe contestes pryze is in a faulte.
And now the news was to duke William brought,
That men of Haroldes armie taken were;
For theyre good cheere all caties were enthoughte,
And Gyrthe and Eilwardus enjoi'd goode cheere.t
*In Turgotts's tyme Holenwell braste of erthe so fierce that it threw a stonemell carrying the same awaie. J. Lydgate ne knowynge this left out a line.
He sent out before them that should spye, and view the number and force of the enemies, which when they were perceived to be among the dukes tents, duke William caused them to be led about the tents, and then made them good cheere, commanding them to be sent home to their lord safe without harme.-Stowe.
Quod Willyam; Thus shall Willyam be founde
A friend to everie manne that treads on Englysh
ground.
Erle Leofwinus throwghe the camp ypass'd,
And sawe bothe men and erlies on the grounde;
They slepte, as thoughe they woulde have slepte
theyr last,
And hadd alreadie felte theyr fatale wounde.
He started backe, and was wyth shame astownd;
Loked wanne wyth anger, and he shooke wyth
[dyd sound,
When throughe the hollow tentes these wordes
Rowse from your sleepe, detratours of the age!
Was it for thys the stoute Norwegian bledde?
Awake, ye huscarles, now, or waken wyth the
dead.
As when the shepster in the shadie bowre
In jintle slumbers chase the heat of daie,
Hears doublyng echoe wind the wolfins rore,
That neare his flocke is watchynge for a praie,
He tremblynge for his sheep drives dreem awaie,
Gripes faste hys burled croke, and sore adradde
Wyth fleeting strides he hastens to the fraie,
And rage and prowess fyres the coistrell lad;
With trustie talbots to the battel flies, [skies.
And yell of men and dogs and wolfins tear the
Such was the dire confusion of eche wite,
That rose from sleep and walsome power of
wine;
Theie thoughte the foe by trechit yn the nyghte Had broke theyr camp and gotten paste the
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