The monks arose and went sadly forth,
    And returned as heavy-hearted. 
  “O Father, the world’s a bitter world,
    And evil days have started.

  “For fallen, alack! is the better man;
    The Bastard has won, and knaves
  And scutcheoned thieves divide the land,
    And make the freemen slaves.

  “The veriest rascals from Normandy,
    In Britain are lords and sirs. 
  I saw a tailor from Bayeux ride
    With a pair of golden spurs.

  “O woe to all who are Saxon born! 
    Ye Saxon saints, beware! 
  For high in heaven though ye dwell,
    Shame yet may be your share.

  “Ah, now we know what the comet meant
    That rode, blood-red and dire,
  Across the midnight firmament
    This year on a broom of fire.

  “‘Twas an evil star, and Hastings’ field
    Has fulfilled the omen dread. 
  We went upon the battle-plain,
    And sought among the dead.

  “While still there lingered any hope
    We sought, but sought in vain;
  King Harold’s corse we could not find
    Among the bloody slain.”

  Asgod and Ailrik spake and ceased. 
    The Abbot wrung his hands. 
  Awhile he pondered, then he sighed,
    “Now mark ye my commands.

  “By the stone of the bard at Grendelfield,
    Just midway through the wood,
  One, Edith of the Swan’s Neck, dwells
    In a hovel poor and rude.

  “They named her thus, because her neck
    Was once as slim and white
  As any swan’s—­when, long ago,
    She was the king’s delight.

  “He loved and kissed, forsook, forgot,
    For such is the way of men. 
  Time runs his course with a rapid foot;
    It is sixteen years since then.

  “To this woman, brethren, ye shall go,
    And she will follow you fain
  To the battle-field; the woman’s eye
    Will not seek the king in vain.

  “Thereafter to Waltham Abbey here
    His body ye shall bring,
  That Christian burial he may have,
    While for his soul we sing.”

  The messengers reached the hut in the wood
    At the hour of midnight drear. 
  “Wake, Edith of the Swan’s Neck, rise
    And follow without fear.

  “The Duke of Normandy has won
    The battle, to our bane. 
  On the field of Hastings, where he fought,
    The king is lying slain.

  “Arise and come with us; we seek
    His body among the dead. 
  To Waltham Abbey it shall be borne. 
    ’Twas thus our Abbot said.”

  The woman arose and girded her gown,
    And silently went behind
  The hurrying monks.  Her grizzly hair
    Streamed wildly on the wind.

  Barefoot through bog and bush and briar
    She followed and did not stay,
  Till Hastings and the cliffs of chalk
    They saw at dawn of day.