Томас Кэмпбелл (Thomas Campbell)

Lines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings

  IN the deep blue of eve,
Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,
  Or the lark took his leave
Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

  I climbed to yon heights,
Where the Norman encamped him of old,
  With his bowmen and knights,
And his banner all burnished with gold.

  At the Conqueror’s side
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,
  In pavilion wide;
And they chanted the deeds of Roland.

  Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires,
  And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshalled our chivalry’s sires.

  On each turf of that mead
Stood the captors of England’s domains,
  That ennobled her breed
And high-mettled the blood of her veins.

  Over hauberk and helm
As the sun’s setting splendor was thrown,
  Thence they looked o’er a realm,—
And to-morrow beheld it their own.

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