The battle-field of Hastings

Text by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)
Translated into English by Joseph Massaad 

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The Abbot of Waltham was grieved
And bitterly he sighed,
When tidings reached him from Hastings
That Harold the king had died.

Two monks, named Asgod and Ailrik
He sent to Hastings battle-ground,
They were to search among the dead
Till Harold's body had been found.

The monks went sorrowing away,
And sorrowing they came back:
" O Father, our world is grim,
We are running out of luck.

The better man is defeated,
Victor is the bastard knave,
Now armed thieves divide the land,
And each freeman becomes a slave.

The rascal from Normandy now
In the Britain isle is Lord;
I saw a tailor from Bayeux,
Gaily riding with spurs of gold.

Woe to those of Saxon birth!
You saints of the Saxon race,
Up there in Heaven, be careful,
You are not safe from disgrace.

Now we know what was the meaning
Of the great red comet, which this year,
Like a broom of fire, at night,
To our stunned eyes did appear.

The evil star's prediction was
Realized on Hastings plain,
We visited the battle-field
And searched among the slain.

Till every hope had disappeared,
We searched with great attention;
King Harold's corpse, alas!
Escaped our close inspection."

And thus spoke Asgod and Ailrik;
The Abbot miserably cried,
He wrung his hands, sunk deep in thought
And, with a final sigh, replied:

" In the Grendenfield forest's midst
Right beside the poet's stone,
There stands a modest little hut,
It is Edith Swanneck's home.

Because her neck was like a swan's,
She was given such a name;
This beauteous young maid once had
Set King Harold's heart aflame.

He loved, kissed and fondled her, then
Forgot, like a faithless lover;
Time flies, and since the day he left
Full sixteen years passed over.

Go, brothers, to this woman now
And take her to Hastings ground;
With the help of this woman's eyes,
King Harold's body will be found.

And then, to the Waltham Abbey,
The king's body you should bring,
To be buried like a Christian,
And that we for his soul may sing."

At midnight the messengers reached
The hut in the forest, saying:
" O Edith the Swanneck, awake!
And follow without delaying.

The Duke of the Normans has won,
And placed the crown on his head,
And on the Hastings battle-field
Harold, our king, lies dead.

Come with us, to Hastings we go
To seek Harold among the killed
And bring his body to Waltham,
Just as the Abbot has willed."

Edith Swanneck dressed and hurried,
And not one word she uttered;
Following the monks, her graying hair
In the night wind wildly fluttered.

The poor woman followed barefoot,
She followed through swamp and wood,
Till the chalky cliffs at Hastings,
At daybreak, before their eyes stood.

The mist that quilted the battle-ground
Like a white shroud lifted and broke;
The noisy jackdaws flattered up
And one could hear their dreadful croak.

Many thousand corpses laid there,
Scattered on the bloody ground:
Stripped naked and mutilated,
With many dead steeds strewn around.

Now Edith Swanneck had to wade
In the blood, and her feet were bare;
Like an arrow out of her eye,
Shot each of her searching stare.

She searched here, and there she searched,
And halted to scare more than once
The devouring troop of ravens;
Behind her cowered the monks.

She sought the whole livelong day,
Till the dark shades were falling;
When out of the poor woman's breast
A shriek bursts, wild and appalling.

Edith Swanneck had found at last
The body of the slain Monarch;
Kissing his pallid features,
She did not weep, made no remark.

She kissed his brow, she kissed his mouth,
She clasped him ever so tightly;
She kissed the king's bloody breast,
With wounds oozing unsightly.

She also saw on his shoulder,
And promptly covered with a kiss,
Three little scars she once left there,
Three signs of their former bliss.

In the meantime, the monks fastened
Trunks of trees, and a bier was made.
And it is on this wooden frame
That the perished king was laid.

To Waltham Abbey on their marched
To bury the body duly;
Edith Swanneck slowly followed
The man she loved so truly.

Litanies for the dead she sang
In a childlike, pious way;
They rang so fearful in the night.
The two monks began to pray.