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        "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.

        The mist, that like a sheet of white

          The field of battle cloaked,

        Melted anon; with hideous din

          The daws flew up and croaked.

        In thousands on the bloody plain

          Lay strewn the piteous corses,

        Wounded and torn and maimed and stripped,

          Among the fallen horses.

        The woman stopped not for the blood;

          She waded barefoot through,

        And from her fixed and staring eyes

          The arrowy glances flew.

        Long, with the panting monks behind,

          And pausing but to scare

        The greedy ravens from their food,

          She searched with eager care.

        She searched and toiled the livelong day,

          Until the night was nigh;

        Then sudden from her breast there burst

          A shrill and awful cry.

        For on the battle-field at last

          His body she had found.

        She kissed, without a tear or word,

          The wan face on the ground.

        She kissed his brow, she kissed his mouth,

          She clasped him close, and pressed

        Her poor lips to the bloody wounds

          That gaped upon his breast.

        His shoulder stark she kisses too,

          When, searching, she discovers

        Three little scars her teeth had made

          When they were happy lovers.

        The monks had been and gotten boughs,

          And of these boughs they made

        A simple bier, whereon the corse

          Of the fallen king was laid.

        To Waltham Abbey to his tomb

          The king was thus removed;

        And Edith of the Swan's Neck walked

          By the body that she loved.

        She chanted litanies for his soul

          With a childish, weird lament

        That shuddered through the night. The monks

          Prayed softly as they went.