Proud are the guests, august the day;
And princes of the realm attend
The triumph of their sovereign's friend;--
Triumph of stratagem and fight
Gain'd o'er a young and gallant knight,
Who, the last fort compell'd to yield,
Perish'd, despairing, in the field.

The Norman Chief, whose sudden blow
Had laid fair England's banner low;
Spite of resistance firm and bold
Secur'd the latest, surest hold
Its sceptre touch'd across the main,
Important, difficult to gain,
Easy against her to retain;--
Baron de Brehan--seem'd to stand
An alien in his native land;
One whom no social ties endear'd
Except his child; and she appear'd
Unconsciously to prompt his toil,--
Unconsciously to take the spoil
Of hate and treason; and, 'twas said,
The pillage of a kinsman dead,
Whom, for his large domain, he slew:
'Twas whisper'd only,--no one knew.
At tale of murderous deed, his ear
No startling summons seem'd to hear;
Yet should some sudden theme intrude
Of friend betray'd--ingratitude;--
Or treacherous counsel--follies nurs'd