He stood like a black suspended wave,
Struck by two adverse gales.

A doubt by superstition nurst,
Made all just thoughts recede;
Frantic he wav'd his sword, and pierc'd
His life-preserving steed!

"Thy prophecies I thus destroy,"
He cried, "thou wretched crone;
Threats on my days no more employ,
But tremble for thy own."

Striding away, his steed he left
In his pure blood to roll,
He quickly, of all aid bereft,
Breath'd out his nobler soul.

The boastful knight, now gay with pride
By his successful crimes,
Floating on folly's golden tide,
Prosper'd in stormy times.

Ungrateful both to man and beast
His sovereign he betray'd,
And lent, ere Harold's empire ceas'd,
The Norman treacherous aid.

The Norman tyrant much carest
This proud and abject slave,