The Norman Horse-Shoe

I.     Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,     And hammers din, and anvil sounds,     And armourers, with iron toil,     Barb many a steed for battle's broil,     Foul fall the hand which bends the steel     Around the courser's thundering heel,     That e'er shall dint a sable wound     On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground! II.     From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,     Was heard afar the bugle-horn;     And forth, in banded pomp and pride,     Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride,     They swore, their banners broad should gleam,     In crimson light, on Rymny's stream;     They vowed, Caerphili's sod should feel     The Norman charger's spurning heel. III.     And sooth they swore, the sun arose,     And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;     For Clare's red banner, floating wide,     Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide!     And sooth they vow'd, the trampled green     Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been:     In every sable hoof-tramp stood     A Norman horseman's curdling blood! IV.     Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil,     That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;     Their orphans long the art may rue,     For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.     No more the stamp of armed steed     Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;     Nor trace be there, in early spring,     Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.