He enters in. The townsfolk stand
In reverent silence round,
To see the lord of all the land
Take house in narrow ground.
While, in the dwelling-place he seeks,
To lay him they prepare,
One Asselin FitzArthur speaks,
And bids the priests forbear.
`The ground whereon this abbey stands
Is mine,' he cries, `by right.
`Twas wrested from my father's hands
By lawlessness and might.
Duke William took the land away,
To build this minster high.
Bury the robber where ye may,
But here he shall not lie.'
The holy brethren bid him cease;
But he will not be stilled,
And soon the house of God's own peace
With noise and strife is filled.
And some cry shame on Asselin,
Such tumult to excite,
Some say, it was Duke William's sin,
And Asselin does right.
But he round whom their quarrels keep,
Lies still and takes no heed.
No strife can mar a dead man's sleep,
And this is rest indeed.
Now Asselin at length is won
The land's full price to take,
And let the burial rites go on,
And so a peace they make.
When Harold, king of Englishmen,
Was killed in Senlac fight,
Duke William would not yield him then
A Christian grave or rite.
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