But scarcely fade, before, though faint and far,33
Fierce wrathful yells the foe at bay reveal.
On spurs the Saxon, till, like some pale star,
Gleams on the hill a lance—a helm of steel.
The brow is gain'd; a space of level land,
Bare to the sun—a grove at either hand;
And in the middle of the space a mound;34
And on the mound a knight upon his barb.
No need for herald there his tromp to sound!—
No need for diadem and ermine garb!
Nature herself has crown'd that lion mien;
And in the man the king of men is seen.
Upon his helmet sits a snow-white dove,35
Its plumage blending with the plumèd crest.
Below the mount, recoiling, circling, move
The ban-dogs, awed by the majestic rest
Of the great foe; and, yet with fangs that grin,
And eyes that redden, raves the madding din.
Still stands the steed; still, shining in the sun,36
Sits on the steed the rider, statue-like:
One stately hand upon his haunch, while one
Lifts the tall lance, disdainful ev'n to strike;
Calm from the roar obscene looks forth his gaze,
Calm as the moon at which the watch-dog bays.
The Saxon rein'd his war-horse on the brow37
Of the broad hill; and if his inmost heart
Ever confest to fear, fear touch'd it now;—
Not that chill pang which strife and death impart
To meaner men, but such religious awe
As from brave souls a foe admired can draw:
Behind a quick and anxious glance he threw,38
And pleased beheld spur midway up the hill
His knights and squires: again his horn he blew,
Then hush'd the hounds, and near'd the slope where still
The might of Arthur rested, as in cloud
Rests thunder; there his haughty crest he bow'd,
And lower'd his lance, and said—"Dread foe and lord,39
Pardon the Saxon Harold, nor disdain
To yield to warrior hand a kingly sword.
Behold my numbers! to resist were vain,
And flight——" Said Arthur, "Saxon, is a word
Warrior should speak not, nor a King have heard.
"And, sooth to say, when Cymri's knights shall ride40
To chase a Saxon monarch from the plain,
More knightly sport shall Cymri's king provide,
And Cymrian tromps shall ring a nobler strain.
Warrior, forsooth! when first went warrior, say,
With hound and horn—God's image for the prey?"
Gall'd to the quick, the fiery earl erect41
Rose in his stirrups, shook his iron hand,
And cried—"Alfader! but for the respect
Arm'd numbers owe to one, my Saxon brand
Should—but why words? Ho, Mercia to the field!
Lance to the rest!—yield, scornful Cymrian, yield!"
For answer, Arthur closed his bassinet.42
Then down it broke, the thunder from that cloud!
And, ev'n as thunder by the thunder met,
O'er his spurr'd steed broad-breasted Harold bow'd;
Swift through the air the rushing armour flash'd,
And tempests in the shock commingling clash'd!