The Cymrian's lance smote on the Mercian's breast,43
Through the pierced shield,—there, shivering in the hand,
The dove had stirr'd not on the Prince's crest,
And on his destrier bore him to the band,
Which, moving not, but in a steadfast ring,
With levell'd lances front the coming King.
His shiver'd lance thrown by, high o'er his head,44
Pluck'd from the selle, his battle-axe he shook—
Paused for an instant—breathed his foaming steed,
And chose his pathway with one lightning look:
On either side, behind the Saxon foes,
Cimmerian woods with welcome gloom arose;
These gain'd, to conflict numbers less avail.45
He paused, and every voice cried—"Yield, brave King!"
Scarce died the word ere through the wall of steel
Flashes the breach, and backward reels the ring,
Plumes shorn, shields cloven, man and horse o'erthrown,
As the arm'd meteor flames and rushes on.
Till then, the danger shared, upon his crest,46
Unmoved and calm, had sate the faithful dove,
Serene as, braved for some beloved breast,
All peril finds the gentle hero,—Love;
But rising now, towards the dexter side
Where darkest droop the woods, the pinions guide.
Near the green marge the Cymrian checks the rein,47
And, ev'n forgetful of the dove, wheels round,
To front the foe that follows up the plain:
So when the lion, with a single bound,
Breaks through Numidian spears,—he halts before
His den,—and roots dread feet that fly no more.
Their riven ranks reform'd, the Saxons move48
In curving crescent, close, compact, and slow
Behind the earl; who feels a hero's love
Fill his large heart for that great hero foe:
Murmuring, "May Harold, thus confronting all,
Pass from the spear-storm to The Golden Hall!"[1]
Then to his band—"If prophecy and sign49
Paling men's cheeks, and read by wizard seers,
Had not declared that Odin's threatened line,
And the large birthright of the Saxon spears,
Were cross'd by Skulda,[2] in the baleful skein
Of him who dares 'The Choosers of the Slain.'[3]
"If not forbid against his single arm50
Singly to try the even-sworded strife,
Since his new gods, or Merlin's mighty charm,
Hath made a host, the were-geld of his life—
Not ours this shame!—here one, and there a field,
But men are waxen when the Fates are steel'd.
"Seize we our captive, so the gods command—51
But ye are men, let manhood guide the blow;
Spare life, or but with life-defending hand
Strike—and Walhalla take that noble foe!
Sound trump, speed truce."—Sedately from the rest
Rode out the earl, and Cymri thus address'd:—
"Our steels have cross'd: hate shivers on the shield;52
If the speech gall'd, the lance atones the word;
Yield, for thy valour wins the right to yield;
Unstain'd the scutcheon, though resign'd the sword.
Grant us the grace, which chance (not arms) hath won
Why strike the many who would save the one?"