Borne back, and wedged within the ponderous weight60
Of their own jarr'd and multitudinous crowd,
Recoil'd the Saxons! As adown the height
Of some grey mountain, rolls the cloven cloud,
Smit by the shafts of the resistless day,—
Down to the vale sunk dun the rent array.
Midway between the camp and Carduel,61
Halting their slow retreat, the Saxons stood:
There, as the wall-like ocean ere it fell
On Ægypt's chariots, gather'd up the flood;
There, in suspended deluge, solid rose,
And hung expectant o'er the hurrying foes!
Right in the centre, rampired round with shields,62
King Crida stood,—o'er him, its livid mane
The horse whose pasture is the Valkyr's fields
Flung wide;—but, foremost through the javelin-rain,
Blazed Harold's helm, as when, through all the stars
Distinct, pale soothsayers see the dooming Mars.
Down dazzling sweeps the Cymrian Chivalry;63
Round the bright sweep closes the Saxon wall;
Snatch'd from the glimmer of the funeral sky,
Raves the blind murder; and enclasp'd with all
Its own stern hell, against the iron bar
Pants the fierce heart of the imprison'd War.
Only by gleaming banners and the flash64
Of some large sword, the vex'd Obscure once more
Sparkled to light. In one tumultous clash
Merg'd every sound—as when the maëlstrom's roar
By dire Lofoden, dulls the seaman's groan,
And drowns the voice of tempests in its own.
The Cymrian ranks,—disparted from their van,65
And their hemm'd horsemen,—stubborn, but in vain,
Press through the levell'd spears; yet, man by man,
And shield to shield close-serried, they sustain
The sleeting hail against them hurtling sent,
From every cloud in that dread armament.
But now, at length, cleaving the solid clang,66
And o'er the dead men in their frowning sleep,
The rallying shouts of chiefs confronted rang,—
"Thor and Walhalla!"—answer'd swift and deep
By "Alleluia!" and thy chanted cry,
Young Bard sublime, "For Christ and Liberty!"
Then the ranks open'd, and the midnight moon67
Stream'd where the battle, like the scornful main,
Ebb'd from the dismal wrecks its wrath had strewn.
Paused either host;—lo, in the central plain
Two chiefs had met, and in that breathless pause,
Each to its champion left a Nation's cause.
Now, Heaven defend thee, noble Lancelot!68
For never yet such danger thee befel,
Though loftier deeds than thine emblazon not
The peerless Twelve of golden Carduel,
Though oft thy breast hath singly stemm'd a field,—
As when thy claymore clang'd on Harold's shield!
And Lancelot knew not his majestic foe,69
Save by his deeds; by Cador's cloven crest;
By Modred's corpse; by rills of blood below,
And shrinking helms above;—when from the rest,
Spurring,—the steel of his uplifted brand
Drew down the lightning of that red right hand.