Now on the nearest wall the Pale Horse stands;112
Now from the wall the Pale Horse lightens down;
And flash and vanish, file on file, the bands
Into the rent heart of the howling town;
And the Priest paling frown'd upon the sun,—
Though the sky deepen'd and the time rush'd on.
When from the camp around the fane, there rose113
Ineffable cries of wonder, wrath, and fear;
With some strange light that scares the sunshine, glows
O'er Sabra's waves the crimson'd atmosphere;
And dun from out the widening, widening glare,
Like Hela's serpents, smoke-reeks wind through air.
Forth look'd the king, appall'd! and where his masts114
Soar'd from the verge of the far forest-land,
He hears the crackling, as when vernal blasts
Shiver Groninga's pines—"Lo, the same hand,"
Cried the fierce priest, "which sway'd the soothsayer's rod,
Writes now the last runes of thine angry god!"
And here and there, and wirbelling to and fro,115
Confused, distraught, pale thousands spread the plain;
Some snatch their arms in haste, and yelling go
Where the fleets burn; some creep around the fane
Like herds for shelter; prone on earth lie some
Shrieking, "The Twilight of the Gods hath come!"
And the great glare hath redden'd o'er the town,116
And seems the strife it gildeth to appall;
Flock back dim straggling Saxons, gazing down
The lurid valleys from the jagged wall,
Still as on Cuthite towers Chaldean seers,
When some red portent flamed into the spheres.
And now from brake and copse—from combe and dell,117
Gleams break;—steel flashes;—helms on helms arise;
Faint heard at first,—now near, now thunderous,—swell
The Cymrian mingled with the Baltic cries;
And, loud alike in each, exulting came
War's noblest music—a Deliverer's name.
"Arthur!—for Arthur!—Arthur is at hand!118
Woe, Saxons, woe!" Then from the rampart height
Vanish'd each watcher; while the rescue-band
Sweep the clear slopes; and not a foe in sight!
And now the beacon on the Dragon Keep:
Springs from pale lustre into hues blood-deep:
And on that tower stood forth a lonely man;119
Full on his form the beacon glory fell;
And joy revived each sinking Cymrian;
There, the still Prophet watch'd o'er Carduel!
Back o'er the walls, and back through gate and breach,
Now ebbs the war, like billows from the beach.
Along the battlements swift crests arise,120
Swift follow'd by avenging, smiting brands,
And fear and flight are in the Saxon cries!
The portals vomit bands on hurtling bands;
And lo, wide streaming o'er the helms,—again
The Pale Horse flings on angry winds its mane!
And facing still the foe, but backward borne121
By his own men, towers high one kingliest chief;
Deep through the distance roll his shout of scorn,
And the grand anguish of a hero's grief.
Bounded the Priest!—"The Gods are heard at last!—
Proud Harold flieth;—and the noon is past!