When, swift beneath the flashing of the blade,152
When, swift before the bosom of the foe,
She sprang, she came, she knelt,—the guardian maid!
And startling vengeance from the righteous blow,
Cried, "Spare, oh spare, this sacred life to me,
A father's life!—I would have died for thee!"
While thus within, the Christian God prevails,153
Without the idol temple, fast and far,
Like rolling storm-wrecks, shatter'd by the gales,
Fly the dark fragments of the Heathen War,
Where, through the fires that flash from camp to wave,
Escape the land that locks them in its grave?
When by the Hecla of their burning fleet154
Dismay'd amidst the marts of Carduel,
The Saxons rush'd without the walls to meet
The Vikings' swords, which their mad terrors swell
Into a host—assaulted, rear and van,
The foe scarce smote before the flight began.
In vain were Harold's voice, and name, and deeds,155
Unnerved by omen, priest, and shapeless fear,
And less by man than their own barbarous creeds
Appall'd,—a God in every shout they hear,
And in their blazing barks behold unfurl'd,
The wings of Muspell[10] to consume the world.
Yet still awhile the heart of the great Thane,156
And the stout few that gird the gonfanon,
Build a steel bulwark on the midmost plain,
That stems all Cymri,—so Despair fights on.
When from the camp the new volcanoes spring,
With sword and fire he comes,—the Dragon King!
Then all, save Harold, shriek to Hope farewell;157
Melts the last barrier; through the clearing space,
On towards the camp the Cymrian chiefs compel
The ardent followers from the tempting chase;
Through Crida's ranks to Arthur's side they gain,
And blend two streams in one resistless main.
True to his charge as chief, 'mid all disdain158
Of recreant lithsmen—Harold's iron soul
Sees the storm sweep beyond it o'er the plain;
And lofty duties, yet on earth, control
The yearnings for Walhalla:—Where the day
Paled to the burning ships—he tower'd away.
And with him, mournful, drooping, rent and torn,159
But captive not—the Pale Horse dragg'd its mane.
Beside the fire-reflecting waves, forlorn,
As ghosts that gaze on Phlegethon—the Thane
Saw listless leaning o'er the silent coasts,
The spectre wrecks of what at morn were hosts.
Tears rush'd to burning eyes, and choked awhile160
The trumpet music of his manly voice,
At length he spoke: "And are ye then so vile!
A death of straw! Is that the Teuton's choice?
By all our gods, I hail that reddening sky,
And bless the burning fleets which flight deny!
"Lo, yet the thunder clothes the charger's mane,161
As when it crested Hengist's helmet crown!
What ye have lost—an hour can yet regain;
Life has no path so short as to renown!
Shrunk if your ranks,—when first from Albion's shore
Your sires carved kingdoms, were their numbers more?