II
The Old Gods of the Northern Hall
Are in their narrow room.
Their thrones are flanked of spearmen tall,
The three that have them in their thrall,
Sit silently before them all,
They weave upon their loom;
And round about them as they weave
The Scalds sing doom.
III
The Bastard out of Normandy
Was angry for his wrong.
His eyes were virginal to see,
For nothing in his heart had he
But a hunger for his great degree;
And his back was broad and strong
As are the oxen of the field,
That pull the ploughs along.
IV
He saw that column of cavalry wheel,
Split outward, and deploy.
He heard, he heard the Oliphant peal.
He crooked an angry knee to feel
The scabbard against his gilded heel.
He had great joy:
And he stood upright in the stirrup steel.
Because he was a boy.
. . . . . .
We faced their ordering, all the force,
And there was little sound;
But Haribert-Le-Marshall’s horse
Pawed heavily the ground.
V
As the broad ships out of Barbary
Come driving from the large,
With yards a-bend and courses free,
And tumbling down their decks a-lee,
The hurrahing of the exultant sea,
So drave they to the charge.
But the harsh raven of the Old Gods
Was on the rank sea-marge.
VI
The Old Gods of the Northern Hall
Are crownéd for the tomb.
Their biers are flanked of torches tall,
And through the flames that leap and fall
There comes a droning and a call
To the night’s womb,
As the tide beneath a castle wall
Goes drumming through the gloom.