The Visions of England | Page 6

mill!

Now on the razor-edge lies
England the priceless, the prize!
God
aiding, the Raven at Stamford we smote;
One stroke more for the
land here I strike and devote!'
Red with fresh breath on her lips came the dawn; and Harold uprose;
Kneels as man before God; then takes his long pole-axe, and goes
Where round their woven wall, tough ash-palisado, they crowd;
Mightily cleaves and binds, to his comrades crying aloud
'Englishmen stalwart and true,
But one word has Harold for you!

When from the field the false foreigners run,
Stand firm in your castle,
and all will be won!
'Now, with God o'er us, and Holy Rood, arm!'--And he ran for his spear:
But Gyrth held him back, 'mong his brothers Gyrth the most honour'd,
most dear:
'Go not, Harold! thine oath is against thee! the Saints look
askance: I am not king; let me lead them, me only: mine be the chance!'
--'No! The leader must lead!
Better that Harold should bleed!
To
the souls I appeal, not the dust of the tomb:--
King chosen of Edward
and England, I come!'
Over Heathland surge banners and lances, three armies; William the
last, Clenching his mace; Rome's gonfanon round him Rome's majesty
cast: O'er his Bretons Fergant, o'er the hireling squadrons Montgomery
lords, Jerkin'd archers, and mail-clads, and horsemen with pennons and
swords:--
--England, in threefold array,
Anchor, and hold them at bay,
Firm
set in your own wooden walls! and the wave
Of high-crested
Frenchmen will break on their grave.
So to the palisade on! There, Harold and Leofwine and Gyrth Stand
like a triple Thor, true brethren in arms as in birth: And above the fierce
standards strain at their poles as they flare on the gale;
One, the old
Dragon of Wessex, and one, a Warrior in mail.

'God Almighty!' they cry!
'Haro!' the Northmen reply:--
As when
eagles are gather'd and loud o'er the prey,
Shout! for 'tis England the
prize of the fray!
And as when two lightning-clouds tilt, between them an arrowy sleet
Hisses and darts; till the challenging thunders are heard, and they meet;
Across fly javelins and serpents of flame: green earth and blue sky
Blurr'd in the blind tornado:--so now the battle goes high.
Shearing through helmet and limb
Glaive-steel and battle-axe grim:

As the flash of the reaper in summer's high wheat,
King Harold
mows horseman and horse at his feet.
O vainly the whirlwind of France up the turf to the palisade swept:
Shoulder to shoulder the Englishmen stand, and the shield-wall is
kept:-- As, in a summer to be, when England and she yet again
Strove
for the sovranty, firm stood our squares, through the pitiless rain
Death rain'd o'er them all day;
--Happier, not braver than they
Who
on Senlac e'en yet their still garrison keep,
Sleeping a long
Marathonian sleep!
'Madmen, why turn?' cried the Duke,--for the horsemen recoil from the
slope;
'Behold me! I live!'--and he lifted the ventayle; 'before you is
hope: Death, not safety, behind!'--and he spurs to the centre once more,
Lion-like leaps on the standard and Harold: but Gyrth is before!
'Down! He is down!' is the shout:
'On with the axes! Out, Out!'
--He
rises again; the mace circles its stroke;
Then falls as the thunderbolt
falls on the oak.
--Gyrth is crush'd, and Leofwine is crush'd; yet the shields hold their
wall:
'Edith alone of my dear ones is left me, and dearest of all! Edith
has said she would seek me to-day when the battle is done; Her love
more precious alone than kingdoms and victory won;
O for the sweetness of home!
O for the kindness to come!'
Then

around him again the wild war-dragons roar,
And he drinks the red
wine-cup of battle once more.
--'Anyhow from their rampart to lure them, to shatter the bucklers and
wall,
Acting a flight,' in his craft thought William, and sign'd to recall
His left battle:--O countrymen! slow to be roused! roused, always, as
then,
Reckless of life or death, bent only to quit you like men!--
As bolts from the bow-string they go,
Whirl them and hurl them
below,
Where the deep foss yawns for the foe in his course,
Piled
up and brimming with horseman and horse.
As when October's sun, long caught in a curtain of gray,
With a flood
of impatient crimson breaks out, at the dying of day, And trees and
green fields, the hills and the skies, are all steep'd in the stain;--
So
o'er the English one hope flamed forth, one moment,--in vain!
As hail when the corn-fields are deep,
Down the fierce arrow-points
sweep:
Now the basnets of France o'er the palisade frown;
The
shield-fort is shatter'd; the Dragon is down.
O then there was dashing and dinting of axe and of broad-sword and
spear: Blood crying out to blood: and Hatred that casteth out fear! Loud
where the fight is the loudest, the slaughter-breath hot in the air, O
what a cry was that!--the cry of a nation's despair!
--Hew down the