e 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 th