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,