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.