And lower'd his lance, and said--"Dread foe and lord, 39 Pardon the Saxon Harold, nor disdain To yield to warrior hand a kingly sword. Behold my numbers! to resist were vain, And flight----" Said Arthur, "Saxon, is a word Warrior should speak not, nor a King have heard. "And, sooth to say, when Cymri's knights shall ride 40 To chase a Saxon monarch from the plain, More knightly sport shall Cymri's king provide, And Cymrian tromps shall ring a nobler strain. Warrior, forsooth! when first went warrior, say, With hound and horn--God's image for the prey?" Gall'd to the quick, the fiery earl erect 41 Rose in his stirrups, shook his iron hand, And cried--"ALFADER! but for the respect Arm'd numbers owe to one, my Saxon brand Should--but why words? Ho, Mercia to the field! Lance to the rest!--yield, scornful Cymrian, yield!" For answer, Arthur closed his bassinet. 42 Then down it broke, the thunder from that cloud! And, ev'n as thunder by the thunder met, O'er his spurr'd steed broad-breasted Harold bow'd; Swift through the air the rushing armour flash'd, And tempests in the shock commingling clash'd! The Cymrian's lance smote on the Mercian's breast, 43 Through the pierced shield,--there, shivering in the hand, The dove had stirr'd not on the Prince's crest, And on his destrier bore him to the band, Which, moving not, but in a steadfast ring, With levell'd lances front the coming King. His shiver'd lance thrown by, high o'er his head, 44 Pluck'd from the selle, his battle-axe he shook-- Paused for an instant--breathed his foaming steed, And chose his pathway with one lightning look: On either side, behind the Saxon foes, Cimmerian woods with welcome gloom arose; These gain'd, to conflict numbers less avail. 45 He paused, and every voice cried--"Yield, brave King!" Scarce died the word ere through the wall of steel Flashes the breach, and backward reels the ring, Plumes shorn, shields cloven, man and horse o'erthrown, As the arm'd meteor flames and rushes on. Till then, the danger shared, upon his crest, 46 Unmoved and calm, had sate the faithful dove, Serene as, braved for some beloved breast, All peril finds the gentle hero,--Love; But rising now, towards the dexter side Where darkest droop the woods, the pinions guide. Near the green marge the Cymrian checks the rein, 47 And, ev'n forgetful of the dove, wheels round, To front the foe that follows up the plain: So when the lion, with a single bound, Breaks through Numidian spears,--he halts before His den,--and roots dread feet that fly no more.