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690
Nowe to the warre lette all the slughornes sounde,
The Dacyanne troopes appere on yinder rysynge grounde.

Chiefes, heade youre bandes, and leade.




DANES _flyinge, neare_ WATCHETTE.


FYRSTE DANE.

Fly, fly, ye Danes; Magnus, the chiefe, ys sleene;
The Saxonnes comme wythe AElla atte theyre heade; 695
Lette's strev to gette awaie to yinder greene;
Flie, flie; thys ys the kyngdomme of the deadde.

SECONDE DANE.

O goddes! have thousandes bie mie anlace bledde,
And muste I nowe for safetie flie awaie?
See! farre besprenged alle oure troopes are spreade, 700
Yette I wylle synglie dare the bloddie fraie.
Botte ne; I'lle flie, & morther yn retrete;
Deathe, blodde, & fyre, scalle[93] marke the goeynge of my feete.

THYRDE DANE.

Enthoghteynge forr to scape the brondeynge foe,
As nere unto the byllowd beche I came, 705
Farr offe I spied a fyghte of myckle woe,
Oure spyrynge battayles wrapte ynn sayles of flame.
The burled Dacyannes, who were ynne the same,
Fro syde to syde fledde the pursuyte of deathe;
The swelleynge fyre yer corrage doe enflame, 710
Theie lepe ynto the sea, & bobblynge yield yer breathe;
Whylest those thatt bee uponne the bloddie playne,
Bee deathe-doomed captyves taene, or yn the battle slayne.

HURRA.
Nowe bie the goddes, Magnus, dyscourteous knyghte,
Bie cravente[94] havyoure havethe don oure woe, 715
Dyspendynge all the talle menne yn the fyghte,
And placeyng valourous menne where draffs mote goe.
Sythence oure fourtunie havethe tourned foe,
Gader the souldyers lefte to future shappe,
To somme newe place for safetie wee wylle goe, 720
Inne future daie wee wylle have better happe.
Sounde the loude flughorne for a quicke forloyne[95];
Lette alle the Dacyannes swythe untoe oure banner joyne.

Throw hamlettes wee wylle sprenge sadde dethe & dole,
Bathe yn hotte gore, & wasch oureselves thereynne; 725
Goddes! here the Saxonnes lyche a byllowe rolle.
I heere the anlacis detested dynne.
Awaie, awaie, ye Danes, to yonder penne;
Wee now wylle make forloyne yn tyme to fyghte agenne.




CELMONDE, _near_ WATCHETTE.


O forr a spryte al feere! to telle the daie, 730
The daie whyche scal astounde the herers rede,
Makeynge oure foemennes envyynge hartes to blede,
Ybereynge thro the worlde oure rennomde name for aie.

Bryghte sonne han ynne hys roddie robes byn dyghte,
From the rodde Easte he flytted wythe hys trayne, 735
The howers drewe awaie the geete of nyghte,
Her sable tapistrie was rente yn twayne.
The dauncynge streakes bedecked heavennes playne,
And on the dewe dyd smyle wythe shemrynge eie,
Lyche gottes of blodde whyche doe blacke armoure steyne, 740
Sheenynge upon the borne[96] whyche stondeth bie;
The souldyers stoode uponne the hillis syde,
Lyche yonge enlefed trees whyche yn a forreste byde.

AElla rose lyche the tree besette wyth brieres;
Hys talle speere sheenynge as the starres at nyghte, 745
Hys eyne ensemeynge as a lowe of fyre;
Whanne he encheered everie manne to fyghte,
Hys gentle wordes dyd moove eche valourous knyghte;
Itte moovethe 'hem, as honterres lyoncelle;
In trebled armoure ys theyre courage dyghte; 750
Eche warrynge harte forr prayse & rennome swelles;
Lyche flowelie dynnynge of the croucheynge streme,
Syche dyd the mormrynge sounde of the whol armie seme.

Hee ledes 'hem onne to fyghte; oh! thenne to saie
How AElla loked, and lokyng dyd encheere, 755
Moovynge alyche a mountayne yn affraie,
Whanne a lowde whyrlevynde doe yttes boesomme tare,
To telle howe everie loke wulde banyshe feere,
Woulde aske an angelles poyntelle or hys tyngue.
Lyche a talle rocke yatte ryseth heaven-were, 760
Lyche a yonge wolfynne brondeous & strynge,
Soe dydde he goe, & myghtie warriours hedde;
Wythe gore-depycted wynges masterie arounde hym fledde.