Alfred An Heroic Poem, in Twenty-Four Books. By Joseph Cottle: 4th ed. |
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 | Alfred |  |
‘Presumptuous man!
‘Ivar disdains to jeer thee! I will now
‘Talk to thee serious. Has thy king ne'er heard
‘The laws we honour, and the gods we serve;
‘That he should thus upbraid the true-born Dane
‘With loving blood too fondly? Dost thou know
‘What Odin to the faithful warrior speaks
‘In dreams and darkness—mid the raging storm
‘When, roused from slumber Ocean lifts his head,
‘Warring with winds that lash him?—Take thy sword,
‘Go forth and war! Fear but the coward's name,
‘And tho' in many a prostrate victim's heart
‘Thy sword be bathed, go on to devastate!
‘Scorn mercy! hear the pleader's voice in vain!
‘And ever when thy heart, shrinks on itself,
‘And pity whispers—think thou of the joys
‘Valhalla boasts, where never mortal came
‘Who waded not through blood, who never met
‘The foe in battle, and inured his soul
‘To deathful enterprize?’ What halls hast thou?
‘What object so commanding? motive, what,
‘To spur thee on to action? or delights
‘Compared to those we hope for, when, 'mid gods,
‘We join the valiant, and from hostile skulls
‘With songs and rapture, quaff th' immortal mead?
‘These are our hopes, oh Saxon! these the views
‘That urge us on to glory. Now declare
‘What more thy monarch said! for I would hear,
‘Albeit it make me smile and frown, like one
‘Who sees his sire, toiling amid the waves,—
‘Now mounting high, now buried from his sight.’
‘Ivar disdains to jeer thee! I will now
‘Talk to thee serious. Has thy king ne'er heard
‘The laws we honour, and the gods we serve;
‘That he should thus upbraid the true-born Dane
‘With loving blood too fondly? Dost thou know
‘What Odin to the faithful warrior speaks
‘In dreams and darkness—mid the raging storm
‘When, roused from slumber Ocean lifts his head,
‘Warring with winds that lash him?—Take thy sword,
‘Go forth and war! Fear but the coward's name,
‘And tho' in many a prostrate victim's heart
‘Thy sword be bathed, go on to devastate!
‘Scorn mercy! hear the pleader's voice in vain!
‘And ever when thy heart, shrinks on itself,
‘And pity whispers—think thou of the joys
‘Valhalla boasts, where never mortal came
‘Who waded not through blood, who never met
‘The foe in battle, and inured his soul
‘To deathful enterprize?’ What halls hast thou?
‘What object so commanding? motive, what,
‘To spur thee on to action? or delights
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‘We join the valiant, and from hostile skulls
‘With songs and rapture, quaff th' immortal mead?
‘These are our hopes, oh Saxon! these the views
‘That urge us on to glory. Now declare
‘What more thy monarch said! for I would hear,
‘Albeit it make me smile and frown, like one
‘Who sees his sire, toiling amid the waves,—
‘Now mounting high, now buried from his sight.’
| Alfred | |