Alfred the Great :: :: University of Virginia Library

And wrinkled by the waves, that, rolling round
Its rough irregular shore, run out and in,
Following it always as though loth to leave,
Nay eager, were they let, to find a way
To its very heart! England! Once Egbert's England,
And his to be again, if Heaven but deign
Use my poor brain and blade to wrench it back
For Christ and Cerdic's race! Northumbria,
Cradle and cloister of the learnëd Bede,
My ne'er seen master! Rude East-Anglia,
Shouldering the ocean, as to push them off
Who dare to come too close: Twice sacred Kent,
Whither came Cæsar first, Augustine next,
To win the isle to Government and God!
Then my own Wessex woods and fastnesses,
Creeks, bays, bluffs, combes, and shoreward-setting streams,
Crowned at their source with burgh and sanctuary
Now menaced by the Dane, and fenced in north
By Buhred's Mercia, Buhred overcome,
And feebly flying where he should have stood,
And won, or died. For all of these were Egbert's.
Aye, and the western shire's once glorious lord,
Adhelm's Geraint, owned Egbert Overlord,

Even to the uttermost point of land where sounds
Nought save the billows shocking herbless crags,
Or seagulls wheeling over wind-lashed waves.
Aye and beyond, where on from Wye to Dee
Runs Offa's Dyke, and Celt with Saxon live
In kindred husbandry,—Grant me, God King!
I Alfred, your weak servant, yet may be
Law to North Wales and terror to Strathclyde,
And thus this side the mist may shape, within,
One England, outward sheltered by the surge
Against the spoiler!

[He folds the map, and takes out his hornbook.]

But enough of hope,
Never made good save seconded by deed,
And deed's forerunner, thought. I broke off here,
So here I must run on; that those who come
After my going may have means to learn
How fared it with their forebears, like to me,
Who strove with lack of learning, spelling out
The time-smudged tales and charters of the Past,
Unto them adding truthful chronicle
Of our own deeds in this our mother-tongue,
Best bond of kinship, that shall weld in one
Jute, Angle, Frisian, aye and these fierce Danes,

Not alien to our cradle, once enforced
To own the lordship of the Saxon sword.

[He resumes the writing of the Chronicle. Meanwhile, Edward and Edgiva have approached the Hut, and are about to enter.]
EDGIVA.
Hist! Mother is within: I hear her voice.
Bide here awhile; I will be back anon.
Quit me not yet! Love still hath more to say.

[Edward remains without. Edgiva, entering, finds her mother upbraiding Alfred for allowing the cakes to scorch.]
EDGIVA.
Nay, mother, but you must not flout him thus.
Heed his gray hairs, look on his furrowed brow,
And that strange something which nor you, nor I,
Nor any of the level breed of folk,
Have in their seeming. 'Tis a scholar's face,
With far-off gaze, away in other lands,
Whither we may not fare nor follow him.
Look on his inkhorn. Nay, be quieted:
I'll rasp the cakes; they're but a trifle singed,
And we shall sup in plenty.

[Danewulf's wife, still muttering her laments, leaves Alfred and Edgiva alone.]

EDGIVA
Heed her not.
She is a faithful housewife, and her thought
Ran on the loaves so keenly, that you feel
The sharpness of its edge.

ALFRED.
And rightfully
She rates my fault. I should have watched the hearth,
Nor failed in the plain task she set me to,
The price of shelter.

EDGIVA
Who would heed such things,
With a great book before him?

ALFRED.
But he should,
My kindly maid, if such his hiring be;
And I am sore to blame. Life's needful work
Should be done best by him that reads and writes,
Not absently forgone; for 'tis no gain

To be in letters wiser than your kind,
Withal in life more witless.

EDGIVA.
Would that I
Could read and write!

ALFRED.

Then so you shall, some day,
And I will be your teacher.

[He observes the golden bracelet on her arm.]

Where, forsooth,
Gat you this armlet?

EDGIVA.
Where myself was got,
In the green cradle of a rocking elm:
Left by a flying father, so 'tis guessed,—
But 'tis a longsome story. Say me when
You'll come and make me bookish, like yourself;
And then together will we watch the cakes,
Nor let them scorch.

ALFRED.

To-morrow am I bound
To the King's Witan, held in Athelney,
Now the May moon is rounding to the full.
And haply many a sevennight will pass
Ere that again my footsteps tend your way.
But see!

[He takes out of the folds of his peasant's smock a polished oval crystal, inlaid with mosaic enamel, green and yellow, representing the outline of a human figure, which is seated, and holds in each hand a lilystalk. On the back of the crystal is a thin plate of gold, on which a flower is indicated. The oval-shaped side of the crystal is surrounded by a setting of gold filigree-work, on which are engraved the words, Aelfred Mec Heht Gewyrcan.]

Take this, my pledge of thankfulness
For service timely paid. Show it to none,
Until, if ever, to the fastnesses
Where Alfred holds his camp, you chance to fare;
Then with it ask of any, they will find
And lead you to the scholar who for now
Prays you Godspeed.

EDGIVA.
Every bright star in Heaven
Shine on your going!

[Alfred quits the Hut, and goes his way. Edgiva comes out to look for Edward, but cannot find him.]
EDGIVA.
O, he has gone, albeit I begged him stay,
And no word said when come he will again,
Leaving me reckon the time without the hope
That makes it shorter.

EDWARD
(from his hiding-place).
Follow, if you can!

[He runs into the forest, Edgiva following, and is recognised by Alfred as he does so.]
ALFRED
(to himself).
Edward! . . . Unkingly boy! In these stern times
To fleet the May thus softly! But, in youth,
As in these springtime saplings of the glade,
Floweth the mead of heedless wantonness,
That will not take life gravely! And the maid?
Sooth, he hath chosen well,—if honestly;
And she, being honest, needs will keep him so,—
Since 'tis the woman that keeps clean the man,—
Till I make inquest of his purposes.

[He passes on.]

EDGIVA.
Stop! stop! I can no more; you are too fleet
For feeble feet to follow!

[She sinks on the ground, and Edward goes back to her.]
EDWARD.
Out of breath!
So, weaker for my wooing! Woo me back!
Not even strength for that, my panting prize,
Whom I have caught since me she could not catch,
So keep within my toils! Buy off the spear,
Or bear it, says the saw.

EDGIVA.
There! there! enough!
You would outdo the doves upon the bough,
And, save you cease, there will be nothing, soon,
To hold a captive.

EDWARD.
Pay lip ransom then,
And so be free, until enslaved again—
Again—again—and ever yet again!

EDGIVA.
Be seemly in your sweetness. Should he turn,
Who dwindles in the distance, he would spy
Your madcap ways, and—

EDWARD.
What! the muttering hind?
What should he reck of Mayday merriment,
That hinders not his going?

EDGIVA.
He a hind!
'Tis a skilled clerk, who reads—and writes—and gave
This crystal to my care. . . . Oh! I forgot!
Show it to none, he said. But you, you are
Only myself—my—

EDWARD.
Well, then show it me.

[She shows him the crystal.]
EDWARD.
The King's!

EDGIVA.
What said you, dear? I did not understand.

EDWARD.
That 'tis a crystal of no common worth.
What said he with the gift?

EDGIVA.

Gift it was not,
Only a token-pledge to make me free
Of Alfred's Camp at Athelney, whene'er
I seek the scholar whom I strove to snatch
From mother's rating when the cakes got singed,
Whileas he bowed intent upon his book,
Instead of heeding them.

[Seeing him still pensive.]

What is it, Edward?

EDWARD.
Nothing, dear maid, save wonder at the wealth
Entrusted to your keeping.

EDGIVA.
Do you fear
The gem is stolen? I can catch him up,
And give it back to him.

EDWARD.
No: better bide;
Choosing a timelier hour to test its spell,
And his who gave it you.

EDGIVA.
He promised me
That I should learn to read; and—

EDWARD.
Nay, forbear!
Nor with sour learning curdle your sweet soul,
Now all as fresh as newly-uddered milk.
Unlettered love is lore enough for you,
And eke for me.

EDGIVA.
But you can read and write;
And, did I read, you then could write to me,
And, did I write, you then of me could read,
Some trusty bearer running twixt us twain,
And keeping us together all the while,
No longer held apart for days on days,

Days—weeks—O, should it stretch into a month,
I could not bear it.

EDWARD.
Yet, forsooth, it may!
Now listen, and be staid! I love you, sweet!
But, when the sword is out, why then farewell
To fondlings of the forest; and the time
Is big with blows of blade and battle-axe;
And, should the looked-for shock be on us soon,
I must be there!

EDGIVA.
Then so indeed must I.

EDWARD.
That, you must not; nor yet to Athelney
Hie, ere I bring, or send, you greeting word.
For, as I trust my sword, do you trust me,
And know that, should it strike as straight and true
As is my purpose, I will bring it back,
Shut in its sheath, and lay it at your feet.

EDGIVA.
When will that be?

EDWARD.
No man can tell his weird.
God knows, Who sits above us, and to Him
I you entrust. So be nor sad nor lone.

EDGIVA.
I never can be lonely nor yet sad
With such a love as yours to hearten me.
Only, I pray you, do not die, nor leave
Me utterly without you. While you live,
I can bear all things.

EDWARD.
Spoken as I wished.

EDGIVA.
I have no wish except to do your wish;
For man is masterful, and so should be,
And I am but a woman; having strength
To hide my weakness, thus to keep you strong,
But feeble all beside. You love me, don't you?

EDWARD.
This morning when I rose to wend your way,
'Twas barely dawn, and herding night had not
Yet folded all her stars. But, as I clove
Straight through the low-lying marsh, then leaped to land,
Tethering my boat among the reedy swamps
Where fish the flapping herons, soon the East
Crimsoned like hedgerose yet but half unclosed,
Then opened, and the day waxed frank and fresh
As she towards whom with hither-hastening feet
I fared, I flew. The treble-throated lark
Shook his wet wings, and, soon an unseen sound,
Carolled his matin at the gate of Heaven.
But whether like a fountain he went up,
Or in melodious spray fell bubbling back,
Upward or downward, still he seemed to trill
“Edgiva” and “Edgiva,” till your name
Soared into space, and summered all the air.
Why do you weep?

EDGIVA.
There is no tongue save tears
To say how happy your fond madness makes me.

EDWARD.
Then, as I crossed the Parrett where it swirls
Swelled by the Ile and Yeo, a mottled trout,
That motionless beneath an alder kept
Its poise against the current, sudden scared,
Flashed like a flying shadow through the stream,
And was no more; and like to it I sped,
Swift up the windings of the wave that points
The pathway to your home. The ladysmocks
Smiled on me as I passed, “She waits! she waits!”
And every wilding windflower that I bruised
Seemed to upbraid the slowness of my feet.
And so I was too soon,—love always is,—
And made a pastime of this flowery chain
To link you to me still when I am gone.
Look! when it fades, frame you another like it,
And then another, that the woven bond
Betwixt us twain may never be undone.

EDGIVA.
Nay, when this wilteth, I will wear it still,
Not round my neck, but nearer, next my heart,
Until you come again.

EDWARD.
Then, now farewell!
See! Kiss my sword, and pray upon your knees
Nightly, and with each quivering of the dawn,
That it may strike as true as is my troth,
For God and England!