 | Poems |  |
11
With hurried step, for many a mile,
Till Selwood's deepening forest spread
Its shadowy branches o'er his head.
He stops. What means, upreared in air,
Denmark's floating banner there?
A group of dusky forms around
Lie stretched upon the leafy ground;
Up they spring from their repose.
Are they friends or are they foes?
Each joyful tongue, and echoing tree,
Hath answer made, “'Tis he, 'tis he.”
Falling at that harper's feet,
They in him their monarch greet;
Loud the shouts of welcome ring,
'Tis Alfred's self—'tis England's king!
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