Alfred the Great :: :: University of Virginia Library

[Alfred's Study. Alfred is shaping models of long-oared boats, meant to cope with the Danish esks.]
ALFRED.
Not till the Sea hath owned us for its lord,
Will England's shore be free. Hence must we lay
Our rod along the waters till it stretch
Wide as they welter, further than they foam.
Who holds the sea, perforce doth hold the land,
And who lose that must lose the other too,
When wave on wave gleams crested with a foe,
And billows given for safety gape with doom
And ruin for the redeless. Right meseem

Stem, stern, and keel, nigh twice the bulk of those
The Frisians use, and with a sharper sweep.
God grant that I may chase them from the seas,
And gird this island with a watery belt
Not all the world in arms can cleave or cross!

[Enter the Atheling.]
EDWARD.
Unto your bidding, Father, am I come.

ALFRED.
Where were you, Edward, yesterday at noon?

EDWARD.
In Selwood Forest, in its very heart,
Hard by the clearing round the hut where dwells
The neatherd Danewulf.

ALFRED.
And why went you there?

EDWARD.
To greet the loveliest maiden in the land.
Forgive me, Sir! but oh, if you could see
How fair, how—

ALFRED.

Hold! enough! A fault avowed
Is sooth a fault forgiven. Bating untruth,
There is no blot I could not brook in you,
Hoping to mend it. For remember, Edward!
Truth is the free man's weapon, and a lie
Makes him unfree and sinks him to the serf.
I would that in this land, which some day will
Be happier far than I or you can make it,
Truth should be deemed the first and last of virtues.
For truth is justice, fairness, fearlessness,
And is to man as honesty to woman;
And I would liefer see you hewn to death
By Pagan battle-axe than soil your lips
With craven paltering. But, Edward, Edward,
Though lust is not so base as is a lie,
It ofttimes leads thereto; and, even when
It wants that last worst shame, what bane it brings
On households and on kingdoms! Well you know
What brought the perjured Guthrum to this land,
Lured oversea by Biorn Butsecarl,
To be avenged on the adulterous King,
Northumbrian Osberht.

[Edward is about to speak.]

Nay, but let me tell,
For your soul's hale, that in my own hot youth
Flesh with the spirit was so sore at war,
I prayed to God He would in kindness send
Some sickness that might chasten this base fire,
And make me rule-worthy; for he who lives
Thrall unto fleshly bondage is not fit
To be the lord of others; and God sent
A scourge so sharp, that I again besought
Some milder stroke,—not blindness, leprosy,
Nor any hurt unworthy of a King,—
And in His goodness He then laid on me
The burden that you know.

EDWARD.
Father, I swear,
My love for this fair maiden is as clean
As her unblemished soul, and I would fain,
Having your yea, still woo her for my wife.
Nay, but still hear me, you that ever were
Suffering and mild, blithesome and good to me,
Let me go fetch and bring her to your feet!
The coralled hawthorn in the wayside brake,
When Autumn winds have blown the leaves away,

Hath not the ruddy ripeness of her lips.
June's bluebells are not heavenlier than her eyes,
Nor than her cheek more dewy, and her voice,—
The woodwete's is no sweeter when it soars,
And we look up to hear it!

ALFRED.
Need is none
To tell me that. I heard it yesterday,
Between the whiles you wantoned in the wood,
And heeded not the King that crossed your path,
In tattered seeming.

EDWARD.
Your forgiveness, Father!

ALFRED.
Rise, boy! Your love is loyal; and no maid,
That, bred on English soil and fain to bide
By English hearthfire, hath not in her blood
The blur of bondage, can be held unmeet
To grace the bed and settle of a King.
But, Edward, can it be, in these mirk days,
You dally in the dreamy ways of love,

Now that your one fast thought by day, your one
Fond hope when moist sleep loosens all your limbs,
Should be for England! England, none but England
Clean or unclean, this is no time for love.
Where is your sword? I'll have no Atheling
Lulled in the sleek and sleepy lap of love,
When every heart-beat in his body should
Hasten the hour for death-grip with the Dane!

[Enter a Messenger.]
MESSENGER.
A Danish girl, seen slinking by the stream
Trod by your outmost watchers, hath been brought
Into the camp, and claims to see the King.

ALFRED.
Let her within.

[Edgiva enters.]
EDGIVA.
Edward!

EDWARD
(to Edgiva).
The King!

[Edgiva kneels.]

ALFRED
(to EDWARD, sternly).
Go hence!

[Edward quits the King's presence.]
ALFRED.
Rise, child! But wherefore pry you in our land,
So straitened now, that all beyond it feeds
The heathen Army?

EDGIVA.
But I did not pry.
I am as true to Alfred and his name,
As they that roughly clutched and dragged me here,
Because of Danish bracelet round my wrist;
And, since they would not harken, but led on
My footsteps hitherward, I claimed to see
Yourself, the King, and tell you all my tale.

ALFRED.
Tell it me, then.

EDGIVA.
Who was it that you chid
Out of your sight?

ALFRED.
My son, the Atheling.

EDGIVA.
Oh! [She covers her face.]

Why did he come into my lowly life,
And with his April sunshine cozen it
To blossom back to his! It was not worthy.
I pray you, let me fare unto my home,
To Danewulf and my mother, where I may
Forget him utterly, and never more
Hear words of fond untruth.

ALFRED.
Blame him not thus!
He is my son, and, never since he learned
From Saxon mother this our Saxon tongue,
Or spake or thought untruth. He loves too well,
And hence it was I drove him from your sight.

EDGIVA.
'Twas all unwitting that I gave him first
A love-tryst in the forest. Had I known!

But now meseems I know not what I know,
Save that I never will behold him more.
Nay, be a King! and send me to my home!

ALFRED.
We'll think of that to-morrow. For to-night,
You needs must lie in Athelney. But, child,
What sought you when our wardens, overwise,
As witlessness oft is, enforced you here?

EDGIVA.
It was the path whereby he went when last
He looked farewell, and so I trod the place,
Because it seemed to bring me nearer to him;
And, as I did so, luckless that I am,
I dropped and lost upon the river bank,
Or maybe in the stream, the crystal token
Given me by hoary wanderer who had sought
Rest in our hut, and promised, should I seek
His dwelling with that earnest, he would teach me
To spell and read, and make me learned and wise.
Now is it lost, and everything is lost,
And I shall know nor love nor learning now.

ALFRED.
Would you that withered master know again?

EDGIVA.
Sooth, that I should! I never can forget
His look, his voice. His speech was like to yours,
But he was gone in years, and on his brow
Their snows had drifted.

ALFRED.
Maiden, it was I,
Whose business 'tis to learn what mischief may
Be brewing on our borders, so awhile
Misfeatured thus; and you have nothing lost,
Saving the jewel, easily forgone,
And somewhere lost for other days to find,
Time-token of the trouble England bore,
And, bearing, yet will better. I myself,
True to my word, will teach your tongue to read,
And you teach Edward more than thus you learn,—
Since household lore the truest wisdom is,—
When War's loud shuttle shall have woven peace,
And in this England all who love may live

As safe as nest of whinchat in the brake.
But, child, not now, not now! For never think,
Until the howling pack of Pagan wolves
Are flogged to heel or scattered oversea,
To lift and lay your arms about his neck,
Whose service lies elsewhere! What ho! without. [An attendant enters.]

Unto our Lady lead this guest, and say
It is the bidding of the King she be
With the handmaidens pillowed for the night.