Alfred :: :: University of Virginia Library

Alfred

An Epic Poem, in Six Books. By Henry James Pye

Pye, Henry James (1745-1813)

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Καν αρα συμβη γενομενα ποιειν, ουθεν ηττον ποιητης εστι. Των γαρ γενομενων ενια ουδεν κωλυει τοιαυτα ειναι, οια αν εικος γενεσθαι, και δυνατα γενεσθαι, καθ' ο εκεινος αυτων ποιητης εστι. Aristotle.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY ADDINGTON, FIRST LORD COMMISSIONER OF HIS MAJESTY'S TREASURY, AND CHANCELLOR OF HIS MAJESTY'S EXCHEQUER, &c. &c. &c.

ALFRED.

A POEM.

BOOK I.

ARGUMENT.

Arrival of a Stranger at the Court of Gregor, King of Caledonia.—Ancient Scotish Hospitality.—Summary Account of Events in the Life of Alfred, to his Defeat at Wilton, by the Danes.

While, with unequal verse, I venturous sing
The toils, and perils, of a patriot King;
Struggling through war, and adverse fate, to place
Britannia's throne on Virtue's solid base:
Guardian and glory of the British isles,
Immortal Freedom! give thy favouring smiles.
As, to our northern-clime, thy beam supplies
The want of brighter suns, and purer skies,
So, on my ruder lays, auspicious shine,
“And make immortal, verse as mean as mine.”

Dark was the night, against Forteviot's tower
Howl'd the loud blast, and drove the sleety shower;
In the arch'd hall, with storied drapery hung,
While sacred bards the song of triumph sung,
Scotia's hoar monarch, with his peers around,
The genial board, with social temperance crown'd;
Beside him sat the leaders of his host,
Return'd, exulting, from Ierne's coast;
Where, edged by Justice, his victorious sword
To Donach's brow the regal wreath restored:
When, through the portal, with majestic mien,
A wandering stranger join'd the festive scene:
Vigorous, he seem'd, in manhood's ripen'd grace,
Firm was his step, but sad, and slow, his pace.

Though wet his garments from the driving storm,
Though the rough winds his sable locks deform,
The conscious dignity of noble birth,
Of manly confidence, and inborn worth,
With Valour's generous pride, by Virtue own'd,
Sat on his brow, in silent state enthroned:
But as the sullen mist, with lowering clouds,
The mountain's airy summit often shrouds,
So, o'er his face, dark Sorrow's shadows lie,
Pale the warm cheek, and dim the radiant eye.

Unusual awe pervades the wondering throng,
Hush'd is the laugh, and mute the minstrel's tongue:
When, rising from his seat, the King address'd,
In words of kind accost, the noble guest.

“Stranger, whoe'er thou art, thy form divine
Declares thee offspring of a generous line.—
Ne'er, houseless, at this hospitable gate
Is the night-founder'd wanderer doom'd to wait;
But when the hero, to this mansion driven,
Here seeks a refuge from the inclement heaven,

Our gates unfolding, court the welcome guest,
And warmest Friendship clasps him to her breast:
Come, and with us, a social inmate, share
The plenteous banquet Joy and Peace prepare.”

“Ah! Peace and Joy,” the stranger knight replies,
“Nor chear this bursting heart, nor light these eyes;
The falling deluge and the angry wind,
Are more congenial with this tortured mind,
Than festive mirth—than all the joys that speak
In Music's voice, or glow on Beauty's cheek.—
A suppliant here, before thy throne I stand,
A wretched exile from a ruin'd land;
But the dire tale my accents must disclose,
A series sad of luckless wars and woes,
O let me now repress, nor vainly sour
The social pleasures of the genial hour.”

“Then be it so,” the Scotish monarch cries,
“And, till the morning sun illume the skies,
Defer your tale. If aught your mind oppress
That friendship can assuage, or arms redress,

Prompt are our generous nobles to afford
The lenient counsel, or the avenging sword;
Meanwhile, the festive bowl, and tuneful strain,
Shall raise your drooping strength, and soothe your pain.”

He said.—Attendant youths surround the guest,
Throw o'er his storm-drench'd limbs a fresher vest,
Then, by the monarch's side respectful placed,
His manly form the seat of honour graced.
Yet, 'mid the joyous band, he silent mused,
Oft his swoll'n eye the rising tear suffused,
And, ever and anon, a sigh, that stole
Reluctant, spoke the anguish of his soul.

The monarch saw, and bade the choral train
Swell, to the vaulted roof, the warlike strain:
Resounds the spacious dome with martial notes,
And round the walls the song of battle floats.

They sung what Ossian's voice, in days of old,
Of other times, and godlike heroes told;

Warriors, of royal lineage, who, of yore,
From Erin's plains the wreaths of conquest bore;
What time Fingal, to save from Lochlin's spears
Cuchullin's age, and Cormac's infant years,
Led o'er the billowy deep his guardian host,
To combat Swaran, on a hostile coast.
As the skill'd Bards, in rapture loud and free,
Swell'd the bold strain of martial minstrelsy,
Around, the listening Thanes with fierce delight
Recall'd the triumphs of the recent fight,
Where each illustrous chief on Erin's shore
Rival'd the meed of fame his fathers wore.

Now, mingling pity with the warlike lay,
In softer mood the strings symphoneous play,
And paint, enwrap'd in winter's midnight gloom,
The hunter, leaning by the lonesome tomb,
Where rest, in Death's eternal slumber laid,
The youthful warrior, and the love-lorn maid;
While, as the gale in sullen murmur pass'd,
The wan ghost shriek'd in the terrific blast,—

Like scenes of years long flown, the descant stole,
Pleasant, but mournful, o'er the ruffled soul:
For, Memory! thy enchanting light can throw
A gleam of languid joy o'er distant woe.
As the pale moon, through watery mists display'd,
Faintly illumes the billows' darkling shade.

In pathos rising now, the minstrel sung
What wild complaints the warrior poet wrung,
As sad, by Lutha's azure stream, he stood,
And raised his lay divine, in plaintive mood;
Swelling the solemn dirge, for Oscar lost,
To soothe the sorrows of Malvina's ghost:—
“The wild winds roar!—resounds each hollow cave!
Deep murmurs on the strand the rolling wave;
Through the scath'd oak the gust portentous sings;
Spontaneous sound the harp's responsive strings!
Say, does the passing wind awake the lyre,
Or strikes some shadowy hand the dancing wire?
'Tis pale Malvina's ghost that swells the note!
Born on the song, my parting breath shall float.

See, stooping from the clouds, my sires embrace
The last faint remnant of a mighty race.
Why art thou sad, my soul?—The chiefs of yore
Are wafted all to dark oblivion's shore.
As, on the bosom of the stormy deep,
Waves after waves in lapse eternal sweep;
As in the woods that Morven's mountains shade,
Leaves after leaves incessant strew the glade;
Nor shape, nor vestige, of their form retain,
These sunk in earth, those melted in the main;
So fleets of man the visionary pride,
An empty bubble, born on Fancy's tide.
How beauty lasts, let dying Ryno tell;
Could strength, could courage stand, when Oscar fell?
Fingal! the great! the brave! thy days are o'er,
Thy halls, deserted, sound thy name no more.
And say, shall hoary Ossian's fame alone
Stand, while the mighty sink, unsung, unknown?—
Yes, as the oaks of Morven boldly rise,
And throw their giant branches to the skies,
While the dark forest's weaker sons reclined,
Bend to the dust before the infuriate wind;

Ossian thy fame shall rise, shall flourish long,
Born on the enraptured energy of song.”

Here passion's torrent swell'd the stranger's breast,
And all the man of sorrow stood confess'd;
Across his face his robe he drew, to hide,
Of gushing tears, the involuntary tide;
Attentive, Gregor mark'd his struggling pain,
And still'd, with hasty voice, the plaintive strain.

“In vain, O King,” the mournful warrior said,
“To me, is Pity's generous tribute paid.—
If, while thy tuneful bards, in lofty lays,
Sung Caledonia's woes in earlier days;
If, while of chiefs they sung, who erst defied,
In many a field, the Roman tyrant's pride,
Struck by the verse, thou and thy princely peers
Pour'd to the strain the heartfelt praise of tears;
O think what pangs of grief this heart must know,
What tears of sorrow from these eyes must flow,
Which recent and tremendous scenes have view'd,
Of public rapine, and of kindred blood;

Seen Desolation stalk with demon-form,
O'er Albion's fields, and swell the ensanguined storm;
Seen, while her bravest warriors died in vain,
Barbarian victors waste her fair domain,
While Treachery gored, with parricidal hand,
The bleeding bosom of its native land;
Seen each endearing charity of life,
A smiling infant, and a blooming wife,
Torn from these arms, stretch'd to protect, in vain,
Their helpless virtues from a lawless train.—
Forgive these sighs from homebred anguish grown,
Amid my people's wrongs I feel my own.
He vainly boasts a patriot's grief to know,
Whose tears for kindred sufferings never flow.
No!—though my country's wrongs, with venom'd dart,
Strike keenest tortures through this wounded heart;
Still must my bosom feel for ties more near,
Still must Elsitha claim her Alfred's tear.

Struck by the illustrious name, the generous band
Around the King, in aweful silence, stand;

Each, with keen look, the far-famed chief explores,
Heroic lord of Albion's southern shores.
Through every breast a fire congenial ran,
Prompt to avenge the monarch, and the man;
When Gregor thus;—“Great heir of Hengist's line
Thy country's wrongs are ours, thy foes are mine.
The inroads dire of Scandinavia's horde,
And England's woes, and Alfred's victor sword,
Are not to us unknown; but doom'd to rear
On Erin's shores usurp'd, the avenging spear,
Where, joining injured Donach's exiled powers,
I fix'd his ensigns on Eblana's towers,
Unknown the sad reverse thy words relate,
If changeful fortune, or mysterious fate.
Fear not to mar the scene of gay delight,
Or steal our slumbers from the waning night;
The sweets of social joy, or balmy sleep,
Who can partake, if Virtue wake and weep?
Pour all thy sorrows on my listening ear,
Ours be it to avenge the wrongs we hear.”

He ceased, and o'er the hero's troubled soul
A transient beam of happier omen stole;
Hope check'd, awhile, Despondence' smother'd sigh,
And future vengeance kindled in his eye.

“O generous Prince!” he cried, “can speech impart
The strong sensations of this grateful heart?—
Thy words shall live eternal on my breast,
In adamantine characters impress'd.—
If sympathetic Pity wish to know
The tale of England's fall, and Alfred's woe,
Scenes of disasterous conflict I disclose,
And horrid triumphs of Barbarian foes.

“I was not doom'd to feel alone the weight
Which hangs for ever o'er the regal state;—
The oppressor's menace, and the sufferer's groan,
Pursued my footsteps to the English throne;
Raised, in the hour of vengeance, to command
A ruined people, and a ravaged land.—
Not such the promise of my earlier hours,
Sent, by my sire, to Rome's imperial towers,

The sovereign Pontiff, on my infant head,
With mystic rite, the holy unction shed,
Then, smiling, hail'd me, in prophetic strain,
Adopted heir of England's fair domain.
Ah, prophecy of ill! through Sorrow's way,
And Death's dark shade, my path to empire lay.
For ere of youth matured, the opening grace
With its first down, had shaded yet my face,
Three brothers, Albion's hope, wise, mild, and brave,
With their gray sire, I follow'd to the grave.
Young Ethelred the rod of empire bore,
A sword his sceptre, red with Danish gore.
In many a field his vigorous arm was tried,
Where first I learn'd to combat by his side,
While, Honour's guerdon, on my stripling thigh
He bound the glorious blade of chivalry.

Soon was I call'd, the illustrious toil to prove,
Champion, at once, of Glory and of Love.
Burthred, of Mercia tributary lord,
Shrunk from the fury of the Danish sword;
Swift, to his aid, the King his squadrons sped,
My youthful arm the gallant succours led,
Fame crown'd my first attempt, the rude invader fled.
There Beauty fair, to fairer Virtue join'd,
First caught my ardent eye, and fix'd my mind;
By mutual vows, and mutual passion tied,
I, to the altar, led my blooming bride.
Elsitha! bless'd with every female grace,
An angel's goodness, and an angel's face,
Where dost thou wander now?—Thy gentle form
Exposed to rude Misfortune's wildest storm;
Perhaps, the prize of rapine, and of war,
Born far from England's shores, from Alfred far!
Forgive my weakness, but the tear will start,
The struggling sigh will speak the bursting heart.

“Short was the festive scene of nuptial joy,
New combats soon our labouring swords employ:
Barbarian hosts, wafted by every gale,
O'er Albion's desolated realms prevail.
From Mercia's fields I trace my march again,
To join my King on Wessex' native plain.
The insulting Dane's ill-omen'd ravens fly
O'er fair Berrochia's hills, and flout the sky.
Aloft, on verdant Ashdown's breezy height,
In close array, embattled for the fight,
Scorning our force the exulting victors stand,
Rich, in the plunder of a ruin'd land.

“With fervent prayer while, seeking Heavenly aid,
His pious orisons my brother paid,
Against my sever'd force the wary foe
Pour'd his full ranks, and aim'd the unequal blow.
Full many a wistful look across the glade
I threw, to seek the loitering squadron's aid.—
In vain I threw—no squadron's aid I found,
Fierce Denmark's black battalions swarming round.

Too well I knew imperious Duty's claim,
To barter Albion's weal for empty fame;
But since nor flight, nor skill, could hope afford,
Despairing Valour sternly grasp'd the sword.
My files condensed, I bade the ensigns move,
The hovering foe still threatening from above.
Ardent, but firm, my troops, in close array,
Urge, up the grassy steep, their toilsome way.
A single thorn-tree, rugged, scath'd, and low,
Which stood conspicuous on the green hill's brow,
Mark'd the dread scene of combat,—War's red tide
Alternate ebb'd and flow'd on either side:
As fierce the conflict, and the din as loud,
As when, o'er Heaven's dark vault, in nitrous cloud,
Thick vapours, raised by adverse winds afar,
Spread the wild roar of elemental war.

The Dane elate, and zealous to maintain,
By blood and carnage won, his lawless reign;
The Saxon, hopeless, yet resolved to scale,
Though host on host his front and flank assail,
The steepy mountain's height; and snatch the wreath,
If not of conquest, yet of glorious death;
For every tender feeling, which possess'd,
Gives life's too bitter cup its only zest;
Which, torn away, is torn each social care,
And hope's last beam is whelm'd in black despair;
Friends, freedom, honour, country, all afford
Nerve to the arm, and temper to the sword.

“Heaven aids the juster cause; as lightning fierce,
The Danish line our bands victorious pierce:
Along the hills the foe astonish'd flies,
And hostile blood the thirsty herbage dies.
Death marks his progress o'er the ensanguined glade,
Till Night, ascending, spreads her welcome shade.
There Scandinavia many a chief shall mourn;
In vain her dames shall wait their lords' return.

There the proud King, stern Basseg, yields his breath,
By many a gallant noble join'd in death.
There, old in arms, the veteran Sidroc died,
His youthful brother bleeding by his side:
There Osbern sunk, his memory fame shall grace,
Unstain'd by crimes, amid a cruel race,
Lamented sunk the generous and the brave;—
Nor could his strength gigantic Fræna save.
There Harold fell, whose sires, in times of yore,
With warlike arm Norwegia's sceptre bore.

“Day after day, with oft repeated blow,
Our victor arms pursued the scatter'd foe.—
Short was the triumph, with exhaustless tide
Unnumber'd hordes the waste of war supplied.
In vain, forth issuing on the billowy main,
Our barks, victorious, met the hostile train,

Staid in their mid career the invading host,
And wreck'd their hopes on Albion's stormy coast;
While wondering Ocean saw his sea-green flood
By floating corses choked, and stain'd with blood.—
Crouds, on the evening wave in safety born,
Repair'd the useless slaughter of the morn.

“As clouds on clouds, in dark succession driven,
Shade the wide concave of the wintry Heaven,
While, with vain power, the struggling orb of day
Sheds, through the dim expanse, a transient ray,
So useless valour glows, with feeble light,
Quench'd in Adversity's surrounding night.—
With unremitting, though with hopeless zeal,
Nobly devoted for the general weal,
A breathing barrier, 'gainst a sea of blood,
For England, Ethelred unshaken stood;
For England too, with all a patriot's pride,
My friend, my brother, and my monarch, died.

“No joy of sway my opening reign adorns,
A robe of mourning, and a crown of thorns.
For the vow'd fealty of the Saxon lord,
Gleam'd Desolation's flame, and Murder's sword;
For the loud anthem, and the festive strain,
Rose the dire shriek of Terror and of Pain!

“Swoll'n with success, elate in gathering force,
War's crimson deluge urged its fatal course;
With heart-felt anguish, and desponding soul,
I saw the mighty ruin nearer roll:
I threw my eye, with anxious search, around,
Nor chance of flight, nor hope of succour found.—
Useless, by gold's inglorious means, to try
Precarious peace, on shameful terms, to buy;
Too often had I seen the faithless tribe
Pursue the plunder, though they grasp'd the bribe.—
Yet, though dismay'd, not abject in despair,
Resolved the last resort of arms to dare,
I call'd my peers and hardy serfs around;
Eager they crowd at Glory's cheering sound.—

Brave Ethelwood, of Ebor's hills the pride,
Led his indignant veterans to my side,
Supreme in deeds of arms, in grace of art,
The boldest warrior, with the gentlest heart.
Siward and Edgar join'd the impatient host,
And valiant Oddune, lord of Devon's coast.
By glory urged, from Wyndham's far domain,
And regions border'd by the eastern main,
His gallant powers the loyal Aylwaid draws,
Happy to combat in his monarch's cause:
Though, distant from the foe, no alien band
Destroy his scatter'd herds, or waste his land,
He sees his country bleed, his King distress'd;
And virtue feels, and courage acts the rest.
But high above his peers, with fiery boast,
And threat vindictive, Ceolph led his host.
Semblance of vengeance!—in his traitor heart
Pale Envy's hand had fix'd the rancorous dart.

Long had his ardent mind in secret plann'd
Schemes of imperial grasp, and high command;
And when my hoary sire's approving voice,
Confirming, by his own, a people's choice,
Raised valiant Burthred to the Mercian crown,
Due to his race, his worth, his high renown,
Ceolph, by wild Ambition's fiends subdued,
With jealous eye the splendid burthen view'd,
His wide demesnes, and rural swains among,
In silence, brooding o'er the imagined wrong.—
But as Invasion's tempest louder rose,
Assuming sorrow for his country's woes,
Around, in arms, his warlike bands he drew,
Then to my aid with speed, insidious flew,
Seem'd, more than all, for Albion's wrongs to feel;
And mask'd his black designs in patriot zeal.

“As o'er the glittering van my eye I threw,
Hope's cheering flame rekindled at the view:
‘Brave sons of England's ancient fame,’ I cried,
‘At once your country's safety and its pride,

‘By me that country speaks.—Distress'd, forlorn,
‘By inroad fierce, and fiercer faction, torn;
‘All that to man, delight and peace can yield,
‘Debased, insulted, chides you to the field.
‘No hope for us but in our swords must lie,
‘Our only refuge, death or victory.
‘Though full and strong yon ranks; in Heaven's high hand,
‘Of human deeds, the uncertain issues stand.—
‘Our bands, though no angelic warrior guide,
‘No thunder roll tremendous on our side,
‘Yet potent still the eternal arm to save,
‘Aiding the strong exertions of the brave.
‘Be it ours with hearts, by fear untamed, to dare
‘The stormy conflict of the thickening war;
‘Brave the fierce squadrons with undaunted breast,
‘Act as we ought, and leave to Heaven the rest.
‘Still prompt to follow Freedom's holy call,
‘Her guards in life, her martyrs in our fall.’

“A sullen murmur from the army broke,
Which Vengeance, mix'd with temperate courage, spoke;

Inspired by Glory, one congenial soul
Shoots through the ranks, and animates the whole.
In solemn silence now the firm array
Urge, to the adverse host, their steady way;
Mounting the upland brow, whence Awe surveys
The rocks, stupendous, rear'd in ancient days,
Whose shapes gigantic, to the traveller's eyes,
O'er Wilton's plains, in distant prospect, rise,
Where, to his God, though dimm'd by error's shade,
Mysterious rites the holy Druid paid.—
Our sight, indignant, o'er the scene we throw,
Where Alun laves the extended fields below.
There fanes, and villages, and cities lie,
One smoaking ruin, to the astonish'd eye.
Vindictive Rage, by sighs of Pity fann'd,
Darts, like the flash of Heaven, along the band;
I mark'd the effect, and gave the expected word,—
Swift, down the steep, the impatient warriors pour'd.

Not swifter from the sky's empyreal height,
Where his strong eye-balls drink the solar light,
Stoops the proud eagle on the scatter'd train
Of crows, and choughs, that scream along the plain.

“The plunderers quit their spoil, collect their force,
And countless myriads swarm to check our course;
Thick as the insect multitudes that fly
O'er the clear brook, in Summer's evening sky;
Fierce as the hornets, born on quivering wing,
With hum terrific, and with venom'd sting.—
The armies shock.—Here with tremendous clang,
That loud through echoing hills and vallies rang,
Dread as the wintry torrent, sweep along,
In iron deluge, Scandinavia's throng:
There, in firm phalanx, with protended lance,
Silent, and close, the Saxon lines advance.
Keen was the conflict, but the unerring blows
Of martial skill, o'er brutal fury rose.—
Untrain'd to order, as uncheck'd by fear,
The Danes, enfuriate, brave the English spear.

By rage unruffled, though in vengeance warm,
A breathing bulwark 'gainst the sanguine storm,
Our warriors stand;—fell slaughter stalks around,
And piles, with bleeding infidels, the ground.

“Already Conquest o'er our dauntless few
Soaring aloft, with favouring pinion, flew;
When Ceolph wheels his parricidal band,
And joins the spoilers of his native land;
On our own ranks his arms the traitor bends,
And basely gores the bosom of his friends.
At once mistrust through all our squadrons spreads,
Each from his neighbour's hand a death-wound dreads.
Dismay'd, and scatter'd o'er the fatal plain,
In wild disorder speeds our vanquish'd train;
Each hears behind him, as he breathless flies,
The insulting clamour of the victor's cries,
While fugitives unnumber'd press the ground,
And die by Infamy's inglorious wound.

“With ineffectual arm, I vainly tried
To stem, of foul defeat, the o'erwhelming tide.

In vain, amid the battle's rudest strife,
Frantic with rage, and prodigal of life,
Rashly I plunged; with hope some friendly dart
Might drink the life-blood from my bursting heart.
Though Death triumphant, in his ghastliest form,
Exulting rode, amid the crimson storm,
I could not find him in his loudest yell,
Or meet his arrows where they thickest fell.

“Now sunk the last pale gleam of evening's ray,
And favouring darkness spread its ebon sway.
No more the giant voice of battle spoke,
But distant sounds in dying murmurs broke:
Hush'd all around, save where a parting breath
The horrid silence pierced, with groans of death.
Pensive I drank chill Midnight's baleful air,
In all the agonies of dumb despair;
For,—every gleam of prosperous fortune lost,
Wreck'd the last sad remains of Albion's host,
Each hope extinguish'd, all assistance fled,
No sheltering roof to shroud my war-worn head,—

I too must fly—must leave my native land
To the wild insult of a ruffian band;
Condemn'd on foreign shores, from foreign grief,
Precarious aid to court, and mean relief;
A wretched life to keep, while Honour's law
Stamps infamy on every breath I draw.—
‘No! shame to arms!—to manhood shame!’ I cried;
‘Where is the patriot's zeal, the soldier's pride?—
‘From woes like these to endless rest I fly,
‘He only suffers shame who fears to die.’
Sudden my sword I grasp; the shining blade,
Gilt by a moon-beam, gleams amid the shade.
As on the fatal brand I gaze, while roll
Contending passions through my anxious soul,
Now my rash mind, by impious Frenzy stung,
My purpose now check'd by Religion's tongue;
Lo! with preluding groans that pierced the air,
A hollow voice, sepulchral, cried, ‘Forbear!’
The dreadful summons chill'd my curdling blood,
Upright my hair in horrid bristles stood;
An icy languor crept through every vein,
My powers no more the useless sword retain,

O'er every limb a death-like torpor stole,
Shrunk were my sinews, and unman'd my soul.—
Another groan succeeds,—again the air
The solemn mandate wafts;—‘Alfred! forbear!—
‘I, too, by glorious wounds, for England die,
‘The bleeding sacrifice of perfidy.
‘But could this arm the sword and faulchion wield,
‘Could these feet bear me from this sanguine field,
‘Fired by the hopes of vengeance, on the foe,
‘Proud would I live through pain, and shame, and woe;
‘Pain, shame, and woe, with endless fame were fraught,
‘If, by such means, were Albion's safety wrought;
‘While Infamy, in fiend-like semblance dress'd,
‘Sits on successful Treason's gilded crest.
‘Though now I feel the ruthless arm of Death
‘Check life's warm tide, and stop my labouring breath;
‘Above that pang, the heavier pang I feel
‘To speak, to act no more, for England's weal.—
‘Yet mine a private claim.—A people's wrong
‘On Alfred calls, and, with an angel's tongue
‘The widows, orphans, of yon slaughter'd band
‘Implore, demand redress, from Alfred's hand.

‘From Alfred's hand yet closer, dearer ties,
‘Widow, and orphan too, if Alfred dies,
‘Protection claim;—shall thy rash haste presume
‘To leave such duties for a guilty tomb?—
‘All look to thee:—assert thy injured throne,
‘Avenge thy people's wrongs, avenge thy own;
‘So shall the keenest pangs I suffer cease,
‘And Aylwaid breathe his parting sigh in peace.’

“Here Death's stern summons, with relentless power,
Closed the last moment of life's ebbing hour;
And, by the moon's wan lustre, on the glade
As my sad eyes saw lifeless Aylwaid laid
A glorious sacrifice for England's weal,
Kneeling beside the corse, with pious zeal
I cried, ‘Brave martyr in thy country's cause!
‘Thou bleeding victim for her rights and laws!
‘Through all my veins thy dying accents thrill,
‘As the dread mandate of the eternal will.—
‘That mandate be obey'd;—This wretched life,
‘Preserved, through wonders, in the recent strife,

‘I deem a pledge, by boundless Mercy given,
‘And consecrate to England and to Heaven.’

“Lonely, and sad, to Burthred's friendly towers,
The much-loved mansion of my happier hours,
Where, in fraternal love, Elsitha's charms
Had sought a refuge from the storm of arms,
I bent my steps.—Alas! those towers no more
To Alfred ope the hospitable door;
There Ceolph's treacherous arms, by Fortune crown'd,
From Faction's hand the prize of empire found,
And Burthred, left by all, distress'd, alone,
Silent forsook his abdicated throne;
Each hope of fame, of power, of vengeance, lost,
A wandering exile on a distant coast.

“Elsitha! lovely consort of my heart!
From thee, from all I value, doom'd to part,
Uncertain of thy fate, while thought forbears
To image half the horrors that it fears,
Awhile with desultory pace I stray,
Fix'd to no point, as Chance directs my way.
My southward course the unbridled rage of war,
And barbarous foes, and faithless vassals, bar.
O'er many a blasted heath and mountain drear
Wandering, behold the wretched Alfred here!
I come to Caledonia's kindred plains,
Where generous Pity dwells, for Gregor reigns,
Secure to find, in his high-trophied walls,
Heroes to fly where suffering Virtue calls.”

Forthuir-tabacht. Now Forteviot, near the river Ern, south of Perth; the chief residence of the Pikish kings, after the recovery of Lothian in 684.

Pinkerton on the History of Scotland, Vol. II. p. 177.

For a treaty offensive and defensive against the Danes, between Alfred and Gregory the Great, see Buchannan. “Pax his regibus est facta ut peregrinum hostem communibus auxiliis propulserent.” Ed. Edinb. folio, 1582. p. 62

Duneanus, sive Donatus, sive Donachus. Buchan. Ibid. “Gregory, during the life of Alfred, invaded Ireland, in aid of Donach, right heir of the crown, defeated the usurper, besieged and took Dublin, and placed Donach on the throne.” Henry, Vol. III. p. 89. 8vo.

“Eodem Anno (A. D. 853, of Alfred's age 5.) Athelwelphus Rex, filium suum Alfredum, magno nobilium, et etiam ignobilium, numero constipatum honorificè Romam transmisit, quo tempore Dominus Leo Papus Quartus Apostolicæ sedi præerat; qui præfatum infantem Ælfredum oppido ordinens, unxit in Regem et in filium adoptionis sibimet accipiens confirmavit” Asser, p. 5.

Ethelnulphus obiit 858. Ethelbaldus 860, et regnum totum occupat Ethelbertus. 866, Ethelberto mortuo, succedit Ethelredus. Chron. Vitæ Alfredi, ad calcem Asserii.

“Alfred succeeded his brother in the twenty-second year of his age; having married the sister of Burthred, tributary King of Mercia, the beautiful and accomplished Elsitha.” Preface to Penn's Battle of Eddington.

This particular description of the scene of battle, so exactly corresponding with the country about White-horse Hill, in Berkshire, is copied from Asser, who had seen the spot. P. 21–23. “Quem nos ipsi propriis oculis vidimus.” In the same place he gives the etymology. “Æscesdun, quod, Latinè, mons fraxini interpretatur.” There is now, insulated in a very open country, a wood of nearly 100 acres, consisting chiefly of ash, on the declivity of White-horse Hill, just under the camp.

“Cecidit ergo illic Bægsceg Rex, et Sidroc ille senex comes, et Sidroc, junior, comes, et Obsbern (Osbern) comes, et Fræna comes, et Harold comes.” Asser, p. 23.

“Tunc Rex Ælfredus jussit cymbas et galeas fabricari per regnum, ut navali prælio hostibus adventantibus obviaret. Crescebat insuper diebus singulis perversorum numerus adeo equidem, ut si triginta ex eis millia una die necarentur, alii succedebant numero duplicato.” Ibid, p. 29.

“Anno 871 pugnatum est apud Redingæ, Æscedunæ, Basingæ, Meretunæ, ubi vulneratus, Ethelbertus post Pascha obiit.” Chron. ad calcem Asseri.

“The Wyndhams are of Saxon origin, descended from Aylwaid, who possessed estates in Wymondham, corruptly Wyndham, in Norfolk, whence the name assumed by his descendants.” E. L.

Stone-Henge. “Here (Wilton) A. D. 371, Ælfred, fighting against the Danes, was, at first, victorious, but the fortune of the battle changing, he was driven out of the field.” Gibson's Camden, p. 90.

“Three several times did they make composition with Burthred, and yet so continually infested his country the whilest, as in the end they drove him to forsake it and go to Rome; where dying, they entirely possessed themselves thereof, and gave it to one Ceolwolfe, an infamous renegado of the Saxons, to hold it only at their direction.” Spelman's Life of Alfred, p. 47.

“Ipso anno, mense Augusto, ille exercitus perrexit in Merciam, et illam regionem Merciam partem dedit Cleolwulfo cuidam insipienti regis ministro, partim inter se divisit.” Asser, p. 30.

Book II.

ARGUMENT.

Succour given by Gregor to Alfred; Donald, Son of Gregor, commanding.—Shipwreck.—Alfred's Refuge in a Herdsman's Cottage,—and afterwards in the Isle of Athelney.

He ceased—but still the accents of his tongue
Persuasive, on the attentive hearers hung:
The monarch and his warlike thanes around
Still listening sat, in silent wonder bound.

As when, in summer skies, the surges sleep,
Till Zephyr gently lifts the rippling deep,
And, smoothly rolling to the silken breeze,
Murmur, with gentle swell, the placid seas;

Then as, with bolder sweep, the freshening gales
Curl the white wave, a hoarser sound prevails;
Till dash'd impetuous on the groaning shore,
Loud, and more loud, the foaming billows roar:
So, by degrees, the tale of sorrow draws
From the chafed breast, soft whispers of applause,
O'er Pity's tear, till indignation rise,
And anger beam from every chieftain's eyes,
Each voice for War's avenging thunder calls,
And shouts of battle echo round the walls.

Long, through the dome, the increasing tumult grows,
When, from his seat, the princely Donald rose;
Donald, the only heir of Gregor's race,
Of Scotia's youth the glory and the grace;
Warm in the spring of life, in virtue warm,
Of blooming feature, and of manly form,
Health tinged his glowing cheek, and vigour strung his arm.

Oft had his skill, in sportive combat shewn,
From veteran arms the meed of conquest won;
Oft would his lance the wolf ferocious gore,
Or pierce, with temper'd point, the mountain boar;
And much he long'd, in some wide-banner'd field,
To die his maiden sword, and argent shield.

As when “the genius of the summer storm,”
Bids midnight-gloom the face of Heaven deform,
And all the gorgeous tints of Nature shrouds
In the dun umbrage of electric clouds;
With vivid flash the forked lightnings fly,
And the deep thunder rolls along the sky:
Yet, fann'd by Zephyr, if the welkin clears,
And through the haze the orb of day appears,
Hush'd is the tempest's roar, that, far and wide,
Rode o'er the ethereal vault in sullen pride,
The wild winds sink to rest, and not a breeze
Ruffles the lake, or sings among the trees:
So, when the royal youth, in act to speak,
Fire in his eye, and blushes on his cheek,

(Fire, nobly glowing at Oppression's view,
Blushes, true Modesty's celestial hue,)
Attention claim'd;—hush'd was each clamorous tongue,
And listening crouds on every accent hung.

“Think not, illustrious thanes!” the youth begun;
“Think not, dread sire! thy subject, and thy son
Stands forth, in such a cause, with artful strain,
To court unwilling warriors to the plain,—
No! when we see a scepter'd hero stand
An earnest suppliant for a ruin'd land;
Suppliant for gentler ties;—and Fancy shows
Of chaste and captive dames the injurious woes,
Can sense of danger, or of toil, controul
The generous fury of the warrior's soul?
Danger but swells the fervid tide of Fame,
And toil and hardship, fan the soldier's flame;
England, o'erwhelm'd by dire Oppression's wave,
Calls, with a voice from Heaven, the avenging brave.
Against our armies, though she oft has stood,
And stain'd our borders with their native blood,

While generous each, in emulative strife,
Alternate wept for many a gallant life,
Yet with the fight the enmity was o'er,
The outrage past, its memory lived no more,
And manly courtesy, to vanquish'd foes,
Wide ope the hospitable portal throws.—
Lives there a youth of Caledonian race,
So lost to Glory's pride, to Honour's grace,
To shrink unmanly from the warlike deed,
When beauty weeps, and captive heroes bleed?
No breath of mine the aspiring flame can raise,
Or swell spontaneous Valour's native blaze:
But, O, my father! if my infant smile
Could ever one lone hour of care beguile,
If thou hast ever joy'd to see thy son
Clad in the spoils his sylvan arms had won;
O sire! O sovereign! let thy favouring breast
Propitious hear thy Donald's first request:
Though thy fond care forbade my youthful hand
To wield the ponderous lance on Erin's strand,
O give me now, to join the valiant train
Who march, avengers of a kindred reign.

Then, as in Alfred's, and in Virtue's right,
We move, in dauntless phalanx, to the fight;
Beneath his banners shall I learn to guide
The impetuous shock of war's enfuriate tide;
Of martial science trace each varied form,
Calm and collected, 'mid the battle's storm;
For Alfred, train'd in War's and Hardship's school,
Has learn'd the headlong rage of youth to rule.—
True Glory's path, by his example shewn,
Should e'er Invasion shake my father's throne,
This happy arm may set my country free,
And Scotland owe her future peace to me.”

“Prop of my failing age,” the monarch cries,
Parental fondness melting in his eyes;
“Too surely though this aged breast must prove,
The anxious throbbings of a father's love,
Since well I know what various dangers wait
The ardent warrior on the field of Fate,
My fondness shall not dim thy warlike fire,
Or check that courage which it must admire.

Go then, my son, from these imperial walls,
The path pursue where Caledonia calls;
In every region, breathing every air,
If Honour ask their aid, her sons are there.—
War-worn, and bow'd by age, to thee I yield
The fame and hazard of this glorious field,
Brave in thy father's, and thy country's right,
Lead forth my hardy veterans to the fight.
And you, ye valiant thanes of honour'd birth,
Illustrious heirs of Scotland's ancient worth,
To your domains, and trophied halls, repair,
Array your loyal clans with martial care,
Thence shall your choice select a godlike train,
Compeers with Donald on the embattled plain,
Heroes, with fresh-earn'd laurels prompt to grace
The ancient fame of Caledonia's race.”

Here in the monarch's anxious bosom strove,
The warrior's ardour, and the parent's love.—
As now his fancy paints his conquering son
Dress'd in refulgent spoils, by valour won,

Now shows him breathless on the ensanguined ground,
Wild War's insulting tempest raging round,
The soldier's pride strives with the parent's fear,
And courage dimly shines through Sorrow's tear.

The warlike guests depart.—From every plain,
Mountain, and woody vale, of Scotia's reign,
Her race of manly hardihood she pours,
Shining in arms, by Perth's imperial towers.
From Inverary's bleak and hoary brow,
Frowning with craggy rocks, and white with snow;
From chill Lochaber's wild and desart plain,
Wash'd by the surges of the northern main;
From Tiviot's flowery vales, whose meads among,
Tweed his pellucid current rolls along;
From Grampian hills, with piny forests crown'd,
And Cheviot's heaths, in future song renown'd,
The generous warriors crowd with fierce delight,
Breathing alarms, and panting for the fight;
Frequent as, when sweet Maia's genial hours,
Bepaint the enamel'd meads with odorous flowers,

Moved by the instinct of industrious care,
The clustering bees swarm through the fragrant air,
Hang o'er the cowslip'd vale, and thymy hill,
And Nature's face with thronging myriads fill.

By manly courage fired, the warriors stand,
Impatient to avenge a sister-land.
Six thousand swains, selected from the rest,
The proud distinction own with beating breast;
Their gallant friends with generous envy glow,
As far as generous minds can envy know:
That Emulation, which its votary leads
To win immortal fame, by virtuous deeds,
Eager to grasp at danger, and at toil,
Reckless of vain applause, and sordid spoil.

Of lineage high, and high in Valour's meed,
Six feudal chiefs their kindred squadrons lead:
Fergus, whose bands, in foreign warfare train'd,
On Erin's fields had recent glory gain'd;
Keneth, whose hardy race were wont to brave,
On the frail bark, the Hyperborean wave;

Glamis, long used the weight of arms to bear;
And, young in war, brave Cawdor's valiant heir;
From Argethelia's hills, Lorn's gallant lord,
Who awed the northern robber with his sword;
And, with his mountain clans, Lochaber's thane,
Red with the slaughter of the invading Dane.
O'er these, in chief, young Donald held command,
And, as his eye along the gleamy band
Delighted roves, of war the kindling flame
Glows in his cheek, and shoots through all his frame;
He pants, of arms his first essay to crown
With deeds of bold emprize and high renown.

Beside the plumed host, with lifted hands,
Anxious, and sad, the hoary monarch stands.
“Ye valiant chiefs,” he cries, “in many a field,
By hardy deeds to sense of danger steeled,
Be it yours to guard, amid the fatal strife,
The sacred pledge I give, my Donald's life.
And thou, illustrious King, whose fame's bright ray
Bursts forth at dawning with the blaze of day;

Inured, in earliest youth, to war's alarms,
To stand unmoved amid the shock of arms,
To temper Valour's heat with judgment sage,
And teach the storm of battle where to rage—
Should rash presumption fire my Donald's breast,
Check the wild fury by thy mild behest.
So, at the eve of some victorious day,
When in mix'd folds the British ensigns play,
Either unconquer'd nation shall embrace,
In deathless amity, a kindred race,
Each shall protecting Alfred's glory claim,
And hail him monarch, in Britannia's name.”

He said, and turn'd aside the languid eye,
Wiped the warm tear, and check'd the rising sigh.

O'er many a waste, to fair Ituna's bay,
The impatient warriors urge their rapid way.
For long the march, with danger fraught, and toil,
From Scotia's bounds, to Wessex' ruin'd soil;
Full many an intervening mountain stood,
Wide forests waving with impervious wood,
Castles, which hordes of savage robbers guard,
And vallies deep, by hostile armies barr'd.
Old Ocean bears upon his azure wave,
Toward England's southern shores, the young and brave.
Now, stooping to the stroke, the rowers sweep,
With bending oar, the surface of the deep;
And now, expanding to the favouring gale,
Swells with the freshning breeze the canvas sail,
While, as the spooning keels the surge divide,
Before the prow high mounts the whitening tide.

Soon to blue air melts Scotia's southmost height,
And rise Ierne's mountains to the sight;

Swiftly they pass the stormy seas that roar
Incessant round Menavia's lonely shore,
Till full in sight the rocky point appears;
Her lofty brow where hallow'd Mona rears,
And hoary Conway, famed in Druid lore,
Pours his hoarse flood from Arvon's craggy shore.

As now by Cambria's western point they keep,
Where frown Dimeta's turrets on the deep,
Low in the western wave Sol sunk his head,
Painting his radiant couch with fiery red,
Omen of future tempest,—O'er the deep
The brooding winds in sullen silence sleep;
Around the yard the loose sail flagging plays,
No more the bark the pilot's hand obeys.—
Short, and insidious calm—the flitting breeze,
First, desultory, lifts the sparkling seas;—
Then louder swells the blast,—against the shore
Dreadful, and near, the frothy breakers roar:

And, o'er the sable veil of murky night,
Incessant flashes shed terrific light.
Useless the oar, and dangerous now the sail,
The giddy vessels drive before the gale;
Part on the sea's tempestuous bosom toss'd,
Part forced disastrous on the rocky coast.

Sad, on the deck, unhappy Alfred stands,
And wrings, in anguish deep, his suppliant hands:—
“O! had I fall'n before my country's eyes,
In her bless'd cause, a patriot sacrifice,
The tear of Glory o'er my body shed,
Had chear'd me, dying, and embalm'd me dead;
But here, unknown, unnumber'd with the brave,
Silent I sink beneath the whelming wave.—
And ah! my brave allies, by glory warm'd,
Who generous, for a wandering stranger arm'd,
How shall each childless sire, and widow'd bride,
As many a longing look o'er Ocean's tide,
To greet your wish'd return, is vainly thrown,
Load Albion's cause with Horror's frantic groan.—

O youth of royal hope!—To Gregor's ear,
When sad report thy cruel fate shall bear,
How shall he weep thy early thirst of fame,
How load with curses Alfred's hated name.”

Driven by the stormy north along the coast,
With dreadful force the monarch's bark is toss'd.
As through the parting clouds a transient light,
Shews the rude mountain to the pilot's sight,
From the steep shore he steers with cautious eye,
Shoots the swift bark in short-lived safety by;
Now vainly labouring through the rolling surge,
The raging winds her course disastrous urge,
Till, on the promontory's rugged base,
That bounds of deep Uzella's bay the space,
She strikes,—down fall the masts with dreadful sound,
Snapp'd oars, and scatter'd planks, are strew'd around,
While, by the dark remorseless wave depress'd,
Is quench'd the flame of many a gallant breast.—

With lusty arm the warrior King divides
The raging fury of the billowy tides;
Now on the rocks the waves his body urge,
Now refluent born by the receding surge.
The guardian genius of his natal hour,
Guardian of Alfred's life, and England's power,
Her adamantine buckler o'er him rears,
Awakes his courage, and dispels his fears:
High o'er the mountain waves, like Ocean's god,
With victor force, the dauntless hero rode,
Seized the rock's craggy point, with sinewy hand,
And stood alone in safety on the land.

But when, first climbing to the upland brow,
He view'd the watery waste that spread below,
Nor saw one wreck of all the naval train,
Amid the vast expanse of sky and main;
“Mysterious Heaven!” the mournful monarch cried,
“How vain of man the expectance and the pride!
The rising morn saw, o'er the favouring deep,
My brave allies their course auspicious keep;

Through Hope's delusive medium I survey'd
Deeds of renown, in flattering tint pourtray'd,
View'd my victorious banners float once more
In peace and triumph, o'er this rescued shore.—
As the light mist, before the rising storm,
Loses in air its unsubstantial form,
So melt my fairy dreams:—Alone I stand,
A wretched exile in my native land.—
Yet to thy call, O wonder-working Power!
Be left my mortal, as my natal hour,
Ne'er shall this weak misjudging hand presume,
Rash, to precipitate thy awful doom;
Raised to the skies, or humbled in the dust,
I bow to thee, the merciful and just.”

Now from the borders of the wave-worn shore
He turns, the adjoining region to explore:
Cautious his step, for Fate's destructive breath
Spreads desolation round, and war, and death;
Onward with toilsome march, but steady breast,
Through silent woods, and desart heaths, he press'd,

Shunning, with wary eye, the sudden blow,
Sped from the ambush of a lurking foe;
Till, leaving far behind the sea-girt coast,
His strength, by constant toil and famine, lost,
Exhausted Nature, with supreme command,
Impels his course to man's assisting hand.

As, from the bosom of the wood, his eyes
Beheld the smoke, in spiry column rise,
Hailing of human kind the needful aid,
He sought the cottage 'mid the embowering shade,
And, as a suppliant, at the lowly door,
Implored the meek compassion of the poor.

Not to the splendid palace of the great,
The pride of affluence, or the pomp of state,
Is Charity confined;—her heavenly reign
Scorns not the hovel of the cottage swain.—
Soon from the cates, by frugal labour stored,
The aged herdsman spreads his homely board,
And the neat housewife, with assiduous care,
Joys in the hospitable toil to share,

While courtesy, not such as courts impart,
But the pure language of the generous heart,
Vouches, with smiles that Flattery ne'er express'd,
The genuine welcome of the wandering guest.

Around the monarch, as the infant race
The narrow room in childish gambol trace,
His warlike hands in sportive frolic seize,
Or cling, with lisping fondness, to his knees,
His manly bosom melts with mild delight,
The scenes of joy domestic charm his sight;
And while his hosts, with hospitable care,
Their viands for their unknown king prepare,
With all a parent monarch's feelings fraught,
His whispering fancy thus embodies thought.

“Here in full colours to my eye are shewn,
The true supporters of the regal throne;
'Tis from industrious Labour's hard-earn'd bread,
That Opulence is deck'd, and Luxury fed,
'Tis from the rustic swain's diurnal toil,
Who bows the wood, and turns the stubborn soil,

Tends his meek flock beneath inclement skies,
Bids orchards bend with fruit, and harvests rise,
That Commerce draws, with powerful grasp, the stores
Of every clime from Earth's remotest shores,
That navies o'er the obedient billow ride,
That gallant armies shine in banner'd pride.
All that the swelling sail, and cordage yield,
The bark itself, was rear'd on Labour's field;
The radiant arms in War's bright van that shine,
Were dug, by rustic labour, from the mine;
From rustic labour springs the iron frame,
Nor danger can appal, nor hardship tame.
The sons of sedentary Art in vain
Pour ranks, unused to labour, on the plain;
Subdued by toil and want, each sickly form
Shrinks like the flowret from the vernal storm,
While Labour's hardy son the blast defies,
As England's forests brave her turbid skies.

“As now my failing powers your kindness feel,
True guard and glory of my country's weal,

Never, while life's warm current bathes this heart,
Shall the strong image, now impress'd, depart.
And, 'mid the prosperous scenes of regal state,
If prosperous scenes may yet on Alfred wait,
Still shall remembrance cling with ceaseless force,
To Splendour's basis, and to Plenty's source.—
Yes! England's future laws shall careful shield
The manly swains who cultivate her field.
Though Commerce spread her boundless ocean wide,
O sacred be the springs that feed her tide,
Sacred the steady rock on which she stands
And views her empire stretch'd o'er distant lands;
An empire built on Agriculture's race,
Firm as the rocky mountain's solid base,
But, fed by waves from Luxury that flow,
Loose as the vapoury clouds that shade its brow.”

As thus deep wrapt in wandering Fancy's dreams,
Victim of inward woe the monarch seems,
Oft gazing, passion-stung, with listless soul,
On untouch'd viands, and the untasted bowl;

With hospitable zeal the rustic pair,
By friendly converse, tried to soothe his care.—
Deeming his breast by private sorrow wrung,
On public woes their tale incessant hung,
And to his wounded ear their words relate,
What new-born woes on wretched Albion wait.
How horde succeeding horde, in countless band,
Spread desolation o'er the ruin'd land,
Swept o'er the cultured plains in sanguine flood,
And mark'd their course by carnage, and by blood.

His hours, employ'd in constant tales of woe,
Nor beam of hope, nor smile of solace know;
Still heaves his bosom with the heart-felt sigh,
Still patriot sorrow dims the monarch's eye.
Day after day fleets on in cheerless mood,
While, as the swain his sylvan toil pursued,
Sad o'er the hearth the pensive hero hung,
Fix'd his unweening eye, and mute his tongue,
Deeply intent on scenes of present woe,
Or planning future vengeance on the foe,

The objects round him, like the viewless air,
Pass o'er his mind, nor leave an image there;
Hence oft, with flippant tongue, the busy dame
The reckless stranger's apathy would blame,
Who, careless, let the flame those viands waste,
His ready hunger ne'er refused to taste.
Ah! little deeming that her pensive guest,
High majesty, and higher worth, possess'd;
Or that her voice presumptuous dared to chide
Alfred, her country's sovereign, and its pride.

One morn, when yet the opening lids of dawn
Scarce cast a gleam across the dewy lawn,
As issuing from his cot, the early swain
His path directed to the furrow'd plain,
Emerging slowly from the neighbouring wood,
A distant from his starting eye-balls view'd,

Which, faintly glimmering through the twilight shade,
A warrior seem'd, in shining steel array'd.
Trembling to meet a foe in arms so near,
For foes were ever pictured to his fear,
In every shape a Dane his fancy sees,
A Danish shout is heard in every breeze;
Dismay'd, he sought the shelter of the wood,
The stranger's steps with swifter pace pursued;
O'er-ta'en, he stands and waits with panting breath,
And lifted arms, the expected stroke of death:
Yet, as instinctive terror shook his mind,
He call'd that help he little hoped to find.—
Nor call'd in vain,—for, by the dawning light,
Waked from the shadowy visions of the night,
As under Heaven's blue cope, the monarch pour'd
His wonted orisons to Heaven's High Lord,
The distant sounds of supplicating fear,
Pierced through the silent air his listening ear;
Such sounds that ear unheeded ne'er invade,
To pity prompt, and prompter yet to aid.—
Arm'd with a saplin, which his vigorous hand
With generous haste, uprooted from the land,

Instant he reach'd the trembling peasant's side,
And dauntless thus the weapon'd foe defied.

“Whoe'er thou art, whose early footsteps stray,
Thus, in the misty vaward of the day,
To this lone spot,—thy purpose quick declare,
Or to receive the stroke of fate prepare;
Vain is the vaunted guard of spear and shield,
If Virtue's arm the rod of Justice wield.”

“O Heaven and earth!” the astonish'd warrior cries,
His voice half choked with rapture and surprise,
“Do I aright those well-known accents hear?
Or does illusive fancy mock my ear?
Do I once more behold my regal lord,
To wretched Albion's prayers again restored?
When Death, in sanguine triumph, raged around,
And blood of slaughter'd myriads strew'd the ground,
What guardian angel bore our king away
From the dread scene of Wilton's fatal day?
Through various perils since, what hand has led,
Sacred to Albion, thy anointed head?

O Alfred! O, my friend, my monarch! see
Thy faithful Ethelwood here bend his knee
To that eternal Power, whose mandate brings
Or weal, or woe, to nations and to kings;
Hailing the pledge of happier hours it gives,
And England's better hopes, that Alfred lives.”

“My bravest soldier, yes!” the King exclaims;
“Once more the light of glorious vengeance flames,
Once more my bosom feels assurance given,
Of brightening prospects, and relenting Heaven:
What better omen could my fortune send,
Than, for a threatening foe, a long-lost friend.
Yet, o'er the cheering scene my fancy forms,
Steals a dark cloud, portending fiercer storms;
Still, still, alas! on these unhappy lands,
Supreme, Oppression's proud Colossus stands;
Still o'er my wretched people's prostrate race
Waves, with gigantic arm, his iron mace.—
My loved Elsitha, too!—” The patriot here
Wiped from his moisten'd cheek the husband's tear,

With struggling sorrow heaved his manly heart,
And smother'd sighs avow'd his inward smart.

“O that my words,” replied the chief, “could heal
The bitter wounds thy anxious breast must feel.
But ah! too surely, o'er our ruin'd fields,
His crimson sceptre Desolation wields.
To the fierce foes, from Scandinavia's shore,
Whom every breeze impell'd, and billow bore,
From Erin's coasts, and Clonæ's hostile bay,

Clonæ; the Bay of Cork. Pinkerton. “In the year 853, the Danes established themselves by force in Ireland.” Preface to Penn's Battle of Eddington; from which tragedy the circumstance of the auxiliar army from Ireland, is taken.

Erin, long subject to the Danish sway,
The swelling numbers urge their destined way;
O'er the blue wave, by furious Hubba led,
On fair Dimeta's vales their ravage spread;
Thence to Danmonia's vales they sped their course,
No power to check their march, or meet their force:

While pent in Kenwith's walls, his waste domain
Oddune, with eye indignant, views in vain.
Oddune, with me, from Wilton's day of woe
Preserved, to perish by this cruel foe,
Deeming, of succour hopeless, bless'd his doom
To fall, with slaughter'd thousands for his tomb.

“To me;—through barbarous hosts, and scenes of blood,
By cruel foes, and treacherous friends, pursued,
Wandering with wild and desultory pace,
Far from the haunts of man's mistrusted race,
From Day's bright beam, in forests drear, conceal'd,
Or by the shade of Night's dark curtain veil'd;
To me, unknown, if Chance some hallow'd seat
Yield to Elsitha's charms a safe retreat.—
Yet surely Heaven, with watchful care, has placed
A guard celestial round the fair and chaste.

“But other cares the patriot now demand,
A captive people, and a ruin'd land.—

No safety here:—assiduous to betray,
The insatiate blood-hounds wind their destined prey.
For Fame's, for England's sake, O deign to save
That life which Heaven's protecting favour gave,
What time, on Wilton's field, the victor Dane
Mid thousands sought thy sacred breast in vain.
The hour will come, I trust, when, flaming high,
In the bright van of blazon'd chivalry,
The crest of Alfred, like the leading star,
Shall guide to conquest through the waves of war;
But now, when toils are set on every side,
When every glen an ambush'd foe may hide,
When treason foul may lurk in friendly shape,
O 'tis our happiest triumph to escape.”

He ceased, when thus the swain;—“I know a seat
Where Thone and Parret's eddying currents meet;

A marshy space, with alders fringed around,
Skreens a few roods of habitable ground,
Closed from the view, and fenced on every side
By the deep waters of the circling tide;
Save, that when summer suns, with torrid beam,
Drink the smooth bosom of the failing stream,
A narrow ford, across the sand, is shown,
Where one adventurous breast can wade alone.
Here, long sequester'd from the hostile Dane,
Unseen, and safe, our monarch may remain.—
And O, dread Sir! if aught my rustic guise
Has seem'd ungracious in my Sovereign's eyes,
The involuntary fault forgive, and deign
To let your vassal join your menial train;
So faithful care shall show, and zealous truth,
A loyal bosom in a garb uncouth.”

The generous hero look'd with aspect bland,
Raised him with air benign, and press'd his hand.—
Nor small the woman's terror, when confess'd,
She saw the monarch in her rated guest.

Nor less his kind attentive care, to cheer
Her trembling heart, and cancel every fear:
With friendly jest her terror he beguiles,
And rallies all her doubts in sportive smiles;
But with a graver, though a milder tone,
His thankful words in soothing accent own
Of poverty, the hospitable worth,
That took the houseless stranger to its hearth.

Hollinshead, fol. 121, says, “Gregor served Alfred in all his wars as well against the Danes as others; and that Alfred, after his death, had the like service of his successor Donald, who served him with 5000 horse, and died in his service.

“Argyleshire is called Argethelia, by Camden.

Alfred was born in 849, and the battle of Eddington was fought seven weeks after Easter, in the year 878. Asser does not mention the day of his birth, but supposing him born January 1, and Easter to have fallen on the latest day possible, he could not have been much turned of 29 when he gained that decisive victory.

Itunæ Estuarium. Solway Firth. Camden

Menavia. The Isle of Man. Bede. Orosius.

Dimeta. St. David's. The inhabitants of South Wales are called Dimetæ by Camden.

Start Point, close to Bridgewater Bay, called Uzellæ Estuarium, by Camden.

This circumstance of Alfred neglecting the roasting cakes, and the woman's reproof, is related by all the historians. Asser gives the woman's words in the following distich from some contemporary bard:

“Urere quos cernis panes gyrare moraris,
“Cum nimium gaudes hos manducare calentes.”

“Eodem anno Frater Hyngari et Healfdeni, cum viginti et tribus navibus de Dematica regione, in qua hyemaverat, post multas ibi Christianorum strages factas, ad Domnaniam enavigaret.” Asser. p. 32. Camden calls the inhabitants of Cornwall and Devon, Danmonii, and the country Danmonium, which is here adopted, though with the feminine termination of Asser.

Cynuit, Asser, 32. Kenwith Casle, situate on the Taw above Barnstable. Camden, p. 35.

“That mighty fenny Karre of Æthelney, between the rivers Thone and Parret, in Somersetshire, which then not having above two acres of solid ground in it, contained a vast quantity of Alderkarre, and all inclosed every way by water, was no way to be entered but by a boat or wading, save that in the height of summer it on one side afforded some difficult access to a footman.” Spelman.

BOOK III

ARGUMENT.

Measures against the Danes.—Prophecy of the future Fortunes of Alfred and his Posterity.

Along the borders of the silver Thone,
With alders dank, and matted sedge o'er-grown,
Led by the guidance of the shepherd swain,
Unseen, and silent, pass the cautious train,
Till, mid the conflux of the mingling streams,
A deep morass the emerging island seems.

Across the ford the guide directs their course,
Each stemming, with his arms, the current's force,

They pass, with toil, the dangerous traject o'er,
For, swoll'n by showers, the angry waters roar.
Then, Alfred, did thy generous bosom know
A pride nor pomp, nor luxury, can bestow,
When thy firm limbs, with nerve superior strung,
And active strength, the endowment of the young,
With abler effort gave thee force to guide,
The old and feeble through the threatening tide.
Nor did that arm, which oft in Glory's field
Had taught the might of giant foes to yield,
Disdain, by many a vigorous stroke, to save
A peasant's household from the whelming wave;
Nor did that voice, which oft, with martial breath,
Had roused the soldier's heart to war and death,
Disdain, with words of mild reproof, to cheer
A woman's weakness, and an infant's fear.—
Then, as Benignity's consoling breast
The real source of patriot zeal express'd,
Fame, from the warrior turns awhile, the eye,
To hail the hero of humanity.

Fix'd on the arid spot, whose scanty bounds
On every side the deep morass surrounds,
The monarch, and his martial friend, with care,
'Gainst close surprise and bold attack prepare;
Exert each art their safety to ensure,
And every pass, with wary eye, secure.

Oft from the isle, beneath the twilight shade,
By Ethelwood attended, Alfred stray'd,
And many a chief conceal'd, of gentle blood,
They found, and tempted o'er the sheltering flood;
Hence of fair Athelney the glorious name
Shall flourish still, the favourite theme of Fame,
The Isle of Nobles live, recorded long
In each historian's page, and poet's song.

Not to inglorious ease can be confined
The sanguine efforts of the hero's mind;
Valour, when devastation spreads around,
Sits not in Safety's rosy fetters bound:

Oft issuing from the marsh, their midnight arms
Harass the scatter'd Danes with new alarms.
Reckless of vanquish'd foes, the victor lay,
To bloated sloth, and foul excess, a prey;
Hence oft the Saxons, from the slumbering horde,
Seize their own flocks to store the genial board;
While Slaughter stalks amid the astonish'd foe,
The vengeance dreadful, though unseen the blow.
Oft too the monarch, stealing from the cares
Of present councils, and of future wars,
Through the lone groves would pace, in solemn mood,
Wooing the pensive charms of Solitude.
While, deep revolving in his fancy's range
Of human deeds, the desultory change,
By Hope encouraged, or by Fear depress'd,
Contending passions shook his mighty breast.

It chanced one stormy morn, as forth he sped,
The rude blast whistling round his listless head,
For equal rise, if care engross the mind,
The breeze of summer, or the wintry wind;

While through the wood, in pensive musing lost,
He stray'd,—his path a lucid streamlet cross'd:
Aside he turn'd, and traced the rivulet's course,
With pace reverted, toward its mountain source.
Onward, with heedless aim, his footsteps move
Along the dell, through many a tangled grove,
Till, issuing sudden from the gloomy shade,
He trod the verdure of a grassy glade,
Where shines the expanded water, clear and bright,
A lucid mirror to the tranquil sight,
Smooth as the chrystal's polish'd surface; save
Where, from the shrubby heights, the sparkling wave,
Dashing from rock to rock in frothy wreath,
Ruffles the border of the lake beneath.
The drooping willows fringe the edge, and seem
To drink fresh verdure from the passing stream.
Here mossy cliffs, with mountain plants o'ergrown,
The wild goat browsing from the pendant stone,
Their rifted sides echoing the sea mew's clang,
With threatening summits o'er the valley hang.
While, from the dell, receding gently, there
The rising upland softly melts to air;

Whose bowering forests round the placid flood,
Wave to the eye, a theatre of wood;
There the bright beech its silver bole displays,
And giant oaks their massy foilage raise,
The trembling poplar's humbler leaf beneath
Whispers responsive to the rude wind's breath;
And, with the woodbine mix'd, and sylvan rose,
In scarlet pride the mountain service glows.

In foaming eddy, where the lucid tide
Pours headlong down the high clift's rugged side,
A grove of dusky pines athwart the glade
Shoot, with projected limbs, a solemn shade;
And as aloft the quivering branches play,
Shut from the soil the garish eye of day.
Deep in the dark recess, with briars o'er-grown,
A cavern opens in the mossy stone:
O'er its dank mouth the flexile ivy grows,
Where an aged yew funereal shadows throws;
Scath'd oaks their knotty branches fling around,
With mystic misseltoe their summits crown'd;

While, echoing to the torrent's distant shock,
Howls the dread whirlwind through the creviced rock.—
Albeit unused to fear, the monarch's breast
Pants, with an awe, unfelt before, impress'd,
And, o'er his better reason, sudden spread
Terrific chills of superstitious dread.

The tempest's voice that usher'd in the day,
In distant murmurs faintly dies away,
The screaming birds their boding carol cease,
And even the torrent's roar seems hush'd to peace.
While, from the rock's deep bosom, notes so sweet,
Of such enchanting strain, the hero greet,
Entranced he stands, the lay divine to hear,
And all Elysium opens on his ear.

The dulcet numbers ceased; with awe-struck breast
Alfred the Genius of the place address'd:
“Whoe'er thou art, whether of mortal line,
Bless'd with celestial gifts, and song divine,
Or some attendant of the angelic host,
The holy guardian of this favour'd coast,

Before whose voice obedient tempests fly,
Whose lays melodious calm the troubled sky;
To me propitious be thy powers inclined,
To me most lost, most wretched, of mankind.”

A hollow murmur check'd him as he spoke,
And, from the rock, a voice tremendous broke.—
“O, King of England! not to man is given
To fathom or arraign the will of Heaven!
Oft in the bright serene of prosperous days,
Unseen, the Demon of Destruction plays;
Oft through Misfortune's drear and bleak abode,
To power and greatness lies the rugged road,
'Tis man's to bow beneath the chastening rod,
Virtue's true meed lies in the hand of God.”

With sudden horror rock'd the trembling ground,
And distant thunder shook the vast profound;

When, from the cave, a venerable form
Stalk'd forth, announced by the preluding storm.
About his limbs a snowy garment roll'd
Floats to the wind in many an ample fold;
His brow serene a rich tiara bound,
And loose his silver tresses stream'd around.
In his right hand a golden harp declared
The sacred function of the Druid bard.—
Soon as the royal chief the vision saw,
To earth he bent, in reverential awe.

“Rise, son of regal dignity,” he said,
“Nor bow to human dust thy laurel'd head!
Mortal like thee, I draw precarious breath,
Subject to pain, to sorrow, and to death.
'Tis thine o'er mighty nations to preside,
Command their armies, and their councils guide;
'Tis mine to look beyond Time's passing date,
And read the page obscure of future fate,
Strike, with bold hand, the free prophetic lyre,
And wake to distant years the warbling wire:

Our powers alike, by power supreme, are given,
Each but the feeble minister of Heaven.—
'Mid famed Cornubia's rocks, wash'd by the main,
Oft have I listen'd to the mystic strain,
What time on old Bellerium's topmost height
Aerial visions swam before my sight,
And lays divine, by voice immortal, sung,
In heavenly cadence o'er my senses hung.
Nor is to me unknown the sacred lore
Of Mona's Druid caves, and Arvon's shore.—
Even now I feel the enthusiast flame arise,
And unborn ages burst upon my eyes;
Visions of distant times before me roll,
And all the Godhead rushes on my soul.”

His eye-balls, as he spoke, with rapture glow'd,
His snowy robes in ampler volume flow'd,

The radiant fillets that his temples bind,
Burst—looser float his tresses to the wind;
His form expands, he moves with firmer tread,
And lambent glories play around his head:—
With rapid hand he strikes the sacred lyre,
To strains of rapture wakes the thrilling wire,
And, to the sound responsive, pours along
The fervid energy of mystic song.

“As the dark clouds whose vapoury mantles spread
A dusky veil round Camelet's dreary head,
Roll down his steepy sides,—and ether blue
Gives all the gorgeous landscape to the view,
So the dim shades o'er future scenes that lie,
Disperse, and Fate lies open to my eye.
As purer skies to transient storms succeed,
And happier hours the auspicious seasons lead,
So yields the gloom that hangs o'er Albion's isle,
To brighter hopes, and prosperous Fortune's smile.

Invasion haunts her rescued plains no more,
But hostile inroad flies the dangerous shore;
Where'er her armies march, her ensigns play,
Fame points the course, and Glory leads the way.
Her fleets o'er Ocean's tributary throne,
Rear vast, and wide, an empire of their own,
Supreme from where the radiant lord of day,
Shoots o'er the glowing wave his orient ray,
To where their fires his burning axles steep
In the blue bosom of the Atlantic deep:
Alike in arts and arms illustrious found,
Proudly she sits with either laurel crown'd.

“Yet what avail the trophies Conquest brings,
If Power oppressive, from her hovering wings,
Baleful she shake?—or what the victor's wreath,
If raised in blood from baleful seeds of death?—
Hail England's favour'd Monarch!—round thy head
Shall Freedom's hands perennial laurels spread;
Fenced by whose sacred leaves, the royal brow
Mocks the vain lightnings aim'd by Faction's blow.

“Beyond the proudest germ of Fame that springs,
Rear'd by the Muse, to grace victorious kings;
Above the forms of Liberty, that raise
The sons of Greece and Rome to deathless praise;
Above the labour'd scenes that sages draw,
Ideal forms of polity and law,
By thee a glorious fabric be design'd,
The noblest effort of a patriot mind.—
On a firm basis shall the structure stand,
Defying Time's, deriding Faction's, hand.—
Not a frail pile that mad Ambition rears
On Folly's hopes, or Guilt's repulsive fears;
Where specious Sophistry persuades the crowd
To adulate the selfish, and the loud;
Or, by some fawning demagogue address'd,
To lift a people's minion o'er the rest,
Bending to idol power the servile knee,
The worst of slaves, yet boasting they are free.
Thy code, arranged by Nature's purest plan,
Shall guard the freedom, and the rights of man,—
Man's real right's—not Folly's maniac dream,
Senseless Equality's pernicious theme;

But that true freedom, where all orders draw
Equal protection from an equal law,
And by that equal law restrain'd alone,
Nor fear the noble proud, or prouder throne.
Nobles, the people's shield, the monarch's arm,
Powerful to aid, but impotent to harm;
A sacred throne on Mercy's basis rear'd,
By Virtue foster'd, by Oppression fear'd;—
To which thy guardian laws shall boast they gave
One power by aught uncheck'd, the power to save.
No tyrant here the public weal can harm,
Unheard his mandate, and unnerved his arm,
While the imperial patriot is endued
With unresisted energy of good.
O happiest state on earth, to mortal given,
Pure right divine, true delegate of Heaven,
To whom its happiest attributes belong,
The bless'd impossibility of wrong.—
Each rank supported, firm, by mutual aid,
Each state in Wisdom's equal balance weigh'd;
Say, can the mighty fabric ever fall,
Raised on the weal, the liberty of all?

Still shall it mock, to Time's remotest hour,
The mine of Treason, and the shock of Power.

“Now, in yon visionary scene, behold
Thy future sons their shadowy forms unfold,
What various glories on thy offspring wait,
And learn of heroes yet unborn, the fate.
Full many an inroad of the hostile Dane
Shall yet, with native gore, die England's plain,
Alternate each shall sink, or each prevail,
As wavering Fortune lifts her dubious scale,
Till the bold sons of either warlike line
Their mingled blood in social compact join.
Even now are moor'd, near Isca's sandy bed,
A Danish host, by valiant Rollo led.
Heaven's awful mandates to the chieftain's sight,
Reveal'd in boding visions of the night,
Warn him to quit Danmonia's fertile shore,
Plough the blue wave, and Gallia's realms explore,

There shall a mighty province long proclaim,
Conquer'd by northern arms, the Norman name.
Their swords the southern regions shall subdue,
And fame, and power, through milder climes pursue,
Fields which Ilissus' hallow'd current laves,
And regions wash'd by Tiber's yellow waves;
Awe the proud tyrant of the turban'd host,
And rule, in peaceful sway, Sicilia's coast,
Reserved, in Heaven's appointed time, again
To lead their squadrons to Britannia's plain,
By victor armies destined to fulfil
Of Alfred's sainted heir the sacred will;
Till Albion views her Alfred's line restored,
And hails Plantagenet her Saxon lord.

“Freedom's perennial scyon, that defies
The ungenial blasts of Hyperborean skies,

Which, when its roots the savage warrior tore
From Græcia's isles, and mild Hesperia's shore,
Struck its strong fibres in the frost-bound glade,
Which black Hercynia's piny forests shade,
To Albion's happier soil transplanted, found
A fostering climate, and congenial ground.

“Even from the change the Norman race shall bring,
The feudal vassal, and the warrior king,
Though one vast army seem to meet the eyes,
Shall public safety, public freedom, rise;
Hence, on Britannia's plains, the rural lord
Grasps, with a freeman's arm, the freeman's sword;
'Mid senates hence, his independent voice
Speaks the free suffrage of a people's choice,
Teaches the servile minion fear to own,
Or crushes factions that besiege the throne.

“Behold, where Thames, through Runny's fertile meads,
Placid, and full, his wave pellucid leads

To England's swains, and England's chiefs, his brow
Prone on the earth, the baffled tyrant bow,
Imperial Freedom, waving in her hand
Her charter, fixing rights by Alfred plann'd,
Careful to foster, with protective wing,
The sacred pandects of a patriot king.

“And see, ascending from his winding shore,
Aloft heroic Honour proudly soar
O'er the plumed host, in blazon'd trophies dight,
Won from the vanquish'd Gaul in many a fight,
A warlike son of thine, by Conquest crown'd,
For knighthood twines the garter's mystic round;
Reviving deeds, of ancient Honour born,
Heroic wreaths by British Arthur worn;

What time, at Freedom's call, his dauntless host,
Against thy sires, defended Albion's coast.
Rears Fame's bright guerdon o'er the waving crest,
Spreads Faith's true cross o'er every pious breast,
While Europe's kings, and Rome's imperial lord,
Sit, glad companions, round the equal board,
And Virtue, to a people's general gaze,
The unsullied wreath of Chivalry displays.

“But many a cloud of horror and dismay
The horizon shades of Albion's brightest day.
Though dress'd in halcyon smiles, with ray serene,
Sol's golden orb may chear the rural scene,
Yet gathering mists, by winds tempestuous driven,
Oft blunt his beam, and hide the face of Heaven;
Nor on this seat of earth, where suns and showers
Alternate mark the seasons and the hours,
Can man expect that years shall wing their flight,
For ever tranquil, and for ever bright,
Till soaring o'er the atmosphere, that flings
Vapour and tempest from its watery wings,

On Faith and Virtue's pinions borne, he rise
To purest ether spread o'er cloudless skies,
And drink, with eagle eye, the empyreal ray,
'Mid the blest mansions of eternal day.

“Lo, died in civil blood, the argent rose,
In rival tint, with guilty crimson glows,
Till, blending o'er the fall'n usurper's tomb,
In friendly wreath the mingled flowrets bloom,
To crown Britannia's native race, who stand
With thee, the avengers of their native land.
For now, even now, rough Cambria's warlike coast
Pours, from a thousand hills, the auxiliar host.—
From Saxon arms receding, though they bore
Their sacred rites to Mona's Druid shore.
Sons of the chiefs who Cæsar's arms withstood,
Of Cassibellan's, and Caradoc's blood,
Sons of the chiefs our glorious Arthur led,
Waving their spears, with Saxon carnage red.
To them shall bow again the British line,
And Tudor's royal stem unite with thine;

Tudor, whose ancient claim from Cadwal springs,
Whom Cambria weeps, the last of British kings;
While Albion views her pristine fame display'd,
Proud of the triumphs of the Briton maid.

“Alas! as down the stream of Time, the eye
Anxious I throw, new horrors I descry.—
To England's fields, what scenes of discord bring
A factious people, a misguided king.—
Hide, blushing Albion!—hide the impious strife
Closed with the offering of a monarch's life,
To mark the hopes which happier hours afford,
Of rescued rights, and regal power restored.

“O, wayward race of man! by woe untamed,
By dark Misfortune's lessons unreclaim'd—
Albion laments again the fatal hour,
When royal frenzy grasps at boundless power.
Temperate,—for sad experience well had shewn,
Her own best rights were buried with the throne;
Temperate, but firm, in law and reason's cause,
Again the sword, reluctant, Freedom draws;

But her true bulwark guards, with jealous eye,
The crown revering, though the tyrant fly.

“At length, where Elbe's parental current flows,
Once more her eye insulted England throws;
Her hopes regard that sacred source, once more,
Whence Saxon freedom bless'd her happy shore;
For there the scyons of thy generous line,
In patriot Virtue's pure regalia, shine:
There, on thy banners, still the Saxon steed
Flies o'er the crimson field in mimic speed.
To ancient rights, which, long as Britain's isle
Flourish'd in Monarchy's paternal smile,
From parent worth and warlike fame begun,
In long succession pass'd from sire to son;
From gods and heroes of a fabling age,
Through chiefs enroll'd on History's sacred page,
Loud Fame announces, with an angel's voice,
Added, in Brunswick's claim, a people's choice.

“And see, best glory of that patriot race,
Her monarch, Briton-born, Britannia grace;

Loved, honour'd, and revered by all, save those
Who, foes to Freedom, to her friends are foes.
But foes in vain—for Anarchy's wild roar
Shall never shake this Heaven-defended shore,
While Freedom's sons gird Freedom's sacred throne,
With loyal Faith's impenetrable zone.
O'er laurels Rome's sweet poet cull'd to grace
The mighty hero of the Julian race,
Shall rise the glory of his honour'd name,
‘Nor oceans bound his sway, nor stars his fame.’—
Ocean but rolls his azure waves to guide
His fleets to empire, o'er his ambient tide;
And far beyond the planets that appear
Circling, in ceaseless course, the earthly sphere,
Beyond the stretch of human eye-sight far,
Improving Science hails the Georgian star.

“My soul, from times remote, reduce the lay;
Of Alfred's prosperous hours the pride display.
Oft through the thick expanse of sable clouds,
Whose gloom the blunted beam of morning shrouds,

100

The struggling ray of Sol awhile contends,
Yet, when his car the arch of Heaven ascends,
When, from the azure vault, his glories shine,
Sowing the etherial plains with flame divine;
Though harvests rise with vegetative power,
Swells the ripe fruit, and glows the blooming flower,
Remembering still the hours of winter pass'd,
The transient sunshine, and the ungenial blast,
The wary husbandman, with prescient care,
Guards 'gainst the driving storm, and piercing air.
So, when emerging from Misfortune's shade,
Alfred, thy patriot virtues shine display'd,
And tranquil days, with Plenty in their train,
Brighten once more the renovated plain;
When the tumultuous shouts of battle cease,
When thrills the warbling string with notes of peace,
Ne'er let thy active mind in sloth repose,
But jealous watch the blessings Peace bestows.
Be it thy care, by Freedom's ready guard,
Each threatening blow Invasion aims, to ward.
Thy voice shall teach the labourer of the field
The sickle, and the sword, by turns to wield;

101

By thee array'd, lo! Britain, wide and far,
Trains, 'mid the smiles of Peace, her sons to war.
Now the industrious swain, with rural toil,
‘Drives the keen plough-share, through the stubborn soil,’
And now aside the shining coulter throws,
Grasps the keen sword, and braves his country's foes;
Follows his native lord through War's alarms,
In peace his patron, and his chief in arms.
O, shame to England's glory!—Can it be?—
Too sure the stain my starting eye-balls see.
See where Corruption's black insidious band,
Wrest Freedom's faulchion from the Freeman's hand;
Wrest from the Briton's hand, and bid a host
Of mercenary aliens guard the coast.
Hail, glorious sage! immortal patriot, hail!
Whose fervent words o'er dark mistrust prevail.
I see, once more, Britannia's arms restored,
Once more the indignant Briton grasp the sword,
The rural empire hail its rural band,
And Chatham renovate what Alfred plann'd.

102

“Albion, in thee, shall own the power that gave
A certain empire o'er the uncertain wave,
Taught her commercial sails the surge to sweep,
Or awe, with warrior prow, the hostile deep.
Far o'er the distant wave, where rising day
Throws, on the sultry coast, its orient ray,
Where, through the shade of many a fragrant grove,
By Ganges' stream the guiltless Bramins rove,
To the lone Pilgrim shall thy vessels bear
Of English charity the fostering care,
Pointing the way where, in succeeding days,
Thy sons an empire o'er the East shall raise,
Mock the vain tear of Ammon's haughty son,
And win a world his armies never won.
Thy barks shall sail through pathless seas that roll,
With sluggish current, round the freezing pole,

103

With prow adventurous, labouring to explore
A northern passage to the Indian shore.—
O, glorious effort of a daring train!
The attempt illustrious, though the issue vain:
In times remote shall Albion oft pursue,
Successless, yet unfoil'd, this specious view.
Yet, though opposing continents appear,
And icy horrors of the polar year,
To bar her course,—full many a fertile isle,
Adorn'd with lavish Nature's sweetest smile,
Studding the bosom of the southern wave,
Rewards the failing labours of the brave.

“By Conquest crown'd, while Britain's navies ride,
In state imperial, o'er the obedient tide,
While, train'd to arms, her brave and hardy swains
Stand a firm barrier to their native plains,
Scorn'd shall Invasion's idle terrors sleep,
Whelm'd, by her watchful navies, in the deep;
Or, by the scowling tempest wafted o'er,
Destruction meet upon her martial shore.

104

“And see, by fair Augusta's stately towers,
Pellucid Thames his placid current pours,
Wafting, through many a league of Albion's reign,
The golden produce of her happy plain,
Or, bearing on his refluent tide, the sail
Of Commerce, swell'd by Fortune's favouring gale.
To pile her marts contending nations meet,
The world's productions offering at her feet.
Whate'er of wealth in various regions shines,
Glows in their sands, or lurks within their mines;
Whate'er from bounteous Nature men receive,
Whatever toil can rear, or art can weave,
Her princely merchants bear from every zone,
Their country's stores increasing with their own.
And, as the dewy moisture Sol exhales,
With beam refulgent, from the irriguous vales,
Descends in favouring showers of genial rain,
To fertilize the hill and arid plain,
So wealth, collected by the merchant's hand,
Spreads wide, in general plenty, o'er the land.

105

“Phantoms of glory, stay!—They fleet along,
Born on the stream of visionary song.—
Hear ye yon shout?—The shout of triumph hear!
It swells, it bursts, on my enraptured ear.—
The hour of vengeance comes! On yon bleak height
The vulture claps his wings, and snuffs the fight.
See o'er the ranks the crimson banners float!
Hark, the loud clarion swells the brazen note!
Denmark's dark raven, cowering, hears the sound,
His flagging pinion droops, and sweeps the ground.”

He ceased.—Amazed the wondering warrior stood,
The mystic numbers chill'd his curdling blood.—
Pale sinks the seer in speechless extacy,
Wild heaves his breast, and haggard rolls his eye;
Till, seizing with his hand the sacred lyre,
His skilful fingers swept again the wire,
Soft o'er his mind the stream of music stole,
And sooth'd the labouring rapture of his soul.

Æthelingaeg. “Insula Nobilium.” Athelney. Glossary to Asser.

For a supernatural appearance, and a dream of Alfred's, during his abode in Athelney, see Spelman, p. 58. And for a prophecy of St. Neot “adhuc vivens in carne,” Asser, p. 31–32.

------ “The fable of Bellerius old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Numancos, and Bayona's hold.”

Lycidas.

“The utmost promontory, which lies out into the Irish ocean; is called by Ptolemy, Bolerium, by Diodorus, Belerium, from the British Pell, signifying a thing most remote.”

Camden.

Camelet A steep and high mountain in the vicinity of Athelney.

“Eodem anno, Rollo, cum suis, Normaniam penetravit. Idem Normanorum Dux Rollo cum in antiqua Britannia, sive Anglia, hyemaret militaribus fretus copiis, quædum nocte fruitur visione mox futuri certitudinis.” Asser, p. 28. Isca, the Ex.

That William, commonly called the Conqueror, had from the will of Edward the Confessor, a better right, at least than Harold, cannot, I think, admit of a doubt. See Nicholl's History of Leicestershire. And if the first institution of knights' service became a source of much oppression in its administration, was it not a source of much security to the constitution, by putting the sword completely in the hands of the land-holders? Who were they but the holders of such tenures, who forced John to sign the famous charter, not a grant, but a declaration of the rights of Englishmen? See De Lolme on the Constitution of England, Chapter II. Note a.

Winding shore, the etymology of Windsor. “The King (Edward III.) at first had some thoughts of reviving King Arthur's Round Table. In order to this, he invited over to England some of the most active and brave men abroad, to come and assist at certain justs and tournaments to be held at Windsor. Accordingly several knights and gentlemen did assemble there on New Year's day, in the year 1344, where they were nobly entertained by the King, who at the same time ordered this solemnity to be annually held at Whitsuntide. Soon after he erected a peculiar building in the castle, and therein placed a table of 200 feet diameter, where the knights were to have entertainment at the expence of £100. per week; and this he called the Round Table.” Magna Britannia, Vol. 1. p. 186.

“Imperium, oceano, famam, qui terminet astris.” Virgil.

“In the reign of Alfred (A. D. 883,) Sigelmus, Bishop of Sherborn, was sent out to carry alms to the Christians of St. Thomas.” Saxon Chron. Harris's Voyages, Vol. 1. p. 873.

“And, to shew the latitude of the King's mind and genius, in all dimensions truly royal and august, there is, (as I have been informed) in Sir Thomas Cotton's library, an old memorial of a voyage of one Octher, a Dane, performed at King Ælfred's procurement, for the discovery of some north-east passage.” Spelman, p. 153.

109

BOOK IV.

110

ARGUMENT.

Success of Oddune, Earl of Devon, against a new Danish Armament from Ireland.—Irish join Oddune.—Measures of Alfred to profit from the turn of Fortune.—Alfred's difficulties, and extraordinary Adventure to obviate them.—Relief of the Queen Elsitha.—Fortunate junction of Donald, and the Scotish Troops, with Alfred.—Assistance from Wales.

111

And now the westering sun's declining ray,
Shot faintly forth the fading light of day,
Shed o'er the waving trees a golden gleam,
And the high mountains tinged with mellower beam;
When, near the rock, emerging from the wood,
Clad in refulgent arms, a warrior stood.—
As firmly stood the king, his ready sword
Shone in his hand, a safeguard to its lord.
When thus the bard.—“Your threats of war forbear;—
With pious reverence breathe this hallow'd air.

112

No arms of mortal temper triumph here,
Heaven's mighty aid, protects Heaven's chosen seer.”

“I come,” the stranger said, “from fields of fame,
A Saxon born, and Aribert my name.
I come from Devon's shores, where Devon's lord
Waves o'er the prostrate Dane the British sword.—
Freedom might yet revisit Britain's coast,
Did Alfred live to lead her victor host.”

“He lives,” the prophet cries, “lo, here he stands!
Alfred! preserved from Denmark's conquering bands;
Preserved from scenes where England's warriors yield,
And all the bleeding woes of Wilton's field;
From the pursuit of Treason's fiend-like train,
From warring tempests, and a dangerous main.
Preserved by Heaven, in this propitious hour,
To save his country from the oppressor's power.”

“O, moment of delight!” the youth replies;
“Again the Genius of the land shall rise;

113

Again shall Albion's dauntless warriors fight
For Glory's guerdon, in their monarch's sight.—
I will not Expectation's ear delay;
Short be my tale, though glorious was the day.—
By Hubba led, from Erin's subject coast,
In barks unnumber'd, came the invading host,
For, o'er each breezy hill and fertile plain,
There spread the tyrant empire of the Dane.
Shut up in Kenwith's towers, the indignant Earl
Saw Rapine wide its harpy vengeance hurl:
Saw, far as Fear could throw her trembling eye,
The region round one smoking ruin lie;
Circling the fortress, with insulting boast,
The stern invader draws his numerous host.
From the embattled summit's craggy brow
We mock awhile his idle rage below.—
Short was our triumph,—soon the warrior's breast
Shrunk from the toil, by famine dire oppress'd.
The exulting Danes, by fancied victory crown'd,
With bitter taunts their prey devoted wound.
‘Perish by want, or fall beneath our swords,
‘Or kneel,’ they cry, ‘submissive, to your lords.’

114

Silent, and sad, we stand.—Our gallant chief
Heaves the deep groan of mingled rage and grief;
Points to the scene of ruin, stretch'd afar,
Adds not a word, but gives the sign for war.
Not with more fury down the rock's steep side,
Rolls the wide cataract its thundering tide,
Than Devon's hardy sons resistless pour'd
War's fiery torrent on the barbarous horde.
Hosts following hosts, in vain our band engage,
With giant sinews, and with lion rage;
Through their thinn'd files our arms despairing force,
While piles of carnage mark our crimson course.
Hubba, in vain, his scatter'd ranks unites,
Prone, on the plain, the ensanguined dust he bites.
And that famed standard which the accursed loom
Of hags malignant wove in midnight gloom,

115

The sable raven, weiard art imbues
With drops distill'd from Hell's unwholesome dews,
Which often o'er the enthusiast troops had hung,
And, 'mid the foe, infernal horror flung;
For, in the magic folds, terrific glare
Pale Fear, and shameful Flight, and black Despair;
Torn, and defaced, amid the victor bands,
A monument of rescued freedom stands.

“Yet Erin's sons their banners still display,
Firm stand their squadrons, and dispute the day.—
Connel, the gallant chief, whose arms, of yore,
From the fierce Pict the spoils of conquest bore,
I mark'd conspicuous 'mid the warlike band,
Elate, and graced with ensigns of command.
With social voice, my ancient friend I sought,
And, in mild speech, with gentle chidings fraught,
I shew'd of broken faith the foul disgrace,
And base submission to an alien race;
Shew'd how it dimm'd Ierne's wonted fame,
Sullied the former honours of her name,

116

To aid the inroad of a foreign brood,
Of spoil rapacious, prodigal of blood.
Rising in warmth, of Alfred's deeds I told,
And Albion's friendly force, in days of old.—
I saw the glow of shame ingenuous rise,
Paint the flush'd cheek, and bend to earth the eyes.—
‘Enough, my friend! thy warning voice,’ he cried,
‘Shall bring Ierne's sons to Alfred's side.
‘Easy their hearts, in Honour's cause, to gain,
‘Manly and kind a brave and artless train.’
Instant along the line, from man to man,
With lightning speed, the generous impulse ran,
Each long'd to draw, on Albion's side, his sword,
Each vow'd destruction on the Danish horde;
Whose baleful sway had warp'd their kindred band,
And 'gainst a brother aim'd a brother's hand.

“At once the spears, with hostile arm address'd,
In stern defiance, at the opposing breast,
Lift high their steely points, and social join'd,
The mingling ensigns wanton in the wind.

117

“By recent victory warm'd, and Erin's aid,
Now plans of bold emprize the chief essay'd:
At his command, to Wessex' southmost shore
I go, the wasted region to explore,
If haply still some valiant breasts remain,
To arm, and vindicate their suffering reign;
When lo, the guidance of protecting Heaven,
More than a host in Alfred's name has given.”

“Bless'd omen! hail!” exclaims the seer divine,
“O, hail, of happier fate the unerring sign!
Alfred, to thee a pledge the Immortal Power
Gives, of approaching Glory's radiant hour.
As the event of this auspicious day
Fulfils the promise of my closing lay,
So shall each wondrous scene my verse foretold,
Its gorgeous tints, in lapse of time, unfold,
And mighty ages, as they roll along,
Shall spread thy name, shall realize my song.
Go forth, my Prince, at Fame's, at Duty's call,
Before thy sword shall Rage and Treachery fall;

118

Thy victor march, while favouring angels guide,
And Heaven approving, thunders on thy side.”

Confirming what the Bard prophetic spoke,
O'er the blue vault the distant thunder broke;
With awe and pleasure mix'd, the monarch heard,
And, 'rapt, his silent orisons preferr'd.

Down through the gloomy shade, along the stream,
Whose silver waves, in the dim twilight gleam,
To Athelney the king his course directs,
Where anxious love his wish'd return expects,
Whence many an eager look, at setting day,
Thrown o'er the waters, chides his tedious stay.

The night in council, and in slumber, worn,
Soon as the ruddy streaks of rising morn
Glow in the east, toward Kenwith's rescued towers
They march, to join victorious Oddune's powers.
With hasty step the exulting band advance,
Wave high the plumed crest, and shake the lance;

119

For little reck they now the baffled Dane,
His vanquish'd numbers scatter'd o'er the plain,
Eager the war with Albion's foes to wage,
Fired by reviving hope, and stung with generous rage.

Onward they move, o'er many a barren field,
Her stores where Plenty once was wont to yield;
Alas! neglected lay the weedy soil,
Untouch'd by ploughs, or aught of human toil,
'Mid empty cotes, and ruin'd hamlets round,
The stagnant marsh usurps the uncultured ground.
Touch'd with the scene, now Pity melts in tears,
Now the stern arm avenging Valour rears.

When, with meridian force, the orb of day
Hung high in Heaven's blue vault his sultry ray,
In pleasing prospect to the warriors' eyes,
The embattled heights of trophied Kenwick rise.
Here, proudly waving in the noontide beam,
Triumphant Oddune's Saxon banners stream;
There, on each painted fold, and blazon'd shield,
A golden harp shines on an azure field.

120

Meanwhile, in Kenwith's towers, the chiefs debate
Of Albion's better hopes, and happier fate;
Doubtful if Fortune, to her sea-girt shore,
Would Freedom's sway, and Concord's smiles, restore,
Or that her wayward fancy but beguiles
Their sanguine wish, with transitory smiles.
When lo, the warder's bugle loudly calls
The attentive warriors to the topmost walls,
Whence, far advancing o'er the extended glade,
They see a band in radiant arms array'd.
Speeding before the rest, a knightly train,
Spurring their fiery steeds, devour the plain.
And now the floating pennons meet their eyes,
Where, in bright fold, the Saxon courser flies.
Of friendly greeting now the shouts they hear,
And Alfred! Alfred! pierces every ear;
Now, lighting from his steed, before his bands,
Full in their sight their long-lost monarch stands.
Eager, as clustering bees on sounding wing
Pour from their hive around their idol king,

121

So crowd the impatient Saxons round their lord,
To life, to liberty, to arms, restored.

With generous transport godlike Alfred press'd
The happy victor to his grateful breast,
Nor did he grasp with cold or thankless hand,
The gallant leader of Ierne's band.

“Friends, brothers of the war,” the hero cried,
“Of these freed plains the bulwark and the pride,
Though, by your arms, to fame, to virtue true,
Much has been done, yet much remains to do.—
From those far borders where pellucid Tweed
Laves, with his silver stream, Northumbria's mead,
To where Sabrina's virgin waves divide
The neighbouring confines with their amber tide.

122

O'er all the breezy hills and fruitful plains,
The ruthless foe in power tyrannic reigns,
While, in sad exile from their native home,
Wretched, and bare, the houseless wanderers roam;
Or to the earth bent down in servile awe,
Receive, from cruel lords, oppressive law.—
Yet when they see our prosperous ensigns fly,
Hear our victorious shouts ascend the sky,
While England's and Ierne's sons unite,
To wage the war in England's monarch's right,
Soon shall rekindling Valour's embers burn,
The slave be free, the fugitive return.

“Where Druid Coitmaur spreads its leafy zone,
Now by the Saxon name of Selwood known,
To the steep site where, o'er the vale below,
Ægbryhta rears aloft the rocky brow,
Shape we our course, while, with inspiring sound,
Returning Freedom swells her pæan round.”

123

Not slow the generous train the path to tread,
Where Fame and Duty call'd, and Alfred led.
Soon on Ægbryhta's steep, 'mid Selwood's shade,
Flow'd Alfred's banner to the wind display'd.
Not in the midnight storm (no starry ray
To guide his vessel through the watery way,)
Feels the chill'd mariner more keen delight,
When the bright Pharos blazes to the sight,
Than Albion's sons now feel, to view on high,
This loadstar shine, of peace and victory.

By recent sufferings fired, the indignant train,
Who dragg'd inglorious Slavery's galling chain,
Or, from their home, to wilds and forests driven,
Beneath the inclement cope of Albion's heaven,
Croud, with impatient ardour, to efface
By manly hardihood, their late disgrace;
Prompt to avenge their own, their country's woes,
On the crush'd helmets of their vanquish'd foes.
All who can grasp a sword, for fight prepare,
While age and woman bend in fervent prayer.

124

From tongue to tongue the animating sound,
Was wafted to remotest Albion's bound,
That Alfred lived again, to dare the fight,
Undaunted champion of his country's right.
From Somerton's wide meads and verdant hills,
Where the rich vat the milky current fills;
From Wilton's champaigns wide, and chalky bourns,
Her slaughter'd sons where weeping Albion mourns;
From fair Berrochia's hills, and uplands green,
Of Saxon conquest late the splendid scene;
Berrochia—deck'd with rural pride her plains,
Lovely and chaste her maids, and brave her swains,
By royal favour graced, her fostering earth
The trophied seat of godlike Alfred's birth,
Her regions still by royal footsteps trod,
Of heroes, and of kings, the loved abode.—
From mild Hantona's soft and genial air,
Her spreading forests, and her pastures fair,
Save, on her southmost borders, where the main
Affords a refuge to the flying train,
All round the monarch crowd in loyal swarms,
Breathing revenge, and sheath'd in threatening arms.

125

Even from sad Mercia's subjugated seat,
Of Perfidy and Shame the dire retreat,
The gallant Leofric leads a generous few,
True to their banish'd prince, to England true;
Even from the chalky bourn of Cantium's shore,
To Alfred's aid, the favouring billows bore
Bertie, whose daring sires, in search of fame,
To Albion's coasts, from far Boruscia came,
What time his hardy warriors Hengist led
From Elba's brink to Thames' redundant bed;
Whose daring sons 'gainst Norman William stood,
Their Saxon rights maintaining with their blood.—
His trusty bow each manly yeoman draws,
Or bares his shining brand in Freedom's cause;
Freedom, resounds from each determined voice,
Freedom, the first, and death, the second choice.—

126

Proud of his subjects' faith, the warrior King
Stands forth, encircled by the attentive ring,
While long repeated shouts of rapture prove
That bless'd, unsullied crown, a people's love,
Emerging from Affliction's pale disguise,
His form majestic, to their gazing eyes
Shone, in terrific vengeance awful dress'd,
And all the English Hero stood confess'd.
But soon the dignity of sovereign sway
To Kindness' milder attributes gave way;
Alfred, surrounded by his gallant bands,
A long-lost parent 'mid his children stands,
Who hail, with Transport's tributary tear,
The man they love, the monarch they revere!

Yet, 'mid the squadrons spreading o'er the plain,
Looking for Caledonia's sons in vain,
In mournful tint pourtray'd, his fancy draws,
Blooming in youth, and warm in Virtue's cause,
The brave and generous Donald's hapless doom,
His warlike fire quench'd in a watery tomb;

127

From his full eye the tears of sorrow start,
And sighs of sever'd friendship swell his heart.

Remorseless War! and harsh Adversity!
Rude and severe instructors though ye be,
Yet, by the precepts of your rugged school,
Imperial greatness learns itself to rule;
'Tis your unflattering mirror that displays
A faithful image to the monarch's gaze.
In Fortune's prosperous hour the silken tribe,
Whose venal reverence hopes of favour bribe,
The sons of selfish Luxury and Guile,
Bask in the sunshine of the royal smile;
But let Misfortune's iron tempest beat,
The insect minions from the storm retreat.
Then Truth and Honour round the insulted throne,
Stand—Loyalty's impenetrable zone,
Unconquer'd guardians of their monarch's cause,
Palladium of their country's rights and laws.—
True Friendship thrives in war's unkindly soil,
Nurtur'd by mutual cares, and mutual toil.

128

Stern Independence there,—too proud to stand,
Obsequious bowing, 'mid the courtier band—
Flames in the foreward of the embattled field,
His bleeding breast his honour'd sovereign's shield.
And modest Diffidence, whose dazzled eye
Shrinks from the glance of scepter'd majesty,
On the refulgent glare of mail-clad foes
The eagle-look of bold defiance throws;
Presses before him in the battle's strife,
And ransoms, with his own, his monarch's life.
Then, while to union common dangers draw,
Lost in the soldier's love, the subject's awe,
O'er the respect that true allegiance feels,
The kindlier hue of warm affection steals,
And as their tints the social passions blend,
The sword that serves the prince, protects the friend.

Now burning to avenge his country's woes,
On scenes of war his thoughts the hero throws.
Guthrum the strong, of northern kings the heir,
To martial toil inured, and martial care,

129

Whose giant arm, in War's destructive field,
Scatter'd the files, and made the mighty yield;
Whose veteran skill the storm of fight could guide,
Check its wild rage, or loose its furious tide,
Proud, cruel, fierce, now held the sceptre-sword,
O'er conquer'd Albion, delegated lord.—
Alfred, revolving deep, what future fate
On Albion's persecuted shores must wait,
Should all her foes their scatter'd force combine,
Ruled by one chief, and bent on one design,
With firm demeanour, but with anxious breast,
Thus the brave leaders of his host address'd.

“Strong are our ruthless foes, their station strong,
And warlike skill informs their numerous throng;
Urged by rude force alone, we know too well
How fierce the tempest of their battle fell.—
What now their power, when temperate Valour leads,
And Wisdom guides the blow that Fury speeds?
Flush'd with success, while every bosom glows,
Secure of victory o'er vanquish'd foes;

130

And the slight 'vantage of the present hour,
Inflames their rage, nor aught impairs their power.
Not ours, with thoughtless confidence, to dare
The venturous shock of such unequal war,
Or, on the hazard of one doubtful day,
Throw the last remnant of our hope away.—
No—let some generous warrior, in whose breast
High courage beats, by prudence calm repress'd,
Unshock'd by peril, unsurprised by change,
Keen to observe, and skilful to arrange,—
If such there be,—with bold, yet wary eye,
The latent station of the foe descry;
Seek, in the guarded camp, the adverse band,
And trace each scheme by hostile cunning plann'd.
His life to fame a people's shouts shall call,
A people's tears immortalize his fall.”

The monarch ceased.—Around, in doubtful mood,
Irresolute and mute, the warriors stood.—
When thus again the King:—“I must not blame
The deep suspense that damps your generous flame.

131

As to my conduct, by the award of Heaven,
Of Albion's fate the sacred charge is given;
As me it most concerns of all mankind,
That Albion's sons enthrall'd, deliverance find;
As all the joys this bosom e'er can feel
Are solely center'd in my country's weal,—
Mine be the enterprize—'tis mine to go,
And search the secret councils of the foe.
As, to his ranks, this arm your march must guide,
Be, by these eyes, his warlike plans descried.
Following the line which Fame, which Duty draws,
I here devote me to my Country's cause,
Resolved to execute the perilous deed,
To live her guardian, or her martyr bleed.”

He paused.—A murmur spread through all the train,
When thus his words their rising zeal restrain:
“Fix'd as the will of Fate, my purposed course,
I deem him not my friend who checks its force.”

Sudden he quits the band, to thought resign'd,
The venturous scheme revolving in his mind.

132

In meditation deep, as through the shade,
Devious, his undirected footsteps stray'd,
Straight, from a distant harp, the warbling note,
Across the impervious forest, seem'd to float.
As, through the darkling mist, a transient beam
Of setting day oft throws a golden gleam,
So, o'er the pensive gloom that wrap'd his soul,
A sudden ray of consolation stole.
Well was he skill'd the song sublime to raise,
Or steep the impassion'd soul in melting lays.
Fair Leothete, of Gallia's dames the pride,
Led to his father's couch, a blooming bride,
Oft to his youthful fancy would unfold,
What ancient bards of Anglia's chiefs had told,
What time brave Hengist, from the Cimbrian shore,
To Britain's drooping sons their succour bore;
Hence caught his infant breast the mingled flame,
Of Heaven-descended song, and martial fame,

133

And, 'mid the toils of empire, still his mind
Had arts of peace, with deeds of prowess join'd.

“This be my guard,” reflecting, Alfred cried;
“This, through the adverse camp, my steps shall guide,
The sternest bosom, and the rudest arm,
Their savage aim forego, if music charm.”

Through the thick covert of the tangled wood
His listening ear the leading sound pursued,
Till, opening sudden on a verdant glade,
Stretch'd on the turf, he saw the minstrel laid;
Edwin, whose youthful ear, 'mid mountains hoar,
Had learn'd, of Cambrian bards, the tuneful lore,
And, high Plinlimmon's echoing rocks among,
Drunk the bold strains of Thaliessin's song.
From him the monarch ask'd the sacred lyre,
The minstrel's mystic wreath, and loose attire.

In this array, by danger unappal'd,
Onward he moves where Albion's safety call'd;

134

Yet, cautious of the perils that might rise
Round his lone march, and mar his bold emprise,
From scatter'd squadrons of the adverse power,
Who, bent on spoil, the bordering regions scour,
Brave Ethelwood, and a selected few,
Chiefs of tried virtue, resolute and true,
His course from midnight wanderers to defend,
Array'd in arms, their monarch's steps attend.

Through many a bosky dell their way they keep,
To the green foot of high Æcglea's steep.
When thus the King:—“Here, friends, your task is done,
What else remains to act, I act alone.
Should, from the hostile camp, some vagrant eye
Your plume-crown'd helms and gleaming arms descry,

135

Inglorious death our lot, or shameful thrall,
England's last hope extinguish'd in our fall.

“For two successive days, beneath this bourn
Conceal'd, with caution wait your friend's return.
If these elapse, conclude your Alfred lost,
The station quit, and seek my faithful host;
There, with our valiant peers, and Erin's chief,
Explore the means of succour and relief:
Either with desperate arm resolve to dare
Again, the bold uncertainty of war;
Or if, alas, fair Albion's shores must bow
Beneath the insults of a cruel foe,
Let him not boast o'er Albion's sons to reign,
But only sway a waste unpeopled plain.
Or verdant Erin's sea-encircled lands
Shall yield a refuge to your exiled bands,
Or Scotia's heights, indented by the wave,
Or Cambria's mountain-rocks your powers may save;
As erst, to Britain's native sons, their seat
Gave, from our conquering sires, a safe retreat;

136

So may they to their ancient foes afford
A sure asylum from the Danish sword.”

He said, and warmly press'd each friendly hand,
Assumed his minstrel garb, and left the band.

Now, unmolested by the scouts, he pass'd,
For o'er the bard a sacred shield is cast,
Graced, and revered, even by the fiercest throng,
In conscious safety moves the man of song.
By wasted fields and ruin'd farms he hies,
Till, full in sight, the Danish tents arise;
There, fearless mingling with the hostile train,
He pours sweet Melody's enchanting strain;
Entranced, around the listening Pagans stand,
And transient rapture soothes the savage band,
While, with attentive look, amid his foes
A soldier's eye the royal minstrel throws,
Surveys the trenches' depth, the turf-raised bar,
And, as he warbles, meditates the war.

137

Amid the banquet's glee proud Guthrum heard
The strain melodious of the scepter'd bard.
Summon'd to grace the royal tent he stands,
And sweeps the thrilling strings with skilful hands.
His ardent mind, as struggling passions fire,
Indignant thus to prostitute his lyre,
He pour'd such fervid energy of song,
As roused the fierceness of the boisterous throng:
For fancied fights the tipsy rout prepare,
And grasp imagined arms, and beat the empty air.
Till, as the fumes of foul debauch arise,
With limbs enervate, and with swimming eyes,
To feverish rest the reeling train retire,
And drown in sleep the visionary fire.

With joyful look the wary hero view'd
Stern Vigilance, by long success, subdued;
Saw daring Courage turn'd to frantic heat,
And Victory prepare her own defeat;
But, as along the noisy camp he pass'd,
Listening to Riot's roar in every blast,

138

Startled with horror and amaze, he hears
The whisper'd sound of “Alfred!” strike his ears.
Instant he turns, alarm'd—his warlike hand
The useless harp quits for the shining brand,
When thus the voice—“My King! my master! say,
What fiend has tempted here thy dangerous way,
'Mid scenes where ruthless Hate and envious Strife,
Lurk, in dread ambush, for thy sacred life?
O, fly this fatal place, weak all disguise
To hide thy well-known form from Treason's eyes.
Many are here, like me, of Saxon race,
The servile ministers of foul Disgrace,
Prompt to betray, for Treachery's base reward,
That prince whose life my dying arm would guard.”

Soon as these accents reach'd the monarch's ear,
“Edgar!” he cried, “my faithful Edgar here?
Edgar, to whom, on that destructive day,
Which tore my every hope and joy away,
Elsitha, and my infant son, I gave,
From death, or insult worse than death, to save.

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Torture no words can paint, my bosom rives.”—
“She lives, my prince! my friend! Elsitha lives.”

Oft Death's pale image in the battle's storm
Had met the hero in its direst form,
Nor did he e'er in ghastlier shape appear,
Than, when in Edgar's voice, a traitor near,
Show'd him a fate that Valour might appal,
Slain in disguise, unhonour'd in his fall.
Yet, in those scenes, to Duty's claims resign'd,
Nor doubt, nor terror, shook his mighty mind.
Amid distress and danger firm he stood,
As Albion's cliffs defy the stormy flood,
Frown on the raging surf with haughty brow,
And view the idle breakers chafe below.

140

That mind, nor danger nor distress could tame,
In every hour, and every scene, the same,
Tumultuous trembled at Elsitha's name.
Now, that she lived, was wild impetuous joy;
Now fears and doubts the springing hope destroy.
For she the woes of slavery might prove,
Disgraceful chains, or more disgraceful love.

“Rescued from death, from shame,” the youth exclaims,
“The first and fairest of our English dames,
Deep, in a cloister's holy shelter veil'd,
In safety rests from human search conceal'd,
Where, in pellucid current, Avon laves
The irriguous meadows with her silver waves.—
Precarious safety! for the victor Dane
Awes, with surrounding hosts, the neighbouring plain;
No mansion sacred, no retreat secure,
If plunder tempt, or beauty's charms allure.”

The warrior heard—at once his throbbing breast,
A thousand joys, a thousand fears possess'd.

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The glowing image of Elsitha's charms,
With rapturous hope the lover's bosom warms;
The baneful thoughts of former pain subside,
Lost in wild Extacy's tumultuous tide.—
Now torturing Fancy paints the sacred fane,
Forced by the unbridled fury of the Dane,
While Indignation's fiery currents roll,
And all the warrior rushes on his soul.
“My friend! my better genius, come!” he cries,
The avenging hero flashing from his eyes;
“Alone, unfriended, though I seem to stand,
Arms, grasp'd by Faith and Valour, are at hand,
Soldiers resolved to conquer or to fall,
Their succouring force if outraged Virtue call.”

Through the still camp, in sleep lethargic bound,
They pass, and reach, unseen, the turf-raised mound;
Unseen, they guard the pass, for slumbers deep,
In death-like rest, the drunken warders steep.
Through the thick shade they bend their silent way,
Where Ethelwood, and England's warriors lay:

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With joy and gratitude they saw restored,
Crown'd with success, and safe, their much-loved lord.
With kind and friendly zeal the faithful train
Heap the full board, and spread the couch in vain;
No thought has he of hunger or of rest,
While fair Elsitha's image fills his breast;
Even with diminish'd lustre Glory shined,
And love, with England, shared the monarch's mind.
Not the wild blaze by feverish passion blown,
For chaste Affection's pure unsullied throne,
Is Alfred's breast, whence those true virtues spring,
Which form a people's friend, a patriot king.

With all their leader's wrongs enflamed, the band,
Elate in arms, a radiant phalanx stand.
By Edgar guided, through the waning night,
Through the first orient streaks of dawning light,
Onward they press,—but when the mounting ray
Profusely pour'd the golden flood of day,
Cautious, and wary, of the neighbouring foe,
Beneath the shade their wearied limbs they throw:

143

But soon as Eve distills her balmy dew,
Again the chiefs their silent march renew,
Till, urging on the sable noon of night,
As the bright stream reflects a feeble light,
On its green edge, by contrast dim, display'd,
The holy turrets rise in glimmering shade.—
Sudden they halt—when, with terrific clang
Of martial shouts, the echoing arches rang;
Blazes with sudden light the solemn pile,
And torches glide along each fretted ile.
With female shrieks the vaulted roofs resound,
By the loud bell's tremendous pealing drown'd.
The notes of horror strike the valiant train,
Thrill in their ears, and harrow every vein.
Not so their chief—at once his active mind,
In passion cool, each circumstance combined.—
That one neglected moment might destroy
The treasury of all his promised joy
He saw—and bade the clarion's warlike breath
Swell the vindictive strain of war and death;
Through every cell the martial thunder broke,
To each astonish'd Dane defiance spoke.—

144

Rushing before his troops, with ardent breast,
Full on the foe the gallant Alfred press'd.
The clouds of grief that o'er his exiled head,
So long their melancholy shadow spread,
Now vanish to the winds—he sees once more,
Opposed in arms, the invaders of his shore,
Clad in his people's spoils, and red with Albion's gore.
Amid the ranks, with whirlwind speed he drives,
Unnumber'd breasts the sword of vengeance rives.
Now rushing on, the Saxon troops pursue
The daring line their leader's faulchion drew.
Before the gathering storm the oppressive band,
Already scatter'd by the monarch's hand,
With broken ranks recede, and, vanquish'd, yield
To Alfred, and to England's sons, the field!

The holy inmates of the lone abode,
Virgins, and matrons, consecrate to God,
As with pure zeal, for this unlook'd for aid,
The grateful orison of thanks they paid;
The intrepid warrior bless'd, whose arm was given
To guard the hallow'd votaries of Heaven.

145

But who the agonies of bliss can paint
When Alfred clasp'd again his widow'd saint!
Clasp'd her, with transport, to a breast adored,
To life, to love, to happiness restored;
Rescued from savage insults, rude alarms,
To joy and safety, by a husband's arms,
The first, sole, passion of her opening youth,
Mirror of constancy, and soul of truth;
Dreadful in fight as Heaven's red bolts of death,
Gentle in peace as May's ambrosial breath;
For whom her brightest laurels Conquest wove,
Twined with the myrtle wreaths of nuptial love.—
Could one condemn'd, alas! to weep in vain,
Virtues he ne'er must hope to meet again,
Behold, for him reversed, the general doom,
And love connubial rescued from the tomb;
As fond Admetus clasp'd Alcestes' charms,
As Eleonora bless'd her Edward's arms,

146

His mind, to Fancy's eye, might picture well,
Transports which few have felt, which none can tell.

And now his arms his smiling infant press'd,
Now drew his blushing consort to his breast;
From her soft eyes, which chasten'd fondness speak,
A lucid tear steals down her lovely cheek;
So the mild sun-beam of the vernal hour,
Oft watry shines through April's crystal shower.
He read the enquiring thought that tear express'd,
And thus in accent bland his queen address'd.

“Of many a valiant chief, since last we met,
Glory's bright beams in shades of death are set.
Even he, my dear ally, of Mercia's line,
Than brother more, Elsitha, since he's thine,
Burthred, from native Albion wandering far,
The sacrifice of Treason and of War,
On distant shores has breathed the expiring sigh,
No friend to tend his couch, or close his eye.”

147

“O witness, Heaven!” the royal Dame replied,
“To thee I speak, my husband, and my pride,
That, thus again to thy dear arms restored,
Saved and protected by thy victor sword,
This bosom swells alone with Rapture's sigh,
No tears but those of Transport fill this eye;
Bowing, in gratitude, for favours given,
Shall this weak mind arraign the will of Heaven?”

Here stopp'd her faultering voice, while copious flow
The mingled tides of Pleasure and of Woe.
For while she raised her eye in praise, the tear
Of anxious diffidence still trembled there,
Till her loved consort, with affection true,
Kiss'd, from its lovely source, the pearly dew.—
By mutual fondness every doubt allay'd,
And years of pain in one short moment paid.

When thus brave Ethelwood—“My warning voice
Breaks on this happy scene against my choice—
Short is, alas! the insidious calm;—around
Soon shall again the storm of conflict sound,

148

Soon the returning foe, in morning's hour,
O'er this retreat his numerous bands will pour.
A troop in arms, so valiant, and so near,
Will wake, at once, his vengeance and his fear.
Toward Selwood's shade, and high Ægbryhta's bourn,
To meet your friends and brave allies, return,
Who many an anxious look impatient fling,
Far o'er the horizon's verge, to seek their king.”

The Monarch heard, and Glory's kindling flame
Shot, with redoubled ardour, through his frame.
When selfish passion clouds the warrior's breast,
Dim shine her mouldering flames, by sloth depress'd,
But from chaste Love, and faithful Beauty's arms,
With heighten'd radiance blaze her heavenly charms.

Instant he gives the sign;—in bright array
The troops obedient measure back their way;
Not as when wild Dismay, and pallid Fear,
Hang on the vanquish'd squadron's flying rear.
With slow and steady foostep they recede,
Yet in retreat look back to Victory's meed,

149

With eager hope of future conflict burn,
And lingering go, more dreadful to return.—

Now, as in pleasing prospect, to their eyes
The tented summits of Ægbryhta rise,
Wondering they see, upon the aerial brow,
Cambria's and Caledonia's banners flow.
Young Donald's bands, saved from the waves and wind,
On Cambria's coast, by Mervin's warriors join'd,
Mervin, who ruled Dimeta's western plains,
The princely leader of Silurian swains,
March'd, with united squadrons, to his aid,
Their ensigns each in friendly folds display'd.
Here, crown'd with recent conquest, to the skies
The snow-white steed in Saxon banners flies,
There Cambria's griffin, on the azure field,
In snaky volumes writhes around the shield;
And Scotia's lion, proud, erect, and bold,
Rears high his irritable crest in gold.

150

Gold too her harp, and strung with silver wire,
Erin her arms displays with kindred fire,
And Britain's sister isles in Alfred's cause conspire.

Proud of his native chiefs and brave allies,
In Alfred's breast new hopes of victory rise.
Sincere he clasps, in Friendship's warm embrace,
The warlike chief of each congenial race;
But when he saw the Scotish prince restored,
Donald, whose timeless doom he oft deplored;
Donald, who urged with more than friendly zeal,
Scotia's free sons to arm for England's weal;
Donald, whom oft his pensive thought would form,
Floating, a corse, before the enfuriate storm,
His hoary locks while wretched Gregor tore,
Devoting Alfred's cause, and England's shore,
With love unfeign'd, and gratitude, he press'd
A rescued brother to his throbbing breast,

151

Anxious to learn what potent arm could save
Him and his gallant warriors from the wave.

When thus the Prince:—“Forced by the billowy roar,
With dreadful impulse, on the craggy shore,
Where rose abrupt the mountain from the tide,
The wild wave dashing on its rugged side,
Onward we rush'd to fate;—when in our sight,
Shewn by the lurid tempest's forked light,
Flash'd sudden gleam of hope,—beneath the brow
Whence high Dimeta's glittering turrets show,
There opes a spacious bay, where Milver's steep
Guards the still harbour from the howling deep,
In peaceful calm, there gently heaves the main,
And round, the angry whirlwind raves in vain.
Keneth, whose watchful eyes the advantage mark,
Steers, through the severing rocks, his shatter'd bark,

152

The flaming torch then rears aloft, to guide
Our labouring vessals through the placid tide.
The wave-worn bands assembling on the coast,
As anxious we survey our scatter'd host,
That ship alone our sorrowing eyes deplore,
Which royal Alfred through the surges bore.—
What empty rites of funeral woe we paid
To thee, my friend; the generous Cambrian's aid;
And how, when Fame declared that Albion's lord,
From the dire storm to Albion's fields restored,
Waved high the crest, and shook the avenging sword,
By valiant Mervin join'd, from Milver's bay,
To join the bold emprize we sped our way,
Some fitter time shall show—these hours demand
The leader's counsel, and the soldier's hand.”

The generous King now to his consort's charms
Courteous presents his new compeers in arms.
With manly firmness, and with martial tread,
Advancing, Mervin bows his helmed head.
Connal avows himself chaste Beauty's knight,
Her slave in peace, her champion in the fight.

153

In doubtful awe young Donald's steps advance,
And as his eye, abash'd, with sidelong glance
Caught fair Elsitha's form, with glowing hue,
Low on the ground, a downcast look he threw,
While, in Confusion's blushing tint array'd,
His faultering voice his inward thoughts betray'd.

In royal Burthred's hospitable court,
Of valour and of wit the famed resort,
Ere Scandinavia's sons, with felon sway,
Swept every polish'd charm of life away;
Where many a chief, to win Elsitha's eye,
The manly skill display'd of chivalry,
As once, in friendly sojourn, Donald staid,
He view'd, with passion'd eye, the royal maid;
Though but a stripling, fated then to prove
The inevitable tyranny of Love.
Vain were his vows, his fond pretensions vain,
Nor vows nor prayers her favouring smile could gain;
Already valiant Alfred's courteous art,
Had fix'd his image in her virgin heart,

154

While deeds of generous worth and high renown,
Virtue's true meed, and laurell'd Glory's crown,
Recorded by a people's general voice,
Fire her pure breast, and consecrate her choice.

Leaving the Mercian court, he sought to foil
His hopeless love, by hardihood and toil;
Till well, he deem'd, that time and absence join'd,
Had chaced the soft invader from his mind.
For when his sire led back from Erin's coast,
By Triumph graced, the Caledonian host,
Drinking each warlike tale with greedy ears,
He burns to emulate the deeds he hears,
Secure that Love had lost his faded flame,
Quench'd in the brighter blaze of martial fame.
Even when he learn'd from Alfred's dreadful tale,
What perils dire his hapless queen assail,
Though in her cause to arm he eager sought,
Fame only edged his sword, he fondly thought.
Love, so he vainly deem'd, had wing'd his flight,
And Fame and Friendship charm'd him to the fight;

155

For friendship still remain'd when passion fell,
And still he wish'd the fair Elsitha well;
Her image bright, yet cold as Dian's ray,
Through toil and hardship led his venturous way;
Around his bark when roar'd the wintry storm,
Mild Friendship cheer'd him in Elsitha's form;
Elsitha's friendship, like the leading star,
Guided his footsteps through the paths of war.

But as the dew, which oft, at early dawn,
In wintry whiteness, clothes the summer lawn,
Melts, when the orb of day new gilds the plain,
And verdure reassumes its genial reign;
So, from the lustre of Elsitha's eye,
The cold resolves of frozen friendship fly;
The vainly smother'd passion stands confess'd,
And all the lover glows in Donald's breast.
Yet to his heart he shudders to declare,
The thoughts his reason reads indignant there.
On Virtue's solid rock his conduct placed,
By Duty guarded, and by Honour graced,

156

O'er him the fiery floods of passion roll,
Consume his frame, but ruffle not his soul.
Hence, though his mind her steady seat maintains,
A subtle poison steals through all his veins;
While, in his languid eye, his sorrows speak,
And tear Health's ruddy blossoms from his cheek.
So o'er the early bloom of opening spring,
When Eurus harshly waves the ungenial wing,
Though, rooted deep, the vigorous plant defies
The chilling blasts of unpropitious skies,
Yet the green germs that bursting first appear,
The vernal prelude of the youthful year,
Shrink from the breeze—and Maia's gentle hours
Mourn the bare spray despoil'd of leaves and flowers.

“In quo etiam acceperunt id vexillum, quod Reafan nominant; dicunt enim quod tres sorores Hungari et Hubbæ, filiæ vidilicet Lodebrochi, illud vexillum texuerunt, et totum paraverunt illud uno meridiano tempore: dicunt etiam quod in omni bello ubi præcederet idem signum si victoriam adepturi essent, appararet in medo signo quasi corvus vivens volitans; sin vero vincendi in futuro fuissent, penderet directe nil movens, et hoc sæpe probatum est.” Asser, p. 33.

The reader, I presume, need not be told that “meridies noctis,” the “noon of night,” is often used poetically for midnight, a season much more proper for the work of hags, than noonday; though it is so translated by Spelman and others.

The authority of the naturalist must here yield to that of the poet.—

------ “Regem non sic Ægyptus, et ingens
Lydia, nec populi Parthorum aut Medus Hydaspes
Observant. Rege incolumi mens omnibus una est,
Amisso rupere fidem.”

Virgil.

Thus rendered in the faithful, as well as most poetical, version of Mr. Sotheby.

“Not Lydia's sons, nor Parthia's peopled shore,
Mede, or Ægyptian, thus their king adore.
He lives, and pours through all the accordant soul;
He dies, and by his death dissolves the whole.”

“Ad petram Ægbrighta (Brixham, Glossary), quæ est in Orientali parte saltus qui dicitur Selwdu, Latinè autem Sylva magna, Britannicè Coitmaur, equitavit, ibique obviaverunt omnes accolæ Summurtunensis pagæ, omnes accolæ Hamtunensis pagæ qui non ultra mare, pro metu Paganorum, navigaverant.” Asser, p. 33.

“The Temples are said to have descended from Leofric, Earl of Mercia. A descendant of his called himself Henry de Temple, about the time of the Conquest.” E. L.

“The Berties came from Bertiland, in Prussia, when the Saxons invaded England, and had from one of the first Saxon kings a castle and town in Kent, called Bertlestadt, now Bersted, near Maidstone. Leopold de Bertie was constable of Dover Castle in the rign of Ethelred, and his descendants held Bersted till the reign of Henry VII.” E. L.

Alfred is said to have first caught the spirit both of poetry and heroism, from hearing his step-mother recite poems on the heroic actions of his ancestors. There is an excellent picture on this subject by Westall. Ethelwulf's second wife was daughter of Charles the Bald, King of France. She is generally called Judith by the historians, but there is authority for the name here adopted, as Spelman says she is called Leothete in the Saxon Chronicle.

Æcglea. Either Lea, or Clayhill, both situate between Selwood and Eddington. Camden says, p. 104. “Near Westbury is a village called Leigh, or Ley, which is most probably the place where Alfred encamped the night before he set on the Danes at Eddington; for the name comes very near it; it being an easy mistake for the Saxon scribe to write Æȝlea, for ec Lea.—Clayhill, by the sound, might bid fair enough for this Æglea; but then it would have been a piece of very ill conduct in King Ælfred to have pitched his tent upon such a high place, visible from all parts of the country, when he intended to surprize the enemy.”

The story of Alfred going in disguise as a minstrel to the Danish camp, discovering their disorders, and, in consequence, surprising them, and gaining the battle of Eddington, though noticed by all the later historians, is not mentioned by his cotemporary biographer, Asser, who ascribes that victory to intrepidity, perseverance, and the divine favour. “Contra universum Paganorum exercitum cum densâ testudine atrociter belligerens animoseque diù persistens, divino nutu tandem victoriâ potitus.” I have, therefore, adhered to Asser's account of the battle of Eddington, and made the view of the camp conduce, ultimately, only to the subordinate event of Elsitha's deliverance.

Referring to the story of Edward the First and his consort, as represented in Thomson's tragedy of Edward and Eleonora. A most happy imitation of the Alcestes of Euripides.

“Νησοι μεγισται τε τυγχανουσιν ουσι δυο Βρεταννικαι. Αλβιον και Ιερνη.” Arist. de Mundo. c. III.

“At the eastern and inmost bay of Milford-Haven ‘a long cape,’ (saith Giraldus) “extended from Milver dyke, with a forked head, shews the principal town of the province and the metropolis of Dimetea, seated on a rocky oblong promontory.” Camden, p. 629.

159

BOOK V.

160

ARGUMENT.

Episode of Ceolph and Emmeline—March of the Army.—Battle of Eddington.

161

'Mid Selwood's sylvan walks, with martial care,
The king arrays his valiant troops for war.—
As when autumnal vapours dimly rise,
And load, with future storms, the misty skies,
From the surrounding hills and bordering main
The gathering clouds condense, then break in rain;
So, from each green retreat and bowering shade,
The eager warriors crowd to Alfred's aid.
Dark, on the plain, the thick battalion stands,
To burst, tempestuous, on the adverse bands.

162

As o'er the tented field the squadrons spread,
Stretch'd on the turf the hardy soldier's bed;
While the strong mound, and warder's careful eyes,
Protect the midnight camp from quick surprise,
A voice, in hollow murmurs from the plain,
Attracts the notice of the wakeful train.

“Soldiers! who prowling wide in ceaseless round,
Trace the fenced circuit of the embattled mound,
To Alfred's tent a wandering warrior bring,
Who knows what much concerns your martial king.”

From guard to guard the words in whispers pass'd,
And reach'd the monarch's watchful ear at last;
For on the leader's eye the ambrosial dews
Of balmy slumber scanty drops diffuse.—
Convey'd with caution through the silent bands,
Before the royal tent the stranger stands.—

“Warrior!” the monarch cries; “whate'er thy birth,
Or Briton born, or rear'd on foreign earth,

163

Freely thy wish disclose, secure to find,
For pain, and care, a sympathizing mind,
Train'd in Misfortune's rugged school, I know,
A man myself, to pity human woe.”

“Yes, thou may'st pity those,” he stern replied,
“By error plunged in dark Misfortune's tide,
Even to thy proudest foe may'st mercy give,
Spare the fallen head, and bid the suppliant live;
But he, whose traitor heart, by Envy fired
Against his Prince, his Country, has conspired;
Who, to avenge Ambition's baffled aim,
Gave up his native land to sword and flame,
Can hope no guerdon from the brave and good,
But rage repaid by rage, and blood by blood;
Mercy in vain the suppliant's grief may feel,
When public Justice lifts her sacred steel.
Should generous Alfred feel a wretch's woe,
The patriot King must crush his country's foe.
Strike then a breast, whose arteries swell to pour,
To injured Albion's wrongs, a crimson shower,

164

And, to the manes of thy slaughter'd host,
Send tidings of revenge by Ceolph's ghost.”

He paused—and, as the traitor stood confess'd,
Alternate passions shook the monarch's breast:
Now, tugging at his heart, vindictive ire
Breathes through his heaving form a fatal fire,
While myriads of his bravest warriors slain,
Whose limbs, unburied, strew'd the empurpled plain,
While cries of infancy, and groans of age,
Unhappy victims of apostate rage,
Sit on his sword, and urge the instant blow
Of rigid justice on the treacherous foe.
And now the conscious dignity that leads
The undaunted soldier to heroic deeds,
Aware, though injured right the stroke demand,
That blood, thus shed, must stain the warrior's hand,
Who grasps a sword that never yet had sped
Its force resistless on a prostrate head,
Arrests his arm, by cruel wrongs though strung,
And checks the blow that o'er the victim hung.

165

Ceolph at once perceived the generous strife,
And thus pursued his tale.—“This forfeit life
Think not I wish to save—to carry hence
A conscience deeply stain'd by foul offence.—
Each avenue to fame and virtue cross'd,
A name dishonour'd, and a daughter lost;
A daughter, by a ruffian's venom'd breath
Condemn'd, alas! to horrors worse than death,
Can Ceolph, wretched Ceolph, wish to live?—
No!—all that he can ask, or thou canst give,
Are means of vengeance.—Set me once again
In the red vaward of the embattled plain.—
I seek not glory—from her radiant roll,
Envy's malicious demons snatch'd my soul;—
But let me hunt, amid the toils of fight,
The fiend who dragg'd me down from Virtue's height.
Perhaps this arm, amid the battle's roar,
With slaughter flush'd, and steep'd in Danish gore,
Through the protective shield and threatening dart,
May reach the foul abode of Oswald's heart:
Then shall, in peace, this tortured spirit fly,
Whose only wish is vengeance, and to die.

166

“O, Alfred!—coward tears! why dim my sight,
Where dire revenge should glare with lurid light?
O, Alfred! let thine ear my wrongs receive,
Pity that wretch even Mercy can't forgive.

“Short are the joys malignant passions yield.—
Scarce were the horrors cold of Wilton's field,
When, Envy's sanguinary frenzy o'er,
The pangs of conscious guilt my bosom tore.
I saw my pride had urged Destruction's band,
To sate their vengeance on my native land;
Saw Rapine, Lust, and Murder's furious brood,
Their footsteps drench in carnage and in blood;
Saw Innocence and Beauty plead, in vain,
To the wild license of a cruel train,
Who, scorning sweet Endearment's 'suasive breath,
The shrieking virgin woo with threats of death.
Vainly I strove, with ineffectual aim,
To damp wild Devastation's spreading flame;
They mock'd the worthless friend by Envy made,
And scorn'd the soldier who his Prince betray'd.—

167

Lives there a horde so rude as not to know
The ills from violated faith that flow?
As not to hate the wretch who arms the hand
Of foreign vengeance, 'gainst his native land?
Despised by those my treason fail'd to gain,
Reviled and hated by my feudal train,
Whom my base arts had lured, from virtuous fame,
To scenes of insult, misery, and shame,
Still was I doom'd by righteous Heaven to know
The biting anguish of a nearer woe.—
My Emmeline!—unbend that brow severe,
O, curse the traitor, but the parent hear!
My Emmeline—sweet as the opening rose,
Pure as the gale o'er violet banks that blows,
Attracted Oswald's eye; a chief allied
To Guthrum's line, his mate in power and pride.
The wretch whose specious breath, with fiend-like art,
Blew the dire embers lurking in my heart,
Raised to gigantic shape my fancied wrong,
And drew my recreant soul to Denmark's throng.
Of me he ask'd the maid,—my anxious thought
Saw his design with foul dishonour fraught.

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With feign'd respect I strove to soothe his pride,
And undervalued what my fears denied.
Sullen he stalk'd away, nor deign'd reply;
I mark'd his lowering brow and fiery eye;
Full well I knew how, in the impatient heart,
Rankles of disappointed hope the smart.
Short the suspense—the hand of lawless power
Tore my sad daughter from her peaceful bower.
In vain to Guthrum's feet I suppliant came,
The sword of Justice in my cause to claim.
While tears, and prayers, and threats, alternate strove,
As the wild gust of veering passion drove.
Alas! a traitor's tears unpitied flow,
And weak the threats of a dishonour'd foe.
Then late Remorse, with all a Fury's tongue,
In my stunn'd ears ‘Woe to the vanquish'd,’ rung.

“Contemn'd, neglected, as an outcast vile
I pass'd, unnoticed, by the warder's file.—
Alfred, to thee I come!—on thy decree
Thy faithless vassal's fate depending see;

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Give me, 'tis all I ask, with pitying breath,
The means of vengeance, or the stroke of death.”

“O, far from me,” replies the King, “to tread,
Remoreseles, on repentant Misery's head,
Draw heavier vengeance from the thundering cloud,
And break the wretched heart that Heaven has bow'd.
Backward to trace Rebellion's path be thine,
To aid returning Virtue's effort mine.
Even now the troops, impatient of delay,
Chide night's slow march, and pant for rising day;
Already neigh their steeds, their banners fly,
While shouts, and shrill-toned clarions rend the sky.
Frowning through tears, indignant Mercia's host
Burn to avenge their prince, their leader, lost.
Now youthful Leofric guides them to the plain,
Breathing defiance 'gainst the treacherous Dane.
Amid their ranks the award of battle wait,
And vindicate an injured rival's fate.
Redeem, by manly vengeance on the foe,
The stroke that laid unhappy Burthred low.

154

Who, forced by fate, new climates to explore,
A wretched wanderer, sought the Italian shore;
Where, sunk by toil and grief, imperial Rome
Rear'd, o'er his sainted head, the hallow'd tomb.”

“And is he fall'n?—the virtuous and the brave!—
Sleeps Burthred?—sleeps he in a foreign grave?—
O, glorious martyr in thy country's cause!
O'er thee no veil of shame Reflection draws.—
With indignation o'er my recreant head
While every friend to patriot faith shall tread,
With grief eternal o'er thy sacred bier
Shall injured Albion shed the votive tear.
Yes!—in the foremost ranks of war I'll stand,
And point the path to thy avenging band,
First of thy squadron will I dare the plain,
Lead them o'er streams of blood, and hills of slain;

155

Dread as the baleful meteor of the night,
My sword shall guide them through the thickest fight:
No plated buckler's ample fold I need,
To guard a wretched breast resolved to bleed.
Yet, when returning from the fatal field,
Borne, a pale corse, upon the soldier's shield,
Even Ceolph shall be pardon'd when they tell
How brave he fought, how penitent he fell.”

Now in the east the morn's gray banner floats,
Loud breathe the inspiring clarion's martial notes.
The impatient warriors instant at the sound,
Spread, in refulgent phalanx, o'er the ground.—
Again the clarion blows—in bright array
The dazzling columns win their winding way.
As now the mountain's airy brow they scale,
Pace the smooth plain, or thrid the woodland dale,
From their refulgent helms, and glittering shields,
A flood of radiant glory gilds the fields.

From morn's first orient blush, till dewy eve,
Nor food nor rest the ardent host relieve.

156

But when, in rising Luna's silver beam,
The towering summits of Æcglea gleam,
The warriors' limbs, forespent with constant toil,
In needful slumber press the grassy soil,
Their march renewing with the morning light,
New strung their nerves, and panting for the fight.

Passing the borders of the forest drear,
A shriek of female anguish pierced the ear,
And, starting from the shade, a figure wan,
With piteous plaint arrests the wondering van.
Loose flow'd her careless robe, her streaming hair
Floated, in ruffled tangles, to the air,
And on her livid cheek and haggard eye,
Throned in imperial state, sat misery.

With voice by weeping choked, convulsed her breast,
The woe-lorn form the passing host address'd.

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“O, see before you, humbled to the dust,
A victim sad of cruelty and lust.—
When in the battle's doubtful shock ye join,
Think of the horrors of a fate like mine;
The curses of a violated maid
Shall nerve each arm, shall sharpen every blade.
For me—conceal'd my lineage and my name—
Ah, once my country's glory! now its shame!—
One only way remains from deep disgrace
To clear the offspring of a noble race.”—
She ceased—and instant in her struggling breast
Her fatal poniard sheath'd, and sunk to rest.

Half petrified around the warriors stand,
When, sudden darting from the astonish'd band,
Rush'd Ceolph forth—and as his eye survey'd
The breathless reliques of the murder'd maid,
“My Emmeline!”—with frantic tone, he cried,
Then sunk in death-like torpor by her side.—
Now starting from the trance,—his maniac eye
Fix'd on the pale remains that bleeding lie.—

158

From the pierced heart he drew the reeking blade,
With frantic look the ensanguined point survey'd,
While from his eye-balls darts, with horrid glare,
The enfuriate wildness of supreme despair.—
The impulse checking, ere he gave the wound,
Furious he dash'd the weapon to the ground,
And, clasping to his breast, with frenzied force,
The mangled bosom of the beauteous corse,
“O, injured Emmeline!—O, ill-starr'd maid!
Sad victim of a father's crimes;” he said,
“Awhile this loath'd existence I endure,
To make the deadly blow of vengeance sure.
Ye ruthless ministers of hell! I come,
The author of my own and Oswald's doom!”

While grief and rage in every bosom strove,
Breathing revenge, the generous warriors move.
Conceal'd by forests deep, whose ample shade
Spread gloom impervious o'er the twilight glade,

159

Through many a silvan glen the silent throng,
Unseen, unheard, vindictive march along,
Till, issuing on the plain, the verdant height
Of Eddington breaks sudden on their sight;
Conspicuous waving on whose breezy brow,
Proud Scandinavia's threatening banners flow,
Wide spreads the dread array, with ruddy gleam
Their bright arms glittering in the evening beam.

Fired at the view, instinctive ardour runs
Through every band of Britain's mingled sons;
On England's plains the flash of foreign arms
By Conquest crown'd, the coldest bosom warms;
While the brave leader of the British name,
With kindling accents fans the rising flame.

“My faithful subjects, and my brave allies,
All equal heirs of Albion's fostering skies,
Nor peace, nor liberty, can Britain know,
But from the fall of yon injurious foe.
The paths through yon embattled barrier lie,
That lead to freedom and to victory.—

160

On civil strife what horrid ills await,
Of foreign servitude the grievous state,
No words of mine need paint—for lo! it stood,
Drawn in the red charactery of blood
Full in your sight—what time the hapless maid,
Sad victim! fell, self-murder'd, on the glade.—
Is there a father, lover, husband, here,
Holds female charms, and female honour dear?
Let indignation urge each fatal blow,
With more than mortal vengeance on the foe.
Is there a warrior, 'mid this valiant train,
Who mourns a parent, son, or brother slain?
O, let him speak the sorrows of his breast
In strokes of thunder on the Danish crest.
If there be one, by guilty wiles misled,
Who 'gainst his native land his force has sped,
O, let him expiate now the dire disgrace,
By tenfold vengeance on yon hostile race;
And, in the blood of Scandinavia's horde,
Wash off the stain from his polluted sword.

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“And ye from Cambria's hills who join our band,
From Caledonia's rocks, and Erin's strand,
Generous and brave compeers! O, now be shewn
The only strife that future times shall own.
A glorious strife of Britain's isles the pride,
The friendly contest ne'er may time decide;
Eternal be the conflict which shall fight,
First in their monarch's, and their country's right!”

Though now, in mellower tint, the orb of day
Sheds o'er the hostile camp a golden ray,
Yet each bold leader of the associate bands
The expected sign of instant war demands;
But Alfred checks their zeal, till morning's light,
Dispelling all the vapoury shades of night,
Shall pour new ardour through the warrior's breast,
Gay, as the laughing hour, and fresh from rest.
Long was the march, and all the rugged way
Through thorny brakes, and tangled thickets lay.
Conscious that soft repose their limbs require,
The prudent chief restrains their generous fire;

162

For though, when high the flames of battle rise,
Valour's impatient fury strength supplies;
Firm and unfailing sinews must sustain
The lengthen'd labours of the bloody plain.

But while the soldiers, on the tented ground,
The sweets of slumber and reflection found,
The balmy cordial of refreshing rest
Ne'er soothed to peace the princely leader's breast.
Now through the silent camp his footsteps steal,
To wake the wearied centry's drooping zeal;
Now anxious on his sleepless couch reclined,
He calls forth all the treasures of his mind,
His thoughts the various forms of battle weigh,
And plan the conflict of the coming day.

Though each resource of martial art he tried,
Not on his skill alone the chief relied;
Not on his host, though every bosom, fired
With patriot zeal, a patriot soul inspired.
Not always in the lists of life belong
The wreaths of conquest to the swift and strong;

163

A Power beyond the span of human souls,
The wisest plans of erring man controuls.
To that tremendous Power, whose awful will
Swells the loud storm, bids the wild roar be still,
Fires the red bolt, or moulds the crystal hail,
Or breathes soft fragrance in the vernal gale;—
Who, o'er the wretched outcast's houseless head,
His adamantine shield can favouring spread;
The cause forlorn of suffering Virtue own,
Or hurl Oppression from his guilty throne;
To that dread Power he bows, with heart sincere,
“And, fearing Heaven, despises earthly fear.”
Nor was exempt from nearer, humbler grief,
The pious votary and the royal chief.
Too oft of selfish pride the poisonous taint,
Rankling, infects the patriot and the saint.
Not Alfred such—his generous feelings prove
Each charity of friendship and of love;
From warm benevolence each germ that sprung,
With shoot congenial, round his bosom clung:
And that divine ambition fill'd his mind
Which grasps the happiness of human kind.

164

Soon as the harbinger of morn, on high
Beat Heaven's blue vault, and caroll'd through the sky;
When now the first pale streaks of rising day
Oped, on the steaming hills, their eyelids gray,
Collected from the tents, the impatient band,
Waiting the word, in listening silence stand.
Then, as his eye along the embattled van,
Fill'd with the pleasing hope of conquest, ran,
A pensive languor in the monarch's breast
Damp'd fame's keen ardour, and that hope repress'd.—
Full many a youth, in manhood's prime, he knew,
Who now the balmy breath of morning drew,
Would, ere the dewy shades of eve descend,
On Earth's cold breast a lifeless corse extend:
O'er them, of Glory's amaranthine flowers,
Their country's hands shall shed perennial showers,
Secure alike of honour's purest meed,
For her who conquer, or for her who bleed.—
And now before the warrior's melting eyes,
The peerless beauties of Elsitha rise,—
While round him float the clarion's loud alarms,
He clasps the lovely matron in his arms;

165

With manly fondness chides her anxious cares,
Or sportive mocks the sorrows that he shares,
Nor quits the endearing fold with tearless eye,
Though war's vindictive clangor rends the sky.—
When threatening round the fearless warrior's head,
The rising thunders of the battle spread,
When clouds of iron-tempest o'er him lower,
And pour unnumber'd deaths in arrowy shower,
Unmoved he stands, in zeal heroic warm,
A breathing bulwark 'gainst the furious storm;
As the firm-rooted oak the tempest braves,
As the steep cliff defies the angry waves;
But the soft magic of Affection's tear
Wakes in the bravest heart a transient fear:
Though love, heroic ardour may inspire,
Its object weeping damps the hero's fire;
O'er Valour's cheek, Affliction's moisture steals,
A chief he combats, but a man he feels.

From fair Elsitha's chaste, and fond embrace,
The monarch speeds, to join the warrior race.

166

Darting his eye along the radiant files,
The firm array he views, with cheerful smiles;
Breathes bold resolve through every soldier's breast,
And ardent zeal by discipline repress'd.
Sudden the ensigns move.—As in the vale,
When from the irriguous marsh the dews exhale,
The floating mists from eve's dank breath that spread,
In whitening volume, o'er the level mead,
Appearing, through the glimmering shades of night,
A waste of waters to the traveller's sight,
At morn roll up the mountain steep, and crown,
With clouds of dim expanse, the upland down;
So, from the hollows of the winding dale,
Slow, the ascent the British warriors scale;
So, wide extended on the breezy height,
Tremendous frown the threatening clouds of fight,
Where the wan twilight of the opening dawn
Shews, throng'd with hostile spears, the aërial lawn.

Loud blows the clarion shrill!—with thundering sound
Roars the tremendous peal of battle round.

167

Full in the front the English archers stand,
The bent bow drawing home with sinewy hand,
Scarcely the shining barbs the tough yew clear,
The ductile nerve stretch'd to the bowman's ear.
Not from the foe by sheltering ranks conceal'd,
Boldly they dare the foreward of the field;
With deadly point the levell'd arrows shine,
Pierce the cuirass, and check the close-wedged line:
Here Caledonia's hardy mountaineers
Lift the broad targe, there mark her lowland spears;
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors brave,
With lighter arms, the war's destructive wave;
Spread o'er their agile limbs the osier shield,
The shorten'd sword, and biting pole-axe wield;
Strike, with swift aim, the desultory blow,
And tire, with varied shock, the wavering foe.
Clad in rich panoply, each high-born knight
Impels his barbed courser to the fight;
The burnish'd arms a bright refulgence shed,
White waves the plumage o'er the helmed head;
And on the ample shield, and blazon'd crest,
Shines, of each chief, the known device impress'd.

168

Swift as the rapid bird of Summer flies,
Cleaving, with agile wing, the tepid skies,
The warlike squadrons on the spur advance,
With seat unshaken, and protended lance.—
Ampler in numbers, Denmark's sons oppose
The dreadful onset of their rushing foes:
With lowering front the northern warriors stand,
In deep array, a firm, and fearless band:
And, as where Scandinavia's mountains rear
The accumulated snows of many a year,
The enormous masses undissolved remain,
And summer suns roll over them in vain;
So the unshaken squadrons, firm, defy
The lightnings of the war that round them fly.—
Loud blows the brazen tube's inspiring breath,
With shouts of triumph mix'd, and groans of death;
With horrid shock the infuriate hosts engage,
And Slaughter stalks around with fiend-like rage.

Fierce Ceolph views the field with fiery eye,
And marks where haughty Oswald's banners fly:

169

Then swift and dreadful, as the whirlwind's force
Speeds o'er the ruin'd fields its fatal course,
Through all the horrors of the raging fray
He cuts, with furious arm, his eager way;
Before the Danish chief his circling train,
Their spears and sheltering shields oppose in vain;
Breathless and bleeding, onward still he press'd
Through groves of iron pointed at his breast;
'Gainst Oswald's heart his rapid sword he drives,
The thundering stroke the solid corslet rives;
Prone falls the injurious tyrant on the ground,
His life-blood streaming from the fatal wound;
Pierced by a thousand spears, on earth laid low,
The expiring victor spurns his prostrate foe;
O'er the warm corse in fatal triumph lies,
And, sated with revenge, exulting dies!

Around the banners of their bleeding lords,
With shock impetuous, close the adverse hordes,
Each squadron emulous to bear away
The blazon'd trophies of the doubtful fray.

170

While here the war in equal balance hung,
And loud the peal of death terrific rung,
With happier fortune Albion's force was sped
His veteran bands where royal Alfred led.
There, like a torrent, o'er the yielding Dane,
With force resistless, pour the Saxon train,
For every soldier, in his monarch's sight,
With all a hero's ardour dared the fight.
The rising shout of triumph Guthrum hears,
His chiefs receding from the English spears,
Then gathers round him all his scatter'd force,
Points to the spot, and urges on their course;
The increasing numbers, by his summons drawn,
In swift career pour o'er the dusty lawn.
As on the deep, when driving winds afar,
Swell the blue surge, and rouse the billowy war,
The wary mariner the ocean sees
Scowling and black before the approaching breeze;
As o'er the champaign wide the dark clouds sail,
The ripen'd harvest waving in the gale;
So watchful Alfred saw, condensed and strong,
The threatening storm of battle sweep along;

171

His scatter'd files, by instant order closed,
To the fierce foe a steady front opposed:
In vain the troops, by rage impetuous arm'd,
In numbers strong, by recent conquest warm'd,
Press round on every side—with eagle glance
Alfred beholds the intrepid band advance.
The furious onset checks with martial care,
And stems the fiery deluge of the war,
While swifter than his eye his fatal sword
Strikes from his courser many a Danish lord.
The troops, dismay'd, behold their chieftains bleed,
Turn in amaze, and from the fight recede;
Indignant Guthrum views the recreant train,
And chides them to the front of war in vain.

“Dastards!” he cries, “is this your vaunted boast?—
Flies from a single sword your coward host?
Mine be the task to wipe away your shame,
And vindicate the sullied Danish name.”

He said, and stung at once by rage and grief,
Impels his courser toward the British chief;

172

With sinewy arm, and rising to the blow,
His ponderous spear he aims against his foe;
Opposed, the king his shield oblique extends,
On the wide orb the thundering stroke descends,
But, from the polish'd surface sidelong cast,
The steely point with erring fury pass'd;—
Not innocent of blood—for Mercia's pride,
Leofric the brave, who fought by Alfred's side,
Leofric of youthful bloom, and royal race,
From Burthred sprung, and Ellen's chaste embrace,
Who braved the combat, urged by generous fire,
Pious avenger of his exiled sire,
Received the lance, and life its purple showers,
Down his white vest and shining armour, pours;
His nerveless arm forsakes the useless rein,
And low he sinks, war's victim, on the plain.

In Alfred's breast the fires of vengeance rise,
Red glows his cheek, and ardent flash his eyes.
'Gainst Guthrum's heart, the ample shield above,
His weighty spear the royal Briton drove;

173

But from the corslet's plated scales rebounds
The blunted weapon, nor the bosom wounds;
By the strong fury of the ponderous stroke
Shiver'd, the strong-grain'd ash to atoms broke,
And the stunn'd warrior, tottering with the force,
Stoop'd from the blow, and scarce retain'd his horse;
On rush'd the hero, shining in his hand
The broad refulgence of his threatening brand;
Full on the Danish crest the blow descends,
Beneath the mighty shock the warrior bends,
Though the proved helm the trenchant steel disarms,
Prone on the dust he falls, with clanging arms;
Then o'er the extended chief as Alfred stood,
Soon had he paid the forfeit price of blood,
Or, led in triumph by the victor's side,
Changed, for a captive's chains, a tyrant's pride;
When generous Hardiknute rush'd through the strife,
And ransom'd, with his own, his monarch's life.
Quitting his courser, while the attending horde
Placed on the steed their bruised and vanquish'd lord,
Opposed to Alfred's sword, he dauntless stands
A rampire to the chief of Denmark's bands,

174

Victim of true allegiance' generous call,
By Alfred's arm ennobled in his fall.
Now to the close-fenced camp, with needful care,
Their wounded prince the Danish chieftains bear.
Mix'd with the flying rout, the Saxon horse,
With bleeding warriors, mark their fatal course;
Give to vindictive rage the loosen'd rein,
And the wide field with hostile carnage stain.

Different the scene where, o'er the extended field,
The Danish squadrons to the auxiliars yield;
In swift pursuit the ranks their order lose,
The turning foes again their columns close;
And while of ebbing fight the refluent course,
Checks, in its mid career, the victor's force,
Increasing numbers from the encampment near,
Hang on his scatter'd flank, and sever'd rear:
Press'd on each side, Scotia's bold sons in vain
The rising labours of the war sustain;
Fierce as the Danes in loose array, advance,
Useless the ample targe, and lengthen'd lance,

175

While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors pour
Of feathery darts an ineffectual shower:
Not like the shaft sent from the English bow,
The corslet riving with resistless blow,
As the dread fury of the thunder's stroke
Shivers, with fearful shock, the mountain oak;
The missile reed that lightly flies along,
Thrown from the cross-bow, or the sounding thong,
Bounds, with vain effort, from the temper'd mail,
As from the rocky cliff the pelting hail.

Around the field, as with attentive gaze,
Alfred the fortune of the day surveys,
He marks where Caledonia's banner flows
At distance, circled by a cloud of foes;
With eagle swiftness o'er the crimson'd glade,
He leads his victor squadrons to their aid,
The chase forsaking of a flying foe,
To rush where bold resistance deals the blow.
More pleased the shock of adverse hosts to dare,
And the proud wreath from Valour's helmet tear,

176

Than snatch a trophy from a yielding crowd,
Unbought by peril, and unstain'd by blood.
The cautious Danes behold the approaching storm,
Close their loose files, and firm their battle form.
Swift as the arrow from the elastic yew,
To youthful Donald's aid, the hero flew,
With sudden shock he breaks the opposing bands,
And by his side an aid terrific stands,
His guardian shield extends, and scatters far,
With godlike arm, the threatening ranks of war.
As lightning swift around his faulchion flies,
At every stroke a Danish warrior dies.
In vain fresh numbers to the fight succeed,
Trembling they fly, or combating, they bleed.

Brave Donald, fired by emulative pride,
Spurs on his steed, contending by his side:
Such emulation as the generous feel,
Such contest as is roused by warlike zeal;
Which only in the virtuous bosom glow,
Nor jealous hatred raise, nor envy know:

179

The active springs that Donald's bosom move,
Are steady friendship and unsullied love.
Friendship that, fearless, in the battle's strife,
Would sacrifice his own for Alfred's life;
Love, that no hope of selfish bliss would buy
With one sad tear from chaste Elsitha's eye.

Press'd and confused, recede the Danish bands,
To where their camp a rampired fortress stands.—
It chanced that wintry rains, with constant force,
Through the resisting mound had worn a course;
This the proud race, of strength and courage vain,
Unheeding pass, or, heeding, they disdain,
But 'scaped not Alfred's wary search, when round
The midnight camp he raised the minstrel's sound;
Hither his arm the storm of battle guides—
Loud roar, of closing fight, the straiten'd tides.

180

When Hinguar, brother of the imperious lord,
Hubba, who fell by valiant Oddune's sword,
Against the King, with spear protended, flies
Swift, and unheeded by the monarch's eyes.
Young Donald saw, and met his subtle foe,
His shield presenting to the threat'ning blow.
Passing the buckler, on the prince's breast
Lights the fell stroke, with skilful arm address'd,
Rives, with dire force, the plated corselet's joint,
And drinks his vital blood with fatal point;
On his wan cheek the rose of beauty dies,
And swimming vapours dim his closing eyes;
Drops from his hand his unavailing sword,
And his sad train receive their dying lord.

“'Tis past,” he cried, “the toil of war is o'er,
This heart, at Glory's call must beat no more;
Yet, ruthless tyrant of the darksome grave,
Thy form terrific ne'er alarms the brave!
But, O! my friends, a father's grief control,
Speak comfort to his agonizing soul.

181

Tell him, though swift his Donald's earthly race,
Yet not inglorious was its short-lived space;
One hour of Fame more lasting trophies rears,
Than wait on coward Sloth's protracted years.
Mature he dies, who dies when Glory calls,
Who falls with honour ne'er untimely falls,
Graced in my obsequies, since Alfred's tear
Will shed its kindly dew o'er Donald's bier.
O, glorious prince! my leader and my friend,
On me the eye of virtuous pity bend;
In me, extended on this fatal plain,
You see, alas! a wretched rival slain.—
Start not—for though, in youthful fancy warm,
My heart drank love from chaste Elsitha's form,
Yet was that more than angel form enshrined
With sanctimonious reverence in my mind.
No pilgrim e'er, with toil and watching faint,
Paid purer homage to his patron saint.—
A flame, from aught of grosser passion free,
Dying, I boast, and dying boast to thee,
O, should thy virtuous consort deign to throw,
On Donald's fate, one drop of pitying woe,

182

Tell her I glorious fell, in battle's pride,
Stemming her Alfred's foes, and by his side.—
And, ah! with Kindness' lenient balm, assuage
My father's grief, and smooth the couch of age.
Childless, unfriended,—should Rebellion raise
Its bloody storms to cloud his closing days,
My dying breath points out, in Alfred's care,
His people's guardian, and his Donald's heir.”

He ceased, and as along the lucid rill,
When wintry Eurus shoots his arrows chill,
The icy rigour spreads with stiffening force,
Dims its clear surface, and arrests its course;
So through his veins Death's freezing languor steals,
And the closed eye a leaden slumber seals;
Aloft his spirit mounts the viewless wind,
And leaves his form a lifeless corse behind.

Around their bleeding prince, the mournful band
Of Caledonian heroes weeping stand;—
While o'er his youthful charge, who breathless lies,
As England's monarch hangs with pensive eyes,

183

To his swoll'n bosom Fancy's tablets bring
A groaning country, and a childless King;
And sad Reflection in its mirror shows,
Alfred the source of Caledonia's woes,
Shows, for his life, the life of Donald paid,
A great, a glorious, but a dreadful aid.

But soon the rising tempest of the field
Bids useless grief to bold exertion yield;
For Scandinavia's sons once more engage,
Renew the fight, and closer combat wage.
They mark'd confusion mid the conquering host,
And Valour hoped to win what Flight had lost.
O'er their thrice-vanquish'd foes they thought again
To spread the horrors of Oppression's reign.
They deem'd that race by mightier force dismay'd,
Whom Guile had sever'd, and whom Fraud betray'd;
Nor knew, when join'd beneath their legal lord,
How dread, of Albion's sons, the avenging sword.

“Enough of woe,” exclaims the royal chief,
“The soldier's sword should speak the soldier's grief.

184

See, of yon baffled host, the last essay,
The 'vantage valour gain'd to tear away.
Ye native bands! the boon of parent Heaven!
Ye brothers of the war, by Donald given!
Dear, as my brave, my dying friend's bequest,
Dear, for your inborn worth, to Alfred's breast,
Joint heirs of Britain's injured shores, combine
To vindicate, with me, the British line.”

They hear—and, dreadful as the wintry gale,
Their congregated powers the foe assail,
Who peering o'er the field, in loose array,
Yet strive to turn the fortune of the day.
In haughty guise, exulting, mid the rest,
Known by his gilded arms, and waving crest,
Proud of his recent act, stern Hinguar stood,
His pointed javelin red with Donald's blood.

Soon as the King the insulting chief descries,
Dread flames vindictive valour from his eyes;
Through the thick press, and all the rage of fight,
He seeks, with ceaseless course, the Danish knight.

185

Intrepid, Hinguar views the foe advance,
Grasps his broad shield, and shakes his threat'ning lance.
Then, proudly, thus:—“Chief of a vanquish'd race,
Scaped from defeat, by fraud, and foul disgrace,
The hour of vengeance comes;—Your tribe again
Shall crouch beneath the rod of Denmark's reign.
Struck by this arm, lo! youthful Donald paid
His worthless life to Hubba's angry shade.
Base and unequal vengeance! to destroy,
For an illustrious chief, a beardless boy.
But Alfred! thou, shalt tread the dreary coast
Of Hela's black abode, a wandering ghost.”

Scorning reply, against the vaunting foe
The indignant Briton drives the avenging blow;
Nor shield, nor corselet, stay the javelin's force,
Through the strong mail it speeds its deadly course:
Low on the earth the injurious boaster lies,
And cursing adverse Heaven, remorseless dies.

Fired by the example of the godlike man,
Redoubled ardour through the squadrons ran.

186

Dreadful in grief, brave Caledonia's band,
With beating bosom, and with eager hand,
In threat'ning phalanx 'gainst the foe advance,
The fate of Donald pointing every lance.
Here Oddune's mail-clad foot, in firm array,
Force, through the waves of war, their steady way.
Swift and resistless, as the whirlwind's course,
There thunder by their side the Mercian horse.—
Lost each brave leader of the warlike Dane,
Forced from the fight, or breathless on the plain;
The floating ranks, confused, and crowded, yield,
And measure back, in faint retire, the field.
As the strong mole, by labour rear'd to brave
The stormy inroad of the mountain wave,
Though firm, through many a circling year, it stood,
A steady barrier 'gainst the encroaching flood,
If sapp'd by chance, or time's revolving hour,
Dread, through the flaw, the rushing waters pour,
Ride o'er the deluged lands in wasteful sway,
And sweep the labours of an age away.
Such, and so fierce, through Denmark's wavering force,
The impetuous Britons urge their furious course.—

201

The line is forced—nor camp nor trenches show
A safe asylum to the astonish'd foe.
Wild in dismay, across the extended plain,
They fly with bloody spur, and sounding rein.
Decisive Victory o'er Alfred's head,
With chearing shout, her crimson pennons spread.
Eager and fierce the conquering bands pursue,
O'er hill, and dale, the desultory crew,
Till Night her sable curtains wide display'd,
And wrap'd the vanquish'd rout in welcome shade.

“Burghredum quoque Merciorum regem, regnum suum deserere, et ultrà mare exire, et Romam adire contra voluntatem suam coegit vigesimo secundo regni sui anno; qui, postquam Romam adiret non diù vivens, ibi defunctus est, et in scholâ Saxonum, in ecclesiâ Sanctæ Mariæ, honorificè sepultus, adventum Domini et primam cum justis resurrexionem expectat.” Asser, p. 26.

“Diliculo sequenti illuscente Rex inde (de Selwdu) castra movens venit ad Æcglea, et ibi una nocte castrametatus est. Inde sequenti mane illuscente vexilla commovens, ad locum qui dicitur Ethandun venit.” Asser, p. 34. See note on v. 440, lib. iv.

“It is likely he marched along this vale which was then overspread with woods, which were a part of Selwood forest.” Camden, p. 104.

This slight advantage, supposed to be obtained by Alfred's visit to the Danish camp, is more than is imputed to it by those historians who insist so strongly on that circumstance as being an efficient cause of the victory; since they all represent the battle of Eddington as fought in the open field; and the Danes, after their defeat, retiring to their fortified camp, where they surrendered.

205

BOOK VI.

206

ARGUMENT.

Consequences of the Battle of Eddington.—The Danes blockaded on Ashdown.—Circumstances attending the Surrender and Conversion of Guthrum, Chief of the Danes.—Second Prophecy of the future Fortune of Alfred, and of the British Islands.— Homage from the united Army to Alfred.—Conclusion.

207

Soon as the Morn, in rosy mantle dight,
Spread o'er the dewy hills her orient light,
The victor monarch ranged his warrior train,
In martial order on the embattled plain;
Ready to front again the storm of fight,
Or urge the advantage, and pursue the flight;
But not the horizon's ample range could show
A trace, a vestige, of the vanquish'd foe.

Now, from the exulting host, in triumph peal'd,
The shouts of conquest shake the echoing field;

208

While, to the sheltering convent's hallow'd walls,
A softer voice the laurel'd hero calls;
Where, from the bloody scene of fight removed,
Trembling, 'mid hope and fear for all she loved,
Elsitha, prostrate on the earth, implored
Blessings on Albion's arms, and Albion's lord.
Sweet were the warrior's feelings, when he press'd
His lovely consort to his beating breast;
Sweet too, Elsitha, thine—with conquest crown'd,
To see the mighty chief, in arms renown'd,
Though loud the chearing shouts of conquest rise,
And war's triumphant clangor rends the skies,
Forego the scenes of public joy awhile,
To share the bliss of Love's domestic smile.
Yet such, alas! of human joy the state,
Some grief on Fortune's brightest hours must wait;
Amid the victor laurel's greenest wreath,
Twines the funereal bough of pain and death.
Elsitha's eye, among the conquering train,
Seeks many a friend, and near ally, in vain.
Leofric, her brother's heir, whose ardent breast
Her influence, mild and bland, had oft repress'd;

209

Would Indignation's angry frown reprove,
Or warn him from the dangerous smiles of Love;
Leofric, who, when the dawn awoke her fears,
Dried, with consoling voice, her gushing tears,
Mangled, and lifeless, from the combat borne,
Refutes, at eve, the promised hope of morn.
And, as her heart the painful image draws,
Of youthful Donald bleeding in her cause,
The royal warrior, beautiful and brave,
A timeless victim of the silent grave,
O'er her swoll'n breast a softer sorrow steals,
Her heart a warmer sense of pity feels,
While tears, as pure as seraph eyes might shed,
Flow o'er his memory, and embalm him dead.

Even Alfred, when his firmer looks survey
The field of fate, in morning's sober ray,
See Victory's guerdon, though with safety fraught,
By blood of kindred heroes dearly bought.
Though myriads saved from slavery and death,
Their spirits waft to Heaven with grateful breath:

210

Yet chiefs of noble race, and nobler worth,
Glory and grace of Albion's parent earth,
Extended pale and lifeless in his sight,
Check the tumultuous tide of full delight;
And as the hymns of praise ascend the air,
His bosom bows in penitence and prayer,
O'er the red sword Contrition's sorrows flow,
Though Freedom steel'd its edge, and Justice sped the blow.

But when he views, along the tented field,
With trailing banner, and inverted shield,
Young Donald, borne by Scotia's weeping bands,
In deeper woe the generous hero stands.

“O, early lost,” with faultering voice he cried,
“In the fresh bloom of youth and glory's pride;
Dear, gallant friend! while memory here remains,
While flows the tide of life through Alfred's veins,
Ne'er shall thy virtues from this breast depart,
Ne'er Donald's worth be blotted from this heart.—

211

Yet the stern despot of the silent tomb,
Who spreads o'er youth and age an equal doom,
Shall here no empire boast,—his ruthless dart
That pierced, with cruel point, thy manly heart,
Snatch'd from his iron grasp, by hovering Fame,
Graves, in eternal characters, thy name.
All who the radiance of thy morn have seen,
Shall augur what thy noon-tide ray had been,
If Fate's decree had given thy rising sun
Its full career of glory to have run;
But oft are Valour's fires, that early blaze,
Quench'd in the crimson cloud their ardours raise.—

“Ah, wretched Gregor! how can words relate,
To thy declining age, thy Donald's fate?
For while of such a son the untimely doom
Drags thy gray hairs in sorrow to the tomb,
Each tale of praise, that tries to soothe thy care,
But wounds thy heart, and plants new horrors there.—
On me, on England's cause, the curse shall fall,
On me the wretched sire shall frantic call;

212

Who from his arms his soul's last solace led,
On distant plains to mingle with the dead.
Then O, my valiant friends, whose ears attest
Of Donald's dying voice the sad bequest,
With yours my dearest care shall be combined
To smooth the tempests of your monarch's mind;
With you protect, from War's, from Faction's rage,
The feeble remnant of his waning age.
As round our isle the azure billow roars,
From all the world dividing Britain's shores,
Within its fence be Britain's nations join'd
A world themselves, yet friends of human-kind.”

He ceased,—the words applauding Scotia hails,
And low the spear in filial homage vails,
Homage to Alfred, and to England's train,
Eternal friendship vows, and equal reign,
While swells in shouts of transport to the wind,
“Never shall man divide, whom Heaven has join'd!”

And now the light-arm'd foot, and agile horse,
Whose speed pursued the invader's flying force,

213

Returning from the chase, to Alfred show
The distant refuge of the scatter'd foe.
Through woods and heaths they urge the swift career,
Pale Terror hanging on their trembling rear;
Nor thought of rest, nor hope of safety find,
And hear the victor's shouts in every wind,
Till distant Ashdown's verdant height they scale,
Tremendous frowning o'er Berochia's vale,
On the proud summit of whose rampired steep
Hangs the strong mound, o'er trenches broad and deep;
Where erst her wing Rome's towering eagle spread,
In haughty triumph o'er the Briton's head.

214

The Monarch hears, and bids his troops prepare
Their flight to follow, and renew the war,
Resolved to sweep from Albion's rescued coast,
The last remains of Scandinavia's host.

“To-day in peace the social hours employ,
In moderate triumph, and in temperate joy:
Let the skill'd Leech the wounded warrior tend,
The generous soldier mourn his parted friend;
Let holy priests, with orison sincere,
Chant the sad requiem o'er the hero's bier;
But when the morrow's dawn first gilds the plain,
Let war's stern duties reassume their reign;
Beneath its banners, let each different band,
Prompt to obey, in silent order stand,
The trumpet's signal waiting, to pursue
The distant squadrons, and the fight renew.”

The chiefs fulfil their king's behest,—the day
In joy, by grief attemper'd, wears away.
For Valour mourns, mid Conquest's chearful cries,
Of friendship, and of blood, the sever'd ties.

215

But sheath'd in radiant arms, by morn's first light,
The ardent warriors claim the promised fight.
The clarion blows—silent the steady throng
In close compacted order move along;
Each rank, each file, prepared with martial care,
Instant to form the threatening front of war,
Should, from the hollow vale, or mountain's crest,
The ambush'd foe their toilsome march molest.

Twice dewy morn unveil'd her eyelids gray,
Twice blush'd the dappled west with setting day,
While onward still the unwearied victors pass'd,
Till Ashdown's verdant summits rose at last.
The scene of former fame as Alfred hails,
Omen of hope in every breast prevails.
There, on the summit of the embattled brow,
In eve's red beam, the Danish banners glow;
For Guthrum, gathering courage from despair,
The relics of the war collected there.
Close round the camp his host the Briton draws,
And with his mail-clad foot the fortress awes.

216

While a selected troop, by Edgar led,
Their wakeful guard wide o'er the champaign spread,
Scouring, with rapid steeds, the extended lawn,
In distant circle, till the approach of dawn.

Now sinks of twilight dim the last faint gleam,
And Hesper yields to Luna's brighter beam.
For with full orb the effulgent Queen of Night
Shed, through a cloudless sky, her silver light.—
O'er the broad downs her rays their lustre throw,—
A flood of radiance gilds the vale below.
There the high trees, in splendour keen array'd,
Cast every deep recess in darker shade;
Their leafy summits waving to the sight,
Seem a vast flood of undulating light.—
When, issuing from the camp, a warlike train,
Their bright arms glittering, speed across the plain.

The alarm is instant given,—the Saxon horse
Close on their passage, and oppose their course.

217

Hemm'd and surrounded by a mightier host,
Useless is flight, and hope from combat lost.
Urging their swift career, with rested lance,
As on each side the circling troops advance,
A voice exclaims, “Ye English chiefs, forbear!—
Those who nor fight, nor fly, in pity spare.
From yon fenced camp, where morning's rising ray
Shall scenes of carnage and of death display,
This youth, from Guthrum sprung, whose arms nor feel
Valour's firm nerve, nor grasp the warrior's steel,
His royal sire, beneath my guidance, sends
To seek protection from his distant friends.
Your vigilance has marr'd his vain design,
To you, ourselves, our weapons, we resign,
If we must fall, opposed in arms who stood,
Stain not your swords with unoffending blood.”

“Well may the race, in Murder's livery dyed,
Such fate expect,” the gallant Edgar cried.—
“Though mid the thunder of the battle's storm,
Where Horror stalks abroad in ghastly form,

218

The victor's falchion, with vindictive blow,
May strike a flying, or a yielding foe,
Yet cool, in peaceful parle, the English sword
An unresisting bosom never gored;
Ne'er have our warriors wreak'd their impious rage
On woman, helpless infancy, or age;
To Alfred's tent, devoid of terror, go,
Who in a suppliant, ne'er beholds a foe.”

Straight to the circling camp which Albion's race,
Round Denmark's steep and guarded fortress, trace,
Brave Edgar bids his bands their captives bring,
The royal youth presenting to the king:
Trembling before the monarch's feet he kneels,
Who all the man, and all the parent feels.
“Dismiss thy fears,” with voice benign he said,
His hand extending to the youth dismay'd;
“That mercy which I trembling ask of Heaven,
To mortal suffering ever shall be given.
Such pity as, I trust, my child would know,
From the brave bosom of a generous foe;

219

Such, bless'd by Providence, my conquering sword
Shall, to the offspring of my foe, afford.
Cursed be the coward rage that sees offence,
Howe'er derived, in weeping innocence!—
Let every doubt, and every terror end,
And in your father's foe, embrace a friend.”

Contending passions struggling in the breast,
Low sinks the youth, by fear and hope depress'd.
Edgar, as prompt to succour and to spare,
As the dread front of bleeding war to dare,
Caught the faint stripling ere he reach'd the ground,
And from his head the shining helm unbound.
Though on the lips was Death's pale ensign spread,
Though from the cheek the blooming rose was fled,
Though on the liquid radiance of the eyes,
The sable lash a silken curtain lies,
Yet o'er the brows, which, with the forehead, show
Like jet encircled in a bed of snow,
Flows in loose ringlets to the fresh'ning air
The soft redundance of the ambrosial hair,

220

And charms, of more than mortal grace, betray'd
The form and features of a beauteous maid.

Soon as that form struck Edgar's starting eyes,
“My Emma here?” the youth enraptured cries:
“And do these looks once more her beauties trace?
These arms now clasp her in their fond embrace?—
Look up, my love, and with thy fragrant breath
My bosom free from anguish worse than death.”

Waked by the well-known voice, her eye unseal'd,
Through the dark lid returning life reveal'd,
Again their beams reviving pleasure speak,
Again the tint of health illumes her cheek,
And, leaning on young Edgar's raptured breast,
A silent tear her blushing love confess'd.

“Dear beauteous maid,” he cried, “from me receive
Each tender care that love, that truth can give:
To thee their thanks shall England's chieftains bring,
And bless the charms that rescued England's king.

221

Love, love of thee, thy faithful Edgar gave
To Guthrum's power a voluntary slave.
Love form'd the spell that drew me to remain
Mid the rude sons of Riot's desperate reign,
Where one soft glance from lovely Emma's eye,
O'erpaid the galling pangs of slavery.
Hence 'twas my hap—to Heaven's protecting power
May grateful Albion consecrate the hour!—
To warn my sovereign, with prophetic breath,
From the abode of danger and of death.
Hence, too, my voice his faithful followers drew
To save Elsitha from a ruffian crew,
Of whose dire cruelty the mildest doom
Is the swift mercy of an instant tomb.”

“Bless'd be thy aid! the lovely cause be bless'd!
For ever partner of Elsitha's breast.—
“Mine, mine,” the royal matron cries, “the care
To soothe the sorrows of the weeping fair,
From me the Danish maid shall ever prove
At once a parent's and a sister's love.”

222

Sweet tears of joy now fill the virgin's eye,
Her gentle bosom breathes the grateful sigh,
While a kind glance her looks on Edgar stole
Spoke the soft language of her inmost soul.

Soon the report to Guthrum rumour brings,
For evil tidings fly on eagle wings,
That, by the radiance of the moon betray'd,
The hostile camp detain'd the captive maid.
A herald to the English king he sent
To ask safe conduct to the royal tent.—
The solemn pledge of safety given, he sought
The British host, with splendid ransome fraught;
Where, as along the martial files he pass'd,
Each soldier's eye a glance of triumph cast,
To view the tyrant of the wasted land,
Sad, and unarm'd, an humble suppliant stand.
Yet still was grief by rage indignant drown'd,
Still on his rugged brow defiance frown'd.—
But when the chief his blushing daughter saw
Respect from all, and kind attention draw;

223

Saw his benignant foes employ their care,
To soothe each terror of the anxious fair,
A kindly beam of fond affection stole,
Unfelt before, across his stubborn soul.
Struggling, he scarce restrain'd the swelling sigh,
Scarce check'd the tear that trembled in his eye;
The stifled pang his faltering voice suppress'd,
He show'd the gold, and silence told the rest.

“Think not,” the Monarch cried, “our mercy sold;
The mercenary price of proffer'd gold;
Treasures, by plunder gain'd, the lawless spoil
Of England's ruin'd towns, and wasted soil;—
Can these the indignant owners' vengeance bribe,
Panting to force them from your vanquish'd tribe?
Soon as the orient beams of morn are shed
Shall, o'er your camp, war's furious storm be sped.
Nor think yon feeble mounds your heads can shield,
When kindling fury calls us to the field;
When wrongs beyond the strength of man to bear,
Harden each heart, and sharpen every spear.

224

Look forth on yonder field, and trembling see
Superior numbers, fired by victory.
Numbers, increasing still with every hour,
Croud from the regions round, and swell our power;
Determined each to make your slaughter'd host
A dreadful landmark on the English coast,
And paint Invasion's image on your shore,
In the dire blazonry of Danish gore.
Mistake me not—we do not wish to gain
By threats, a prize our swords must soon obtain.
But anxious to withhold the fatal blow,
To spare a vanquish'd, though a cruel, foe.
Pitying I view the horrors that await,
Your fortress forced, and mercy ask'd too late;
When, by retentive sway no longer bound,
The insatiate fiends of havoc stalk around.

“In safety to your camp return, and there
Weigh well your state in council,—and prepare
Once more the dread award of war to try,
Or trust a generous victor's clemency.—

225

For this sweet maid, whom Fortune's changeful hour
Has given a captive to my happier power,
Whether you yield to Concord's gentler charms,
Or dare the stern arbitrement of arms,
I pledge my faith her beauties to restore,
Free, and unransomed, to her native shore;
Or, if she fear o'er ocean's wave to roam,
I am her parent, and my realm her home.”

“Enough! enough!” the Danish chief replies,
The bursting shower now gushing from his eyes;
“Firm 'gainst your conquering numbers had I stood,
And, lost to hope, bought glory with my blood,
Smiling elate in death, while round me rose
A dreadful monument of bleeding foes;
But mercy, pure as thine, O, England's lord!
Subdues the stubborn breast that scorns thy sword.

“Go to my camp, declare the conflict o'er,
That Alfred sways, and we resist no more;
Tell them, the sanguine toils of battle cease,—
Here I remain, a hostage of the peace.”

226

The Danes, with doubting eye and sullen breast,
Receive, in silence deep, their king's behest,
Yet unresolved, or at his will to yield,
Or try again the fortune of the field.
But when the morn's returning light display'd,
Far as the eye the spacious scene survey'd,
Gleams of refulgent arms on every side,
And myriads crowding still to swell the tide,
Hope from resistance sunk,—and bending low
Their banners, trail'd in dust, submission show,
Slow issuing on the plain, the yielding band,
By their piled arms, in anxious silence stand.

To whom the victor thus:—“Dismiss your fear,
Nor vengeance shall ye feel, nor insult hear;
The galling taunts a captive's ear that brave,
Tarnish the brightest trophies valour gave.
To those who wish from Albion's realms to fly,
Who pant for Scandinavia's bleaker sky,
My friendly barks shall yield free conduct o'er,
Shall land in safety on their native shore;

227

But all who here have ties congenial form'd,
Whose bosoms Albion's milder scenes have charm'd,
Beneath our sway protected may remain,
May freely cultivate the wasted plain;
For much, alas! of our unhappy soil,
Ravaged by war, demands the labourer's toil;
So by your care shall plenty be restored,
Your ploughs repair the ruin of your sword.
Though your remorseless priests, the conflict o'er,
Their bloody idols sate with human gore,
Our holy faith, with lenient precept, shows
The light of pity to repentant foes.—
Demons of Hell grasp Persecution's rod,
Mercy's the darling attribute of God.”

First ran a murmur through the attentive crowd,
Then shouts of joy their glad assent avow'd.
A few, by early ties to Denmark bound,
Cross'd the blue ocean to their natal ground;
But most, from infancy inured to roam,
War their employment, and a camp their home,

228

Unknown the wish, which turns with fond delight,
To woods and fields that charm'd the infant sight,
While barren moors, in memory's tablet drawn,
Eclipse of cultured care the greenest lawn,
In fertile England fix, nor wish to try
A harsher region, or a ruder sky,
Her laws adopting, happy to obey
The mild decrees of Alfred's parent sway;
Abjure the Pagan lore, whose fiend-like breath
Taught horrid rites of cruelty and death,
For that pure faith, with angel meekness fraught,
To unresisting foes which kindness taught.
From the brave hand his conquest that achieved
The holy cross the Danish chief received,
Wash'd, by the sacred lymph, from sin's foul ban,
No longer Guthrum now, but Athelstan.

Circling a mount, high rising from the plain,
The honour'd tomb of ancient heroes slain,

229

The minstrel train around, in choral lays
The exulting peal of peace and triumph raise,
While loud the thrilling harp's melodious wire
Vibrates responsive to the vocal choir.
When, issuing from the rest, with awful gait,
Slow moves a sacred troop, in solemn state,
A snowy garb each form majestic wears,
Each on his arm a golden viol bears.
Alfred with wonder, mid the hallow'd band
Conspicuous, sees Cornubia's Druid stand;
Him who, 'mid Athelney's surrounding shade,
Of distant times the glorious scenes display'd;
On the green summit of the grassy mound
Aloft he stands, and views the region round.
Again his heart mysterious strains inspire,
Again his accents breathe prophetic fire,
Which bursting boldly from his struggling breast,
In notes like these the attentive king address'd.
“Alfred, lo! now confirm'd my mystic strain,
Conquest her ensigns waves o'er Albion's reign;
Crown'd with success thy pious efforts see,
Thy foes are vanquish'd, and thy people free.

230

Much yet for thee remains;—in ether blue
Where yon bold heights melt from the aching view,
Beneath their base, among the flowery meads,
Her silver current gentle Isis leads.
There, to the Muse, must thy protective power
The solemn shade extend, and rear the tower.
Amid the warrior-laurel's blood-stain'd leaves,
Behold her brighter laurel Science weaves.
Lo! Rhedecyna's princely domes arise,
And shoot their thousand turrets to the skies.
There shall Religion light her holy flame,
And moral Wisdom glow at Virtue's name;
With desultory step shall Study rove,
In rapt attention, through each twilight grove.
There all that lies in volumes famed of old,
All that inquiring ages can unfold,
Whatever toil, or genius, can impart,
To charm, inform, and purify the heart,
Sought, and combined, by Education's hand,
Shall spread instruction round the illumined land.

231

“There, as from war relieved, thy bosom woos,
In Science' awful shade, the moral Muse,
The hallow'd form of Themis shall arise,
Her ample volume opening to thine eyes.
There shalt thou read the sacred code, whose zeal,
On private happiness, rears public weal.
In vain their guard constituent powers may draw,
And public Freedom's bold invader awe,
If fraud oppressive, or litigious strife,
Invade the humbler walks of private life;
Too oft the jealous patriot's general plan
Protects the state, regardless of the man,
While rule on rule that laws coercive frame,
Leave individual freedom but a name;
As the rich arms that blazon'd knighthood dress,
Protect the life, but every limb oppress.
Small is the woe to human life that springs
From tyrant factions, or from tyrant kings,

232

Compared with what it feels from legal pride,
From statutes rashly framed, or ill applied.
One legislator England's sons shall see,
From aught of pride, and aught of error free;
One code behold a patriot mind employ,
To shield from fraud and force domestic joy.
Though through the creviced wall, and shatter'd pane,
Sings the chill blast, or drives the drizzly rain,
The cot, more guarded than the embattled tower,
Stands a firm fortress 'gainst despotic power.
The poorest hind, in independance strong,
Is free from dread, if innocent of wrong,
Firm o'er his roof while holy Freedom rears
That sacred shield, the judgment of his peers.

“Let the stern despot of coercive law,
With racks and wheels, the wretched culprit awe,
Bid torturing flames and axes seal his doom,
Or plunge him living in the dungeon's tomb;
Thine be the glorious privilege to spare
The scourge of Justice, by preventive care.

233

The friendly decade, link'd in social ties,
Shall check the guilty scyon ere it rise,
The mild reproof shall weaken Passion's flame,
And kindling vice be quench'd by virtuous shame,
While mutual safety binds the blameless throng,
Each man responsive for his neighbour's wrong.

“As from the scanty rill, mid sheltering reeds
That steals, unnoticed, through the irriguous meads,
Swells the full stream Augusta's walls that laves,
Proud Commerce brooding o'er its sea-broad waves.
From the small acorn's orb, as, nursed by years,
Aloft the oak its giant branches rears,
And wide o'er wat'ry regions learns to roam,
Wherever tempests blow, and billows foam;

234

So, boldly rising from this humble base,
The simple canon of an artless race,
A fabric stands, the wonder of the sage,
The guard and glory of a polish'd age.
Not to thy native coasts confined alone,—
Borne by thy sons to Earth's remotest zone,
Where, in the burning east, the lamp of day
Chears the mild Bramin with its orient ray,
Where its declining radiance warms a clime
Yet wrapp'd from notice in the womb of time;
Mid boundless tracts, beneath the rigid poles,
Where scarce the foliage bursts, the current rolls,
Where the wild savage treads the dreary coasts,
Rude as their cliffs, and sullen as their frosts;
Or where, embosomed in the southern tide,
Bloom isles and continents yet undescried,
By British arms, and British virtues borne,
Shall arts of cultured life the waste adorn;
The patriot dictates of an Alfred's mind
Spread peace and freedom wide o'er human kind.

235

“Now learn events, yet unreveal'd that lie
In the dark bosom of futurity.—
As my delighted eyes, in yon firm line,
With friendly folds see Albion's banners join,
I view them, in prophetic vision shewn,
United subjects of a mighty throne;
See Cambria's, Caledonia's, Anglia's name
Blended, and lost in Britain's prouder fame.
And ye, fair Erin's sons, though Ocean's tide
From Britain's shores your kindred shores divide,
That tide shall bear your mingled flags unfurl'd,
A mutual barrier from an envying world;
While the same waves that hostile inroad awe,
The sister isles to closer compact draw,
Waft Friendship's intercourse, and Plenty's stores,
From Shannon's brink, to Humber's distant shores.
Each separate interest, separate right shall cease,
Link'd in eternal amity and peace,
While Concord blesses, with celestial smiles,
The favour'd empire of the British Isles.

236

“But come, victorious bands! with common toil
Sketch the white courser on the pendent soil.
O'er many a rood the chalky outline drawn
Pourtrays the Saxon ensign on the lawn,
Which, from the extended vale, the curious eye
In times remote, with wonder shall descry—
The lasting monument of victory.
When in revolving age's lapse, once more
We hail the argent steed from Elba's shore,
This in your brave descendants' shields shall shine,
The patriot kings of Othbert's mighty line;
Othbert, of Roman race; who led his train
From Tiber's brink to cold Germania's plain.
This, drawn in silver blazonry, shall grace
The stoutest warriors of Britannia's race;
Mid fiery horrors, yet to war unknown,
Horrors by fiends to future battle shewn;

237

Mid flames more dreadful than the lightning's glare,
Peals that with louder thunder rend the air
Than Jove's dread bolts, the honour'd badge they bear.

“Oft then, with festal joy, the rustic crew
Shall, the worn outline which you trace, renew;
And, as in yon deep foss and threatening mound,
By which the upland summit now is crown'd,
Then smooth'd by time, by flocks successive trod,
And softly clad in verdure's velvet sod,
With sinewy arm they hurl the massy bar,
Speed the swift race, or wage the sportive war;
Little they reck, though faithful annals tell,
That here Invasion fought, Invasion fell.

“Nor Vinitagia, shall thy humble towers,
Though the dark shade thy lowly walls embowers,
Be shrowded from the Muse's favouring eye,
Or miss the votive strain of melody.
For all who fame in arms, or arts revere,
All to whom Freedom's sacred cause is dear,

238

All who enjoy a sovereign's temper'd sway,
Which temperate freedom glories to obey,
Shall love, shall venerate the hallow'd earth,
Which gave their first of kings, their Alfred, birth.

“Yet o'er the scene, with dawning splendour bright,
One cloud of sorrow throws funereal night;
Deep in the vale, where yon green summit stands,
Conspicuous rising mid the level lands,
There shall thy son, thy Edward, yield his breath,
And tread the inevitable road of death.—
Restrain thy tears,—for not in youth's fresh bloom
Sinks he, untimely, to the silent tomb.
In lapse of age possessor of thy crown,
Mature in years, in virtue, in renown,
He falls in peace, a people's general groan
His holy passport to a heavenly throne.

“There shall, in Time's remote and distant day,
A voice to Alfred's name devote the lay.
If not like hallow'd poets, who of old
In verse divine of gods and heroes told;

239

Or those pourtraying truth in fiction's dye,
The fairy bards of Gothic minstrelsy;
Yet while his tongue shall chaunt, in humble strain,
The real glories of an Alfred's reign,
If not by Genius, fired by patriot zeal
For Freedom's favourite seat, for Albion's weal;
For him, though no perennial laurel bloom,
Living to grace his brow, or shade his tomb;
Yet Truth approving, sure may give one flower,
Faint though its tint, and short its transient hour.

“O, would that bard sublime, whose seraph fire
Shall call forth rapture from the epic wire,
Whose daring Muse shall soar, with eagle flight,
Beyond of Grecian song the proudest height,
Drink, with undazzled look, the etherial beams
From the pure fount whence light immortal streams,
Fill, with the magic of his mighty hand,
That outline his creative fancy plann'd,

240

Then should a monument eternal rise,
Worthy of Alfred's glory, to the skies.
But scorning earthly deeds, and earthly fame,
His bosom burning with celestial flame,
To sapphire fields aloft he wings his flight,
Lost in the blaze of empyréan light.”

Now on the summit of the upland lawn,
In martial pride, beneath their banners drawn,
Stood the united host.—With thrilling clang
At once a thousand harps symphonious rang,
Proclaiming, while war's brazen clarions cease,
“Pride, pomp, and circumstance, of glorious peace.”
Brave Caledonia bows the conquering sword,
And Cambria's prince owns his superior lord.

241

All hail the godlike hero, first who reigns
Unrivall'd monarch of Britannia's plains;
While Erin's joyful shouts applauding, join
The strains fraternal of the British line.—

The king, surrounded by his victor bands,
In all the pride of conscious virtue stands;
The sounds of homage that around him roll,
Swell not the placid current of his soul.—
Though by the chiefs of shouting hosts adored,
A conquering nation stooping to his sword;
While, with a stronger arm than shook the field,
His clemency compels their souls to yield:
Though myriads burn his purpose to fulfil,
Their rein his wisdom, and their spur his will;
Though conscious Rectitude, with inward voice,
The impulse seconds, and confirms his choice;
In specious colours painting to his mind,
The power unlimited to bless mankind.

242

Uncheck'd by human barriers, to impart
Wide, the pure dictates of a patriot heart,
Spread peace and justice o'er a smiling land,
Crush stern Oppression with a giant hand;
Yet in Truth's faithful mirror stands reveal'd,
A charge too vast for mortal man to wield.
Convinced, of public care the unnumber'd dyes
From human rights and human crimes that rise,
No single heart can judge, or arm secure,
However active, and however pure;
That the bright lure of arbitrary sway
May tempt the firmest foot from Virtue's way;
With careful hand around his throne he draws
The sacred bulwark of unbiass'd laws.
Or, if awhile his fervid pulse might beat
With the wild frenzy of Ambition's heat,
Sudden the visionary vapours fly
From the mild lustre of Elsitha's eye.
To the soft charities of social life
He turns, from lust of power, and rage of strife;
Feels the true duty of the royal mind,
His first, his purest bliss, to bless mankind.

243

Scorning the base degenerate power that craves
A hard-wrung homage, from a horde of slaves,
His generous thoughts to nobler fame aspire,
His bosom glows with more celestial fire;
Happy to form, by Virtue's sovereign sway,
A gallant race of freemen to obey,
Respect by deeds of goodness to impart,
And fix his empire o'er the willing heart;
While patriot worth this godlike mandate taught,
“Free be the Briton's action as his thought.”
Such the true pride of Alfred's royal line,
Such of Britannia's kings the right divine.

As in his mind revolving thus, he stood,
The thoughts congenial of the wise and good,
Along the blue serene, with distant voice,
Again Heaven's thunder consecrates his choice;
While Britain's throne applauding angels saw
Rear'd on the base of Liberty and Law.

The White-horse Hill, which bears, carved with antique rudeness, but colossal magnificence on its side, the Saxon ensign, and gives, and has for centuries given, a name to one of the richest vales in Europe, is about thirty miles from Eddington, the place of the battle; five from Wantage, the birth place of Alfred; and seven from Faringdon, where Edward the elder, his son and successor, died; and is in view of the hills that rise close to Oxford. If the defective histories of Alfred's age do not afford complete authority for the circumstances here supposed to have taken place on that spot , Aristotle's precept may perhaps warrant the author's plan; and it will be for the execution only that he will have to apprehend the real critic's censure; Ει ουτως εκπληκτικωτερον, η αυτο, η αλλο ποιει μερος.

See note on verse 645, of the preceding book.

The camp on the summit of White-horse Hill, called Uffington Castle, is supposed, by most antiquaries, to be Roman.

In the midst of a very open country, a wood of considerable extent lies directly under Uffington Camp.

“Necnon et Godrum, rex eorum, Christianitatem subire, et baptismum sub manu Ælfredi regis accipere promisit; quæ omnia et ille, et sui, ut promiserant, impleverunt.” Asser. p. 34.

The British name for Oxford.

------ “O, Majesty,
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety.”

Shakspeare.

“King Alfred, to prevent the rapines and disorders which formerly prevailed in the realm, instituted tithings; so called from the Saxon, because ten freeholders with their families composed one. These all dwelt together, and were sureties, or free pledges to the king, for the good behaviour of each other; and if any offence was committed in the district, they were bound to have the offender forth-coming.” Blackstone; who adds, in a note, “This the laws of King Edward the Confessor very justly entitled, Summa et maxima Securitas per quam omnes statu firmissima sustinentur quæ hoc modo fiebat quod sub decennali fidejussione debebant esse universi.

Othbert, Ottoberto, or Oberto, of the house of Este, said to be descended from Actius, a Roman senator, in the reign of Tarquinius Priscus. He went from Italy to Germany with the Emperor Otho the Great, and was ancestor of the house of Brunswick. Anderson's Genealogy, p. 666.

Wantage, in Berkshire. See note on verse 117 of this Book.

Milton, in one of his prose works, says, “A heroical poem may be founded somewhere in Alfred's reign (especially at his issuing out of Eddington on the Danes,) whose actions do well resemble those of Ulysses.”

The Saxon Chronicle says that Edward the Elder went into Pickland, where he built a strong tower on the borders, and the King of Scotland honoured him as sovereign, together with the whole Scotish nation. As for the Welsh, Spelman says, p. 91, “And lest that there should want any thing to the entireing of Alfred in the monarchy of the whole kingdom of England, the Welsh that hitherto held out still, and could not be won unto the English subjection, they now came in, and submitted themselves unto his government.”

Asser dedicates his history to the King in these words, “Domino meo veneribili piissimoque, omnium Britanniæ insulæ Christianorum Rectori, Ælfred.”

“Et mecum tota nobilitas Westsaxonicæ gentis pro recta jure consentiunt, quod me oportet dimittere eos ita liberos sicut in homine cogitatio ipsius constitit.” Testamentum Regis Ælfredi, printed at the end of Asser, p. 80.