Alfred :: :: University of Virginia Library

IVAR, the evening before he departs from Denmark with new forces to attack England, consults the Oracle.—Kills a Mariner.—How punished by the illusions of the Witch.—Swears never to take away the life of any unarmed person in the Island to which he is going.—Departs for Britain.

Prepared once more to seek the Saxon land,
Within his father's halls, Ivar now sits,
Musing on future spoils. Around him throng
His wrathful sisters, rousing up his heart
To vengeance 'gainst the race who slew their sire.
At Regner's name, Ivar uprose, his eye
Beam'd fearful indignation, when he cried,

“Death to our foes! My spirit thirsts to see
‘The blood of Saxons flowing, ocean like;
‘The victims of my fury. Lord of war!
‘Odin, immortal chief! thy voice I hear,
‘And like thee, forth I go, to scorn the prayers,
‘And scatter wide the bones, and heap the skulls
‘Of vanquish'd enemies. Death! view in me

‘Thy proudest son, erelong ordain'd to swell
‘Slaughter's rank pile, and for the ravenous wolves
‘Provide new banquets. By the rapturous hope
‘Of one day joining the celestial throng,
‘Amid Valhalla, hearing on all sides,
‘From each brave warrior, gratulations loud;
‘By that eternal hope, here do I swear
‘Mercy to scorn. Let Saxon foes display
‘The pitying heart, and hesitate to strike
‘The vanquished victim. Them no thoughts inspire
‘Of future recompence, when Odin's voice
‘Through every world shall sound, whilst all the ghosts
‘Of untold ages crowd around the thrones
‘Of valiant spirits: when the gods shall cry,
‘Let him who slew the most approach and join
‘Our blissful mansions, at that glorious hour,
‘Ivar with pride shall claim the heritage
‘Reserved for valour. On the Saxons’ head
‘Curses for ever light! Be their land veil'd
‘In everlasting darkness! May their hearts,
‘While unconsumed, Muspelsheim's fires o'erwhelm!
‘Soon shall this sword, to the infernal worlds,
‘Send such an army that all Neflheim's sons
‘Shall rise in triumph; clap their wither'd hands,
‘And, (gazing on their brethren,) shout my praise,—
‘The sworn avenger of his father's wrongs.
‘I haste to seek the conflict.’

‘Wilt thou dare,
‘Thus from our shores to launch,’ Thorilda cried,
‘Ere thou, with homage due, the Sorceress seek,
‘That under the black mountain rests her head,
‘To whom all times are known? Raise not the sword
‘And rashly dare the combat, till thou first
‘Consult the Oracle. Proud Hadrin once
‘Disdain'd the words of Othin, when he said,
‘Curetur, meet not, tyrant as he is,

‘Or thou shalt know captivity. The king
‘Bewail'd his rashness. Be thou wise, and learn
‘From his disaster how to hold the power
‘Of spells and divination.’ Thus the prince.

‘Far other thoughts, Thorilda, have I learn'd
‘From her who bore me, than the impious wish
‘To scorn the Gods immortal, who to some
‘Have given prophetic wisdom. Well I know
‘Where divination dwells,—o'er yonder surge,
‘Out mid the lonely deep. On the next morn
‘I sail for Britain. Dreary now the hour:
‘The night is dark; and chilling blows the wind
‘O'er the vex'd ocean; yet, a heart I boast
‘That never stoop'd to fear; a mailed heart,
‘Invincible, and forth I go, e'en now,
‘To learn my fortunes.’ Instant he arose
And mid applauding voices, to the beach
Pursued his perilous and lonely way.

Thick darkness veil'd the sky, the tempest howl'd.
As o'er the shore he strode, he saw a man,—
A mariner. ‘Well met,’ the warrior cried,
‘Launch out thy bark, for I am bound to find
‘The Sorceress’ habitation. Dost thou know
‘Her secret dwelling?’ ‘Well I know the spot—
‘Her secret dwelling,’ spake the mariner:
‘But, hark! the winds are rising; see the waves
‘Heaving their monstrous heads. At such an hour
‘'Twere death to venture.’ Cried the indignant Chief,
‘Thou dastard spirit, know, thy prince is nigh!
‘Ivar demands thy service. Launch thy bark.’
The man replied. ‘I, by the spell, am bound,
‘No choice is mine. I must deny thy will,
‘And, patient, tread this shore.’ ‘Deny thy prince,’
Ivar enraged exclaim'd, when, to his heart

Wrathful, he plunged his sword! The mariner
Fell lifeless, while the prince pursued his course.
Not long he stray'd ere to another man—
A mariner he came, who pondering stood:
‘Well met,’ cried Ivar. ‘I am bound to find
‘The Sorceress’ habitation: launch thy bark.’
The mariner in silence launch'd his bark,
And o'er the raging billows urged his way.

Now darker grew the crowded atmosphere;
There was no moon on high, and not a star
Peep'd through the ebon canopy: the blast
Rang loud, and now, with roar more terrible,
Swept o'er the foaming waves.

‘But dost thou know,
‘In this tempestuous hour, the certain course?’
Said Ivar, as the spray dash'd o'er his face.
Solemn the helmsman cry'd—‘I know the course.’
More furious howl'd the storm, and in the air,
So black and pitchy, forms appear'd to float,
More black, and of terrific character.
‘But dost thou know the way?’ with falt'ring voice,
Again he ask'd him. Slow the boatman spake,
‘I know the way.’ A moment's calm prevail'd:
The waves, like heaving mountains, held their heads
Suspended in the clouds, to aid the still
And petrifying silence: then, again,
Descended in loud cataracts; the winds
Burst on resistless, and together join'd
Ocean and air t'augment the fearful scene,
Unspeakable. ‘But dost thou know the way?’
Once more inquired the Prince. ‘I know the way,’
In the same tone the mariner replied.
The sea now raved with more transcendent wrath,
And every blast that shook the element
Seem'd like the blast portentous of man's end.

‘I cannot see thy face,’ exclaimed the prince,
‘And whither are we sailing? Fearful man!
‘I know thee not. Speak! I conjure thee speak!
‘Though it may bear a dagger to my heart;
‘This horrid silence chills me.’ Not a word
Answered the mariner, and as the prince
Look'd with dread expectation, suddenly,
A meteor (from thick darkness) blazed around,
And by it, in the helmsman he beheld
The man he murder'd!

Ghastly beam'd his eye;
His cheek was thin and sallow, and the blood
Bathing his mantle, trembling, he beheld;
Whilst, as he gazed, speechless and wild with dread,
The light withdrew, and all again was dark,
Darkness and tempest, and the rushing wind.

Now fast they sped o'er ocean, when a wave
Tossed on a rock the bark. It instant bulged.
Upon the crags Ivar upclimb'd, and look'd
Eager around for shore or shelter; when
Terror consumed his breast; he feared the prize,
Th' immortal prize for which alone he toil'd,
Was then to be caught from him, and these shores,
(The mean inglorious haunt of cowardice,)
Receive that heart which panted but to die
The death of heroes. Whilst the prince thus mused,
A light drew nigh; and now it nearer came,
And still more near. The cause was manifest.
It was a wandering Night-hag pacing slow
The dark and stormy ocean. Ivar cried,
‘Whate'er thou art, oh, roamer of the seas!
‘Grant me thine aid.’ Toward Ivar now she moved,
Raising her lamp, when, by its feeble ray,
He saw his perils. With inquiring gaze
He sought for boat or boatman. Both were gone!

Thro' the thick gloom no form appear'd; and now
O'er broken crags, and sea-weeds, up the shore,
Labouring, he climb'd.

He mark'd the ocean Hag.
Back he recoil'd. Her face was pale as death.
Her bones appear'd, scarce hidden by the skin
That loosely cover'd them, whilst her dark eye
Glisten'd like that of swine, when from half sleep,
In slumbering mood, it casts its eye-ball up
At foot approaching. ‘Hither am I come,’
Cried Ivar, ‘to explore th’ abodes profound
‘Where dwells the Fatal-Sister. Her I seek
‘To commune with upon adventurous deeds,
‘And to inquire, in other worlds, how fares
‘My injured father. I am Regner's son,
‘Ivar of Denmark. Know'st thou of her cave,
‘That I may pay obeisance, and disclose
‘My weighty tale?’

‘Well do I know the spot,’
The Hag replied. ‘From her thou seek'st, I sprang—
‘My potent mother. I beheld thee, far,
‘Toiling amid the waves, and thus approach'd
‘To do thee service. To our vault proceed.
‘But in this boisterous hour, declare who steer'd
‘Thy vessel hither?’ Trembling, Ivar cried,
‘Some haggard fiend; I know him not, his name,
‘Nor whither he is gone. He landed me
‘Upon these savage rocks, and back return'd.’
‘It was our nightly herald,’ spake the Hag;
‘Him we dispatch'd to bring thee to our dome,
‘And thou didst well to follow. Now advance
‘T' explore the depths profound, where I abide
‘In service evermore, save, when I aid
‘The suffering mariner. With ceaseless care
‘I guard all avenues that lead, where dwells
‘The sleeping Sorceress. Mortal, follow me.’

Slowly she strode. Ivar close follow'd her,
When, as they moved, sudden a host of lamps
Thick as heaven's stars, of fearful radiance, blazed,
Making night day.

The spot on which he stood,
Was the rude base of a stupendous rock,
Whose summit midnight hid, whilst here and there
The fatal hemlock started, and the roots
Of living mandrake. ‘Are we not come near?’
Cried Ivar; ‘these most hideous shapes and things,
‘It needeth to be one like thee, to meet,
‘Unterrified.’ They both in silence march.
Th' attendant lamps, high in the rifted crag,
Move on by power unknown: 'till to a cave,
Wide spreading, and impenetrably deep,
Shuddering he came. A shrill and unknown voice
Sounds from within, when the mysterious fires,
Sudden, are quench'd, and all is blackness round,
Save one blue torch, that streaming thro' the air,
Approach'd the Night-Hag. She her hand uprais'd,
And having seiz'd it, bent before the cave,
And mutter'd unintelligible words,
With necromantic airs, and magic spells,
Jarring and ominous, when thus she cried,
‘Prepare to tread these chambers hid in night;
‘Which never mortal foot hath dared profane,
‘Thro' untold ages, save, with special grace
‘Of her who dwells beneath, our potent queen.’
The Hag proceeded. Doubtful stood the prince
Whether to follow, or that instant rush—
He knew not where, but mindful of his name,
Boldly he trod her footsteps.

On they moved
Mid caverns intricate, and lofty vaults,
Where bats and screech-owls and the ravenous crow
Had their safe dwelling; ever flitting by,

Or sending sounds, reverberated far
O'er all the black domain; when to a pit,
Yawning, they came. With sudden bound, the Hag
Leap'd halfway down, standing awhile secure
Upon a jutting stone that overhung
Th' abyss beneath, all black; when, at her call,
A vollying vehicle, and huge, advanced,
Sable as night, round which the trophies hung,
Blood-dripping banners, and the battered helm
Red from the war. ‘Haste!’ cried the guiding Hag.
‘Odin's swift car behold. He favours thee.
‘Stretch there thy limbs, and, to the depths beneath,
‘Descending, prove thy valour and thy heart.’
Ivar the chariot sought. He started back.
Serpent of Midgard to his sight appear'd!
With gore his fangs were clotted, whilst his mouth,
Wide spread, the car presented. ‘Hence! Avaunt!’
Cried Ivar, as he grasped his sword, and aim'd
The death-devoting blow, when instantly
Down the unfathomed void the monster plunged,
And Ivar left, (his heart's-blood rolling back)
Palsied with fear. ‘Ah! doth thy spirit quake?’
Exclaim'd the Hag. ‘Nay,’ answer'd Denmark's prince.
‘Then follow me,’ she cried, ‘with dauntless step,’
And deeper still descended, while her torch
Feebler, and feebler shone.

The edge he sought.
He downward cast an eye, then, fearlessly,
Leaped where the Hag had stood; when, roots he saw,
Shooting their lank and spiral filaments,
Far stretch'd, beneath, that offered feeble aid
To all, the perilous descent who dared.
The Hag still pass'd, scarce seen. Her single torch
Ivar beheld. Behind, he glanced and saw
Impenetrable midnight, and before,
A gulf of depth unknown, whose mouth sent forth

Murmurs and fearful sounds. Again he heard
Faint and more faint, the Hell-Hag's solemn call,
‘Dauntless proceed!’ It was no time to pause;
When, grasping fearlessly the roots, he sprang
From broken step to step, from rock to rock,
And soon his guide o'ertook, who downward still
Moved slowly with her blue and glimmering light.

Strange horrors shook his frame! He saw the light,
The only light, caught by some demon hand,
Gigantic, and, as shuddering he beheld,
It fell, and all was darkness. Tottering now
'Tween earth and Neflheim deep, the prince, a chill,
A cold and numbing chill, through all his frame
Felt creeping, as on either side he gazed,
Yet nothing saw, whilst to his ear there came
One sound alone, his own fast throbbing heart,
Raising faint echoes. Now on earth he stood,
If name it might receive, where all was veil'd
And blank uncertainty. In this suspense,
Searching the inmost heart, his quivering arm
Some unseen being seized! It led him on.
He could not choose;—he follow'd, 'till at length
The hand withdrew, when through the air there rose
A dull and bubbling noise, from some near tide
That wound mid scatter'd crags its sullen wave.

Whilst thus immured in darkness, unconceived,
Unutterable, making even life
Seem death disguised; silent and half perceiv'd,
A boat drew nigh, dividing the dull stream
With gentle motion, that a dubious light,
And fitful, cast around. ‘Why laggest thou?’
Exclaim'd the Hag, who by him stood unseen,
‘Leap fearless to the bark!’—The prince obey'd,
He plung'd into the flood! no boat was there!

The Hag her hand extended, and uprais'd
The struggling prince, when once again, on earth,
He stands, unknowing how. Ivar look'd round.
Once more he sees his guide. Thus she began,
‘This stream is Gioll, through the infernal worlds
‘Rolling his dark tide, which no ray of heaven
‘Hath ever lighted on, nor vent'rous man
‘Touch'd and survived, save thou, and such as thou,
‘Favor'd of spirits kind. The waster Death,
‘When tired of dogging his three ministers,
‘Famine, and war, and pestilence, here hastes,
‘And, plunging in this stream, again revives
‘His appetite for slaughter. Now behold
‘These unexplored domains.’ She scarce had said,
When two huge doors of adamant flew wide,
And to his view displayed the secret vault
Where Divination dwelt.

Spacious it was,
And in the centre stood a cauldron. Fires,
Crimson and purple, streaming upward, spread
Throughout the scene a lustre, blazing now,
Now half extinguished, whilst the chill air blew,
And all was damp and dreary. To the roof,
That frown'd new terrors, looking up, he saw,
Wondering, a raven—with no raven's eye,
And mark'd unsightly shrubs and tapering roots,
Wolfsbane and deadly-night-shade, thick o'erspread
With living things abhorrent, by whose aid,
Or heart, or liver, fibre, or thin scale,
The infernal powers prepared their spells, and made
Chains for unconscious mortals. Whilst his breath
Labour'd with fear, the guiding Hag exclaim'd—
‘Now must I leave thee. Yonder view the spot
‘Where our great mother lies.’ The prince turn'd round
To claim her further service, but her form,
Unknowing how, had vanished, and he stood,

Trembling amid th' fearful solitude.

Round him he gazed, expectant of all harm;
Then, sudden, look'd aghast! A coffin, black,
Slow rising from the yawning sepulchre,
His sight arrested. As he earnest view'd,
He saw the Sorceress! In her narrow bed
Senseless she lay, oppress'd with death-like sleep.
A pall she had, the snows of ages. Her—
The prince approach'd; but when he mark'd her face,
Her still and livid visage, and her eye
That through the thin, thin eye-lid half appear'd,
Back he recoil'd, in terror, but again
Drew nigh her coffin and in tremulous tones
Chanted the runic song.

The Sorceress, slow,
Her form uprais'd, stiff with the cavern's damp,
Half red, half blue, whilst venom'd drops distill'd
Upon her bare head, from the craggy roof,
Where countless reptiles hung, and things unknown,
Scorpion and basilisk and hideous snake,
Forming one mass of life: that, as they moved,
Rapid or slow, gave back the cauldron's light
In ghastly glare. When thus the Sorceress spake,
Rolling her troubled eyes, ‘I hear the call!
‘What mortal dares disturb my long repose,
‘And tread these mansions?’ Stern, she cast her eye,
Her black and shining eye, on Ivar near,
And cried, ‘Who art thou?’ Shuddering, thus the prince.
‘Searcher of fate to whom all times are known,
‘Regard thy servant. Hither am I come
‘To ask thy counsel. Say, oh Prophetess!
‘Where is my murdered father, he who hoped
‘To die in battle, fighting to obtain
‘The meed of valour; but, in evil hour,
‘Seiz'd, and in dungeon slain?’

Her fearful eyes
Around she rolled, then spake in solemn tone,
‘Mourn not, Oh, man! thy father; he is safe.
‘I know thee well. Thy father late I led
‘To Odin's halls, and never such a shout
‘Heard I at warrior's entrance. He is there,
‘On sparkling thrones of gold: and from the skulls
‘Of vanquished enemies he quaffs his mead,
‘And feasts with the immortals. Now depart,
‘And leave me to forgetfulness.’ He cried,
‘Sorceress, first hear me; to the distant war,
‘I forth am going; many a gallant Dane
‘With me hath vowed to cross the ocean-waves,
‘And drench his sword in blood, and glut his rage
‘With spoil and carnage. May I thither go,—
‘And what the issue?’ Slowly thus she spake.
‘I know thy resolution, but, Oh, prince!
‘Regard the Destinies! If there thou go,—
‘Denmark no more shall see thee! Now depart,
‘And leave me to forgetfulness!’ ‘Oh stay,’
Exclaim'd the Prince. ‘One only question more;
‘And I will leave thee. Canst thou not bestow
‘Some charm, some secret charm of powerful might
‘That shall protect my fortunes? girdle, cap,
‘Or minister to guard me?’

‘None,’ she cried.
‘No minister can guard thee! I had once
‘An earthly servant who was wont to stalk
‘Upon the neighbouring shore, when howl'd the winds,
‘And dash'd the waves, and huge Hresvelger flapp'd
‘His wing, and woke the tempest. That brave man
‘Might readily have served thee. His it was
‘To watch the storm, and when the furious surge
‘Cast on the shore some shipwreck'd mariner,
‘All stiff and cold, he hither brought his corse
‘To feed yon beings,—pendant from the roof

‘That on thee look, thus furious;’ when, his mouth,
Each open'd wide. The Sorceress thus again,
‘Son of the upper world, look not amazed
‘At these my words: yon starving family
‘Must have some flesh and blood! He is no more
‘Who would have served them. A portentous noise,
‘Thrice echoed, lately rush'd across the dome;—
‘It was his spirit! Some hell-haunted man
‘Had murdered him!’ When thus aloud she cried,
‘Why startest thou? Ah! is thy dagger stain'd?
‘What blood is that, and wherefore this dismay?
‘If thou would'st save thy miserable life—
‘Turn to the north.’ Ivar obedient turn'd,
When on a dark and distant crag he spied
Two twinkling fires. They toward him came. His heart
Shrank with dismay; for now, a reptile form,
Gliding, drew near. As Ivar earnest look'd,
Beneath his sight it grew, large and more large!
And now appear'd, a hideous monster, huge,
Of serpent kind, with human countenance,
And on the prince he fix'd his steady gaze.
Ivar beheld the murdered mariner!
His gory garb appear'd! He started back!
And, wistless what he did, approach'd the Hag,
And her stone tenement, still holding out
His trembling hands. He touch'd the Witch's arm!
'Twas ice! all ice! when sideway leaping far,
His eye strings snapp'd, and on the hideous sight,
On either side, his twisted eye-balls glared.
Loud, from the roof, the raven flapp'd his wing!
His claws the scorpion shook! the serpent hiss'd!
While a deep groan,—came from the earth beneath!

O'erpower'd by agony of fear, the prince
Awhile stood motionless; when 'mid the pause,
He heard a rushing noise, like warring waves

Rending the ground below. Downward he looked,
When, on each side, he saw a ravine, deep,
O'er which his foot half hung, and in the gulf
Conflicting torrents, such as when some whale
Or ocean monster lashes the great deep.
The Sorceress spake. ‘Prince, on my words attend.
‘To distant wars thou goest; think of me.
‘If Denmark's shore thou leave, thou never more,
‘No, never, shalt return! Upon yon rock,
‘High over-head, I see thy name combined
‘With Death and Saxons.’ Faltering, cried the Prince,
‘Check not my thirst of glory. Say not nay.
‘My heart upon revenge hath fed so long,
‘And I have nursed with such full ecstasy
‘The hope of vengeance, that, though death be mine,
‘I must subdue the Saxons, and with blood
‘Wipe out my many wrongs! My valiant sire,
‘Regner, they murder'd; I, revenge, have sworn.
‘This sword was his, and, if I use it not,
‘How shall I meet my father? Think again
‘And if for death thou hast one antidote,
‘Deal it I pray.’

The Sorceress cried, ‘Thy mind
‘Knows not to change its purpose; like heaven's bow
‘Once, and for ever bent; but, if thou still
‘With stubborn heart resolve to cross the seas,
‘Here take these threads. Thy sisters, three, require
‘To weave them in a standard, and display—
‘Yon Raven! Power shall it possess to screen
‘From hidden dangers, and no human force
‘Against thee shall prevail, while thou possess
‘This potent safeguard. Now, no more inquire,
‘Or I my wand will raise, and from the ground
‘Call up unnumber'd spirits, huge, and fierce,
‘And terrible to look on; these shall drag
‘Thy soul to Hela.’ After a brief pause,

Again she spake. ‘Behold'st thou yonder form,
‘Whose sight thou startedst at? Hither he comes,
‘To learn my bidding.’ To the Witch he crawl'd,
And, heaving from the earth his crested neck,
‘Bent o'er her coffin; when the Sorceress spake.
‘Spirit, untimely slain! a mortal man
‘Now stands before me. To the wars he hastes,
‘Far o'er the seas, and many a wrathful deed
‘His hands will perpetrate. He now must pass
‘Through these mysterious vaults; be thou his guide.

‘From this abode, three paths conduct to earth:
‘One, to the right, a plain and smooth ascent,
‘Where the wild chaplet crowns the barren rock,
‘And odours wander. One, the second way,
‘O'er crags is found, all black, mid aged moss,
‘Coeval with the world, in which there hide
‘Contending reptiles infinite, whose eyes
‘Like thine are bright. The third approach to earth
‘Lies thro' an avenue, at whose dark mouth
‘Two furious toads opposing stand and cast
‘Their deadly venom ever, scattering round
‘A slime, from which steams up the pestilence
‘That gives them life and spirits to renew
‘The rancorous warfare. Should one drop descend
‘Upon this mortal, all the powers combined,
‘Thro' Neflheim's realms, would vainly him preserve
‘From black perdition. Wide the passage spreads,
‘And terminates in gates, the which to touch
‘With this thy sting will burst, and then appears,—
‘The terrible ascent. The gates expand
‘Midway the pit, and o'er each step there hang
‘Black jutting rocks, trembling with every breath,
‘Held by the tangled ivy. To the eye
‘A light appears, a red uncertain light,
‘But whence it comes is hidden, for no lamp

‘Nor fire is there; while nothing can be grasp'd
‘To aid the scared and trembling supplicant,
‘But what thou dealest. Upward is the road,
‘But, in the way, if once the traveller
‘Should cast a sudden glance, down the deep void,
‘A sight there is, two dragons climbing fast
‘The dark abyss, with fangs of living fire,
‘And eyes that feed the lightning. If thine aid
‘One moment should withdraw, hope ceases, down
‘The victim falls, the dragons following hard,
‘But, never to o'ertake, till to the shades
‘He plunges, where the tortured spirits howl.’
Again she spake. ‘These paths thou knowest well,
‘Thou art unbodied, and no power have they
‘To hurt or hinder thee. Receive thy charge.
‘Conduct him hence, through either avenue,
‘At thy disposal. Swift!’ the Sorceress cried,
And sank back in her coffin, which, again,
Thro' the expanding earth, a fearful chasm,
Descended slow.

As now he speechless stood,
The cauldron's fires expired! Throughout the vault
No ray appeared, no solitary ray,
Save where the serpent crouch'd! Beneath his scales
There shone a glow-worm light, whose feeble beams
Midnight refused to share, and sent them back
Close to their source.

Ivar distracted stood,
Gnashing his teeth. He heard no sound, save one,
The clanking of some distant chains, nor saw
Aught but thick darkness when he feebly cried,
‘Odin! Oh! grant me one soul-cheering ray!’
His voice yet linger'd in the air, when lo!
A deaf'ning noise surrounded, and there rush'd
Athwart the night profound, lightnings so fierce,

All forked, casting far so bright a glare,
That by their aid he saw, till then unknown,
The cave's extent. His curdling blood stood still!
He laugh'd with fear; for near him he beheld
A raving demon, chain'd, of monstrous size,
Biting his fetters, foaming, mad with rage
To see his prey, yet, by his iron bands
Restrain'd from vengeance. As he trembling stood,
A sudden flash of unimagin'd light
O'erwhelm'd his eye-balls, when it burst and spread
Its vivid lines; whilst, ever as he looked,
A fiercer flash, resentful, darted near,
And when he thought on death, exploded, loud,
Sending its host of thunders through the cave.

Wild with excess of dread, he closed his eyes
The hideous sight to 'scape. Whilst trembling, thus
In utter night, some being at his back
Pull'd heavily, when loud the prince exclaim'd,
‘A thousand worlds to save me! Guide me hence,
‘Oh injured spirit! Guide me from this scene
‘Of horrors infinite, and I to thee
‘ Will give my esarthly all!”

The serpent spake,
‘There was a time when baubles such as these
‘Would well have pleased me; but, a ghost become,
‘I heed them not. Within my power thou art,
‘And thou shalt learn how terrible my wrath.
‘I leave this dwelling; close attend my track,
‘And know, that if thou wander but a hair,
‘Death yawns to have thee.’—Slow the serpent moved,
And as he moved, a shining slimy track
Mark'd his curv'd path. Ivar upon it walk'd
Through windings many, fearing at each step
Sudden destruction! Now they both arrived
Where the three turnings stood. The prince beheld,

One fill'd with fierce combustion; heard with dread
Th' unsightly monster's roar. Aghast he turn'd,
And in the other path—the path he came,
Saw darkness, save where creeping reptiles' eyes
Glared on him. Then he look'd, and, to the right,
Descry'd the third ascent: no fire was there—
No angry reptile, but half light it was,
The steps distinct and clear, the distance short,
And at the top, shone the blue firmament.
The serpent cried—‘Mortal! Now, follow me!’

What transport Ivar felt, when he beheld
His guide wind slowly up the favour'd way
That shone so bright and lovely; and they came
Into heaven's day-light! Fill'd with joy supreme
The prince turn'd round to pour his gratitude,
When, with a spirit half congeal'd, he saw
The gory mantle! In his breast he felt
Biting remorse, which made him close his eyes
With inbred pangs, and when again he turn'd
To pour th' o'erflowing heart, no guide appear'd;
No mouth of yawning cavern: both were gone:
Vanished; and all was solitude around.

Now in his mind, new apprehensions rose.
The strange and desolated scene, displayed
A character, scarcely allied to earth.
It seem'd the spot where ruin dwelt alone;
For, as he gazed, on either side, alike,
Fragments of lofty rocks encircled him,
Forming one waste of stone, all wild and bare,
That, through succeeding ages, crumbling fast
By rains and winter frosts, from the tall peaks
Came roaring down the precipice, and spread
O'er all the valley, crags and shatter'd spars
High-heap'd and massy—such as shadow'd forth

(To the wild fancy of the wondering prince)
Nature exploded by those central fires,
Following on Surtur's reign, when all that is
Shall sink in chaos. Hastening from the scene,
Tho' doubtful where, at length, with joy, he marked
The ocean near him, casting on the shore
Its sweeping lines of foam, advancing slow,
With murmurs faint, and of such equal sounds
That silence scarce perceived them.—To the beach
He hasten'd, and o'erjoyed beheld a ship
Fast sailing near at hand. He cried ‘Approach!’
The prince was known—he bounded to the bark,
And safe it bore him to his distant home.

No tongue might tell the doubts and cankering fears,
That on the sisters prey'd, when night far waned,
And yet the prince—reach'd not his father's halls.
No sleep o'ertook them, whilst in every sound
They heard his voice, or footstep, and arose
With heart exultant, then again return'd,
Languid and soul oppressed, to listen on
Till morn illumed the air. No Ivar then
Drew near to cheer them. Towards the boisterous wave
Lashing the shore, still patiently they gazed.
Ah! they behold him! From the beach, at hand,
Solemn he paced, and now before them stands.

No word he spake! a dark and settled gloom
Hung o'er his brow. ‘What ails thee?’ one exclaim'd.
‘I have seen sights,’ he cried, ‘so horrible;
‘Such sights of shadowy forms, and things unknown,
‘And past conception, that my swimming eyes
‘Seem chain'd to serpents; through my yielding brain
‘They to and fro glide on—all fire and slime,
‘And ghastly scales. Are ye my sisters, true?
‘My real sisters? Yea, I know you now.

‘The hell-hag, where is she? I see her not!
‘Ah! is she gone?’

The sisters trembling cried,
‘What dreams are thine? that thou should'st thus afflict
‘Thy soul and ours. What vision hast thou seen?’

‘Tis past,’ the prince exclaim'd. ‘It is all o'er.
‘My brain is cool'd. It was a sudden fit
‘That half o'erpower'd me. What! do ye inquire
‘The sight that moved me? 'twas a hellish sight!
‘My feet have been to one, 'mid rocks and fires,
‘Down to earth's centre: haggard was her look,
‘Her bed a coffin, and her progeny
‘Huge broods of serpents: from her icy touch
‘I still am cold. My harrow'd soul hath felt,
‘Since last we met, a shuddering weight of woe!
‘Dangers of known extent this heart had spurn'd;
‘But, conflicts with the unseen powers, whose might
‘And habitudes are all uncertainty;
‘This hath extorted from proud Regner's son,
‘The trembling knee. Yet, listen once again,
‘To the dread mansion of all evil things,
‘A ghost conveyed me! Ivar made him such!
‘A ghost defended me! now, here I swear,
‘By this unconquer'd sword; by all the Gods
‘That throng the halls of Valhall: day and night
‘Feasting on Scrimner, mid the dance and song,
‘Warfare and tales of death; by Odin's self
‘Here do I swear, e'en by my sword of might,
‘Never, from this good moment, in the Isle,
‘Whereto I go, one soul to slay, save him
‘Who dares the battle, and in armour bold
‘Opposes my dominion; I have borne
‘For one poor murder, such huge punishments,
‘And freezing dread. Yet, do I scarcely know,
‘Whether the sights that kindled up my fear

‘Were real, or the baseless phantasies,
‘Th' illusions of some sorceress in disguise.
‘Oh! they were true! and I my oath repeat
‘With ten-fold more solemnity.’—

Aloud,
The sisters all exclaim'd, ‘We mark thy oath!
‘Oh, Ivar! we do tremble at thy tale!
‘But, hast thou seen the sorceress? and now, say,
‘What are thy future fortunes?

He replied.
‘These were her words. “Thy sisters three I know;
‘Their spells must aid thee. Tell them to prepare;
‘A banner tall, wrought with these magic threads,
‘That shall display a raven. Guard it safe!
‘It has a secret charm.’ The cords I held
‘Close in my grasp, but they are gone! all gone!
‘I know not whither. Haste! a standard weave;
‘The raven dark be on it; let the web
‘Be strong and durable, and I will bear
‘That standard to the wars.’

He scarce had said,
When the three sisters spread the woof and warp,
And whilst they thought upon it, lo! 'twas done.
‘Now, cried th' exultant prince, ‘I hear a voice
‘That tells me I shall vanquish, and display
The might invincible. The banner near,
Eager he grasp'd. and Starchaterus like,
In pride pre-eminent, stalk'd toward the shore,
Where, in their war array, his army stood,
Impatient, waiting to behold their chief,
Who thus address'd them.

‘Heroes! far renown'd
‘O'er all Helsingia, Gothland, and the coasts,
‘And far as farthest Scythia,—hear my words!
‘For other conquests, and, more glorious feats,
‘Prepare your heart. From Britain's far-off shore

‘I late return'd to Denmark, you to rouse,
‘And bear to that devoted Isle, whose crimes
‘No offering shall atone, nor aught allay
‘The tempest of our passion. Have we yet
‘Borne wrongs from any nation, unrevenged?
‘And shall we Saxons spare, whose coward hands
‘Slaughter'd my father, your victorious king?
‘Never, till earth be vanish'd, warriors brave!
‘Their doom is fix'd! Alfred their prince shall fall
‘The victim of our wrath, and we will make
‘That isle a desert—curs'd of gods and men:
‘The day fast hastens to begin the work
‘By us so loved, and we will laugh to see
‘Their pleading looks; and when they mercy ask,
‘Think but of murder'd Regner. View the fleet!
‘Advance! The hour of vengeance draweth near.’

'Mid frantic looks of hate, and boiling rage,
Untameable, they join their barks, and now,
Mid songs and shouts, before the favoring gale,
Across the seas to Britain steer their course.

BOOK II.

SCENE—SOMERSETSHIRE.

ARGUMENT.

ALFRED, after the severest of his defeats, retreats before the Danes, and, as a temporary measure, announces to his troops his determination of retiring into solitude.—Oddune dismissed to encourage the West-Saxons. —Introduction of Sigbert.—Alfred appoints Selwood-Forest as the rendezvous of his troops.—dismisses them.—He departs, with Alswitha his Queen, and their infant Son, toward a neighbouring heath.—Time, the Evening.—Season of the Year, Midsummer.

The field is lost! Hubba, with savage joy
Cries, ‘Havoc!’ as the routed Saxons flee,
Bearing their king, reluctant, whilst the plain,
Far as the eye may reach, in sanguine hue,
Is strew'd with dead and dying. Now, the Danes,
Weary with slaughter, sheath'd the gory blade—
Raising a shout, terrific, such as seem'd,
Commingling with the elemental blast,
Death's harbinger; for never till that day
Had Alfred known so great an overthrow.

Leading his slender force, brave men and true,
The Saxon monarch, with high confidence,
The Danes had met, and valorous deeds were his,
And his compeers in glory. Sword to sword,

With strenuous might they fought, but what avail'd
Courage, where few, with many hurl'd the lance,
While those who should have propt their country's cause,
Shrunk back, and view'd their brethren, saw their king
Contending with barbarians, they, the while
Heedless of freedom, and the patriot's call,—
Sent from her ravaged towns, and wasted plains.

Far have the vanquish'd fled, and, wearied, now,
Deep in a glen, surrounded by tall rocks,
Age-worn, and hanging trees, whose foliage dark
Half hid heaven's light, while, with soft melody,
A mountain stream beside him murmuring flow'd,
Stood Alfred, poring on his country's wrongs;
(Alswitha, with her infant, by his side,
Such cares were his as drink the spirit up.
No word he utter'd, whilst his followers round,
Few, shelterless, dispirited, forlorn,
Survey'd their monarch's face, with such a look
As when the wind sweeps o'er some grove, whose leaves
Start into notice, and all silently
Turn to th 'obtruding breeze. While stillness reign'd,
Thus spake the king—

“Subjects and faithful friends!
‘Behold your sovereign, stripp'd and desolate,
‘Unfriended, save in you; and this weak babe,
‘This wretched mother, partners in his grief,
‘And none to aid.”

The veterans' breasts once more
Courage inflames. Each clash'd his shield, and cried,
As in his heart affection fuller reign'd,
‘This arm shall aid thee, Death or Victory!”

The monarch answer'd, “Gen'rous men, your swords
‘Vainly contend, On every side the Danes
‘Like locusts congregate, and locusts like

‘No preference know, but all who breathe the air,
‘Old men and mothers, youths and orphan babes,
‘Fall merciless, in one promiscuous heap,
‘Oh, Albion dear! my country! Where are now
‘Thy quiet habitations? Where thy fields
‘Smiling in verdure? Where thy orchard plots?—
‘Thy waving corn-lands?—or thy villagers,
‘Chanting their harvest home? Where now the smiles—
‘The hearty greetings, and the social cheer
‘When friend met friend, in joyous holyday?
‘Cold, motionless,—all is a wintry gloom!
‘And Saxon, meeting Saxon, now, looks up,
‘And silent, passes on.—O, misery!
‘Our slaughter'd brethren, or what once were they
‘Courting the birds of air, or ravenous wolf,
‘Unburied lie! mothers and little-ones,
‘Bleaching the hills and vallies with their bones!’
The sigh is heard, rending the troubled breast.
Alfred again. ‘Subjects! I love you well,
‘And that affection, in this hour of woe,
‘Inflicts the deadlier pang. O'erwhelming thought!
‘Thousands whom once we knew, brave like yourselves,
‘Where are they? those, so late, who felt their hearts
‘Throb with heroic courage, saw their homes
‘Burnt and destroy'd, their children heap'd in death,
‘Their lawful prince, a wanderer thro' the wilds,
‘And woods, and mountains?—men like you, who spurn'd
‘Inglorious ease, when danger reign'd around,
‘And in their wrath rose valiantly, to strive
‘With demons in man's shape. These all are gone,
‘Down to th' untimely grave, where you must go,
‘If with vain hope longer you dare the strife.
‘Hard thoughts, and many, press upon my mind:
‘I would disclose them, but a secret weight
‘Keeps my tongue silent; yet, they shall be told,
‘Tho' painful. We must part!”

A sudden pause
Seem'd to prevade the air, and every eye
Intentful gazed upon him. ‘We must part!’
Then sounded from the brook; the very trees,
Attentive, far around, caught the same words,
And in responses murmured—‘We must part!’

Stifling his secret grief, again the king.
‘Befits us, friends, and subjects, to survey
‘Our real state. Here, under heaven's vast arch,
‘Alone we stand; no house to shelter us,
‘Our homes made desolate, our bravest men,
‘The bulwark of our country, all laid low!
‘What prospect have we? Not like former foes
‘Come these fierce Danes, to grasp ideal good,
‘Wealth, fame, or honors: not like former foes,
‘Disheartened at the sight of blood, stand these,
‘And see their fallen friends; the gasp of death,
‘With all its horrors, in their minds excites
‘Tumultuous ecstasy, and leaves no hope
‘But to partake the same triumphant end.
‘Yet Wessex wars alone! Our countrymen,
‘View not the gathering storm, whose sudden rage,
‘Erelong will pour confusion on them all.’

His listless eye he cast upon the ground;
When each man, who, before, felt bold enough
To talk most long, and eloquent, now stood
Silent, and knew how weak the power of speech
To tell the heart's warm feelings.

Alfred thus,
‘Most injured men! it now were worse than vain
‘To cheer you with false hopes. On every side
‘The Danes present the javelin, and at length,
‘Saxons must shun the fight! Here now we are,
‘Few, destitute, left to contend alone.

‘At such an hour, when every gift of heaven
‘Hangs in the scale; when ruin stalks abroad,
‘And all that life endears is jeoparded,
‘Who would presume in Saxons, that brave race;
‘To find corroding jealousies? What heart
‘Would dare to harbour, in some bleak recess—
‘Thought,—that impaired the character of man!
‘That Saxons, foremost in the generous deed,
‘Should now, with alien apathy, disdain
‘The calls of loyalty, their hearths, their homes,
‘While Danes make Desolation clap her hands.

‘You cannot hope to conquer and support
‘Alfred and Britain, 'gainst these faithless men,
‘As multitud'nous as the stars, they come
‘From some far land, hiding the very face
‘Of our green ocean, whilst, in tardy strife
‘Our numbers waste, we fall by conquering.
‘Whatever men can do, you all have done
‘In freedom's cause, for life and liberty;
‘Yet, what avails it? Ills on ills arise.
‘The pitiless defeat your king has known!
‘And Cypanham now is fall'n, our last strong tower.
‘My faithful subjects, Wessex strives in vain!
‘There is the evil! Where in war array,
‘Appear Northumbria's levies—Mercia's sons—
‘The men of Essex—Sussex—or the hosts
‘From either Anglia? Where do these appear
‘Now England's foes spread death and ruin wide?
‘Our coward countrymen behold unmoved
‘The fury of these Danes—contented see
‘Our fruitless efforts—and remember not,
‘The ruin we deplore, themselves awaits.
‘There is another evil, deep and dark.
‘Wessex herself, in this disastrous hour,
‘Doth not appear with her whole weight of strength

‘To aid her rights, to succour me her king,
‘To hurl destruction on th' insulting Dane.—
‘I would e'en spare my subjects! but, in vain!
‘Truth will be heard! They now remember not
‘Courage should grow with danger; they have sought
‘Inglorious and deceitful rest, and left
‘These gallant bands to perish by the foe!
‘Evils must cure themselves. Let then the storm
‘Rage through the land! Experience shall at length
‘Strip folly of her mask, when, through our isle
‘Rapine and murder, in their towering car,
‘Ride on triumphant! then shall men awake
‘From their deep lethargy, and call aloud
‘On Alfred! whom in evil hour they left
‘To bear the wrath of this o'erwhelming storm!
‘I now withdraw awhile. The time will come
‘When common danger shall throughout the land
‘Rouse common sympathies, and nerve each arm
‘With wonted courage: then will I appear,
‘And not till then. Wisdom, not cowardice,
‘Prescribes the plan, which firmness shall pursue.

‘Sorrowing I leave you! For your unknown homes
Go search, and, whether they be found, immured
‘In some dark forest, or upon the top
‘Of barren hills, or deep in mountain cave,
‘Or mid the precipice—safe may you be!
‘No longer shall your precious blood be shed
‘In useless combat. Haste! Some refuge find,
‘And tho' in secret I awhile must dwell,
‘Yet, like the spirit of each man, that still
‘Followeth in light and darkness, so will I
‘Unnoticed, haunt your footsteps, and, again,
‘When hope shall rise, start forward, like the sun,
‘Emerging in his strength, from some dark cloud
‘That many a dubious day hath warr'd in heaven.’

Silent he stood, and, with heart-weariness
Chanced to espy the brook, slow murmuring near;
Whilst interruptions from the stones, that strew'd
Its shallow bed, or the thick dancing reeds,
Stay'd not its course, for, still with earnest speed,
And undiverted, fast it roll'd along,
Never to know tranquillity, till mix'd
With the great mass of waters. ‘So must thou’—
A still small voice repeated—‘So must thou,
‘Toil on, O, king! nor vainly hope to gain
‘A quiet, till in death, that ocean, lost.’

The musing prince looked up, for Devon's Earl,
Oddune, now stood before him: with an eye
That told the sorrowing heart, he thus began.—
‘If in thy wisdom, for the public good,
‘Thou deem it needful, thrice illustrious king!
‘To shun th' unequal conflict, and, awhile,
‘Withdraw to solitude, that those who now
‘Renounce thy cause, by bitter discipline,
‘May learn their folly—prosperous be thy path!
‘But, in hereafter times, when I am low,
‘Let not my brave descendants, scornful say,
‘That, in misfortune, Oddune left his prince,
‘The pride of christendom, the truest friend
‘That ever friendship greeted. Where thou go'st,
‘To soothe thy injured spirit, best of kings!
‘Let me attend,’

‘It is no common joy,
‘In hour like this,’ said Alfred, ‘to behold
‘Thy constancy, O, chief! but, sad it is,
‘To hear the prayer of friendship, and to know
‘That prayer must be denied My course is fix'd!
‘I by myself will go. No mortal man
‘Shall see and think of Alfred. Heaven hath saved
‘In many an hour, with human aid far off:

‘And that same God is yet omnipotent.
‘But, though thy wish I grant not, still I ask
‘Proof of thy stern fidelity. Haste thou,
‘Down to my western friends; what may be done
‘There, or elsewhere, I know thou wilt perform.
‘Truly I prize thee, Oddune! much is due
‘To faithfulness like thine, and much my heart
‘Fain would repay—but, it is yet denied.’

Oddune in sorrow heard, and thus replied.
‘Sovereign revered! tho' I had fondly hoped,
‘Long to attend thee, yet, at thy command,
‘Cheerful, will I depart, and trust me, prince!
‘If prayers can serve thee, thou shalt prosper still.’
He said, and turning, sought the western land.

Alfred beheld him journeying, and thus cried,
To her, the pride of womanhood, his queen,
(Who on a bank, tall trees her canopy,
Sat leaning o'er her child) ‘Alswitha, hear!
‘A better subject than yon gallant chief,
‘No king hath honor'd, one, within whose heart
‘More loyalty prevails, and every grace
‘That visits mortals. Many promise fair,
‘Who, in the hour of trial, stand aloof,
‘Or with cold interest serve; but he, brave man!
‘Displays, as dangers thicken, nobler powers,
‘And more intense reality of faith,
‘And growing steadfastness. Behold him there!
‘Pacing with solemn step beside the brook,
‘In deep thought exercised for Britain's weal,
‘(Nor quite unmindful of thyself and me.)
‘He goes 'mid death and perils! Heaven will guard
‘Such worth as his, from the night-prowling wolf,
‘Or fiercer Dane. If ever prince should find
‘Subject like Oddune, let him not rejoice
‘That God hath dealt a crown, but, given a friend.’

‘What means yon sudden tumult?’ cried the king,
As hastening through the troops, in black attire,
A stately man drew near, who, nothing spake,
Till to the spot where Alfred stood he came;
His garment was a monk's, yet on his head
A warrior's casque he wore. ‘Whence? and thy name?’
Said Alfred, as he seiz'd his good sword's hilt.
The stranger wildly spake, (surprize around)
‘Here do I stand before my noble king,
‘The poorest and most abject wretch, whom grief
‘Hath with remorseless fury, in her hour
‘Of deepest visitation, prey'd npon.
‘Abbot of Wilton, prince, behold in me!
‘Sigbert!’ exclaim'd the king, ‘I knew thee not
‘And whence this strange deportment?’ thus he cried.

‘Wilton's fair pile, the flower of Wessex land,
‘Danes have destroyed. My friends are slain! and now
‘Whether these limbs be mangled, this weak head
‘Put on by clumsy artizan, and made
‘To dance thus wonderful, I cannot say;
‘But, such foul sights of death and direful waste
‘Still float before me, that my swimming brain
‘Yet doubts if all be not a very dream;
‘A shadowy trance, and I a pious monk,
‘My cell beside me. No! It cannot be!
‘For how should pious monk, feel as I do
‘Such fixed and unextinguishable hate—
‘Such cravings to destroy. Blood! Rapine! Spoil!
‘The Danes are near; I see them in the clouds;
‘For they, like men,, need not the sluggish use
‘Of bone and sinew when they move to death.
‘Th' infernal fiends assist them. Listen, king!
‘This is no idle hour; dig thou a pit,
‘Immeasurably deep, 'neath yon huge hill,
‘For thee and for thy subjects, I will stand

‘At the dark mouth, and yell a withering tune,
‘A tune about the Danes, and their mad deeds,
‘That shall put all to flight, save imps of hell.
‘Pardon, O, king! This fever of the brain
‘Makes me forget my very name and place.’

He said, and roll'd his starting eye-balls round,
Fearful, in vacancy. The king amazed,
Look'd on the abbot with deep earnestness,
Then turning, with a sigh, thus spake. ‘O, God!
‘Whatever punishment thy hand may deal
‘To cleanse from sin's deep stain—Almighty sire,
‘Preserve my reason! Take whate'er thou wilt,
‘But spare, oh spare my reason!” As he spake
Sigbert more calm appeared; when, Alfred thus.
‘If recollection serve, declare, O, man!
‘How Dane's possess'd themselves of that fair place;
‘The spot where I had hoped to rest my head,
‘After the toil of life's hard pilgrimage,
‘In quiet sepulture.’ He thus replied.

‘In Wilton's pious house, good men around,
‘And wise as good, (save him addressing thee.)
‘I govern'd righteously. From morn to night,
‘We chanted forth Heaven's praises, fed the poor,
‘And taught the ignorant, and lived methinks
‘As God would have us live. We heard of wars,
‘Rumours of wars and strifes, from passing pilgrim,
‘Or from the men who roved from land to land
‘Driving their flocks and herds to 'scape the Danes,
‘Who, as they journey'd on their perilous way,
‘Oft-times to listen stood; and gazed around,
‘Cautious, to see if foe approach'd. These men
‘Declared such deeds of th' invading host,
‘That, to believe them possible, we strove,
‘But could not, such our confidence in Heaven.

‘At length, upon an even, no longer left
‘To doubtful rumour, we beheld the foe,
‘(Led on by Hubba, that disastrous pirate,
‘Fierce for barbarian deeds!) shouting draw near.
‘A holy father ventured to go forth
‘And ask them their design. We saw him slain!
‘Then death was visible! Each call'd on God.
‘While on our knees, we saw the ceiling red
‘From the destructive torch that blazed without.
‘We heard the crash of wood! the doors were forced!
‘The Danes rush'd in! the work of death began!
‘Relics and shrines, all was one overthrow.
‘O spare my anguish! spare my burning brain!
‘I fled, yes, here I am.

‘Mark me, O king!
My rage is past, I now can coolly speak,
‘Tell thee my purport, like a wise man, calm:
‘No friend hath Sigbert, not one soul survives
‘Of all he loved! Normans have murder'd them!
‘I pant for blood, and I will have my fill!’
He said, and in an instant rais'd his scarf,
And cast it to the air, and underneath,
'Mid wild astonishment, discover'd hid
A warrior's armour! Thus again he spake:
‘This armour was a chieftain's, whom I saw
‘Slain on the moor; I seized it; put it on;
‘And having found thee after tedious search,
‘Here do I swear, that Sigbert shall henceforth
‘Live for one object, let one only hope
‘Dwell in his breast; and when the madd'ning thought
‘Of home destroy'd—friends slain— or country wrong'd
‘Shall cross his mind, with vulture's appetite,
‘And lion's rage, loud shall he call for blood.”
The stranger ceas'd. Convulsions heaved his frame.
His hands clench'd each the other, whilst his eye
At heaven gazed steadfastly. When Alfred thus.

‘Sigbert! I mourn thy wrongs. Thy service here,
‘I need not. Whilst thou seek some safe retreat,
‘Angels be thy protectors.’ From the king,
Instant he turn'd, rage beaming from his eye,
And sped, unknowing where.

Heavy at heart,
Alfred now turn'd, to bid his faithful troops
Flee to their lone retreat. He sought to speak,
But sorrow check'd his words. The moment came
When his resolves first fail'd him; till, at length,
He found th' imperfect utterance, and began.

‘Friends! brethren! subjects! you, whose gallant deeds
‘So oft have check'd the Danes; so oft have made
‘Their monstrous bucklers feel the heavy weight
‘Of your good swords; forget not now your strength
‘Tho' forc'd to yield the contest, and alone
‘Roam through the wood and wilderness, oppress'd—
‘With secret dread, and hard disquietude,
‘Hold not your courage light, for you have fought
‘As bravely for your homes and innocents,
‘As ever mortals fought. Your noble deeds,
‘In martial fame shall be recorded high;
‘Whilst every Saxon who in coming years
‘Dwells on th' inspiring tale, shall proudly say,
‘These heroes were our sires! but we are doom'd
‘To suffer from false friends, and in them find
‘Our bitterest foes—So let the punishment
‘Due to their crimes o'ertake them!—

‘Have I not—
‘Say, Oh my subjects! have I not endured,
‘E'en, with the meanest of you, hunger, cold;—
‘The beating tempest, wind, and hail, and rain?
‘When have I shunn'd the Danes, their black array,
‘Their furious onset, or, amid the fight,
‘Stood motionless, and not display'd my sword,

‘And like yourselves fought resolute? In vain!—
‘Deserted, destitute, we must, awhile,
‘Th' unequal combat shun. Alfred, in arms,
‘Will but inflame the vengeance of the foe,
‘And stimulate to fiercer deeds of blood!
‘Altho' th' indignant spirit burn within,
‘Till duty call, now Saxons! we must haste
‘Each to his secret place!’

The monarch ceased;
For, as he strove to say—‘Subjects, farewell!’
His big heart throbb'd, and hard and difficult
Was it to check his grief. Upon his cheek
Anguish was visible, and all around,
Mark'd the tumultuous throe, which, like the wave
That calleth up the spirit of another,
Made their eyes dim, and, for a moment, each—
Put off the hero. Silence breaking thus,—
Alfred exclaim'd: ‘It was a passing cloud!
‘Once more are we ourselves.—No season this
‘For idle feeling. We must meet our fate
‘Firm, as befitteth men.

‘I would advise,
‘(And my advice, e'en now, will not be spurn'd)
‘That you repair to Selwood's forest shade:
‘Waiting your monarch's summons: there abide,
‘Construct the fortress, form the dart and bow,
‘And live on hope, the balm of wretchedness.
‘Oh, subjects! whom affliction's heavy hand
‘Binds closer to my heart, the glorious time
‘Hastes on, I fain would hope, when to your homes
‘You may return triumphant: and, tho' now
‘I cease the strife, yet in th' auspicious hour
‘When Saxons, wearied with the yoke of slaves,
‘And taught their folly by the wrongs they bear
‘From iron-hearted Danes, shall think again
‘Of past delights, of freedom, and the king

‘Whom they, in his misfortunes, heedless left
‘Unshelter'd to the storm; when they shall seek
‘Once more deliv'rance, and, on Alfred call—
‘As thunder follows the bright flash of heaven,
‘So will I follow hope, and still be found
‘First, at the call of honour. Till that hour
‘Subjects, and friends,—farewell!”

He scarce had ceas'd,
When loud and pealing shouts, tumultuous rose,
‘To Selwood!’ ‘Selwood!’ ‘Prosper still,’ they cried
‘Oh, God! our noble king!’ when the whole host
Turn'd sorrowful, to seek the forest shade.

Now, cold at heart, Alfred approach'd, to greet
The partner of his sorrows. Still she sat
Bending to earth, over her infant child
That on her breast lean'd quietly. He cried
‘Joy of my heart, Alswitha!’ Up she rose,
And seem'd like one awaked, from a long dream:
Her eyes were wild, and eager gazing round,
With lifted hand, she spake, ‘Alone, my king.”
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘and we must now go forth
‘To find another home. Give me thy child,
‘Thus early taught to suffer.’ She obey'd,
And they together sought the neighbouring heath.

BOOK III

ARGUMENT.

ALFRED, in wandering over the heath, meets a Beggar, with whom he divides his only loaf. Arrives at Glastonbury Abbey, leaves Alswitha and his infant boy there, and departs alone to seek some obscure retreat.

‘THOU lovely Moon!’ cried Alfred, as he roam'd
Across the trackless moor, all wide and waste,
Bearing his infant child. Upon his arm—
Alswitha lean'd, for they had wander'd long,
And it was night. ‘Thou lovely Moon,’ he cried,
‘How calm thou art! thou journeyest on thy way,
‘Nor heed'st the mists, that sailing thro' the sky,
‘Oft half conceal thee, for thou passest on,
‘Casting thine eye, disdainful, at the clouds,
‘The low and scatter'd clouds, that fain would hide
‘Thy majesty, pale empress of the night!
‘And have not I a mind, my better part!
‘More vast than is yon orb? an intellect
‘That ranges unconfined, through time and space,
‘Scorning their narrow limits? What is this,—
‘This thinking faculty? this prison'd soul—
‘Teeming with vast desires, that acts and plans
‘Within me? Is it not, ere long, ordain'd
‘To cast aside its fetters and assert

‘Its native dignity? I know it is!
‘Founded on God's imperishable Word:
‘Aye, in those regions, where thou sitt'st enthroned
‘In empyrean glory, lovely Moon!
‘I feel a sudden and mysterious calm
‘Shoot through my frame. This mind will follow thee.
‘Go on, ye grovelling clouds! increase in size,—
‘In number! gather round my head, and strive
‘To hide that light eternal! call the winds,
‘And tempests to your aid! yet, undisturb'd,
‘I will behold your impotence, and smile.
‘Sorrows and pangs of frail humanity,
‘Upon the wings of ages do ye fly,
‘Fast as the clouds of night, whilst I shall live
‘Clad in the robe of immortality
‘When yon bright orb is quench'd.’

The King, a joy
Felt cheer his heart, as thus on lofty themes
He meditates; but soon the busy thoughts
Of his own crushing cares,—his country's wrongs,
Like an o'erwhelming flood, rush'd thro' his mind,
And he was sorrowful.—Thus picturing well
Our mortal feelings: like the ocean tide,
Now ebbing, and now flowing; but, ere long,
(Vicissitude pass'd by, memento dread!)
The endless to the fleeting will succeed.

While these reflections o'er his countenance
Cast seriousness, unwittingly he smiles!
For at that moment he beheld his boy,
(Stretched on his father's arm) who wondering lay—
At that fair lamp on high, whose tranquil beams
Lit the wide heavens:—and now, with new delight
Aloud he laughs,—to see the full-orbed moon,
With her fair clouds, and leaps with sudden start
Of infant gratulation,

Alfred spake.
‘We now are wandering far, and lest this garb,
‘Still bearing marks of royalty, though worn,
‘And half obscured, should tell my name and state,—
‘Here will I leave it: on this barren heath
‘To moulder and endure the winds of heav'n.
‘Thy dress is simple, thou hast nought to fear.’
When on the ground the king his mantle cast.
The glimmering light now streak'd the orient sky.
‘Thou dost not speak to me,’ said Alfred, ‘speak
‘That I may hear thy voice, and know indeed
‘Thou art not sorrowful.’ Alswitha thus.
‘I can but speak, thy kindness to confess,
‘Best friend! and blameless cause of all my woe.’

Whilst wandering thus, far o'er the heath, they see
A moving shape, that in the early dawn
Seem'd hast'ning toward them. Travelling slow it was,
With size and motion so peculiar,
That, to compare it to familiar thing,
They could not. ‘Quick, my lord,’ Alswitha cried,
‘I do not like yon form. With needful speed
‘We soon shall pass this spirit-freezing spot,
‘For from our right it comes, and we are first.’
‘Nay, fear it not,’ said Alfred,—‘Let us wait
‘To see and satisfy our doubting minds.’
The queen exclaim'd. ‘With danger sport not thus!
‘It is the loneliest corner of the heath
‘Where ghosts might walk by instinct; e'en the turf
‘Treads hollow, and the breeze, slow passing by,
‘Whispers mysterious meanings. Haste my Lord!’
‘Not so,’ replied the king. ‘Who trusts in God,
‘Encompass'd by his shield of providence,
‘Needs nothing fear, and least of earthly things
‘The ghost, thou dreadest.’ Words, regarded not.
Alswitha hurries on, a few short steps,

Then turning, saw her child, and back return'd
To share her lord's misfortunes.

Whilst they spake,
The doubtful form drew nearer, till at length
A cripple, dragging his weak limbs, appear'd.
‘Oh, pity me!’ he cried, ‘it was most kind
‘To stop on this wide down to hear my tale,
‘For I am poor, and hunger in my breast
‘Aloud doth call for bread. Have ye no food
‘To give an old man?’ ‘Yes,’ the king replied,
‘And thou shalt have a part.’ Alswitha said,
‘A small part, husband, for thou knowest well
‘How scarce it is, and on this trackless moor
‘Our babe may cry in vain. I weep for age,
‘And, for myself, would give him all the loaf.
‘For we have only one; but, then, the child!
‘Bethink thou of the child, nor quite forget
‘Thine own hard wants.’ The king no answer made,
But took the scrip, and open'd it, and said;
‘This is our all, old man! one half is thine!’
And Alfred parted it. ‘God prosper thee!’
Replied the aged man, then fast assuaged
The pang of hunger. Alfred turn'd the while
And to the queen thus spake:

‘Hear, best beloved!
‘Words that from mildness spring. Strict, must we guard
‘The plant humanity. its leaves are tender,
‘And he who checks their wild luxuriance,
‘Will find them pine, and, from th' unfriendly soil,
‘At length, slow die away. Proud man supports
‘His boasted independence, and would fain—
‘Prying in cold futurity's grey dawn,
‘Plan for himself, and govern, free of heaven.
‘That Being who surveys all mortal things,
‘Best knows our wants; He sees them manifest,
‘While yet they have no name, and, on the heart

‘Whose trust he is, bestows, if seem him right,
‘The flattering good, but, given or denied
‘Is done in mercy. Let us look to God,
‘And do his will, and we shall have enough
‘Of food and raiment: more we must not hope,
‘Nor need desire.’ Alswitha wept consent,
And faultering answer'd—‘Give the poor man all!
‘We trust in God.’

The beggar now approach'd
His benefactors, and with grateful words
Thank'd them full oft. ‘Now, pray thee,’ said the king,
‘How cam'st thou here, alone, and destitute?
‘Whilst journeying onward, freely tell thy tale.
‘Tho' strangers, we are friends.’ He thus began:

‘Pardon the tedious words of an old man.
‘My name is Nidor; far o'er yonder Tor
‘My dwelling was; a hut of humbler sort,
‘Yet such as I could love, for it was warm;
‘And there was space to sit beside the fire,
‘Or turn the spindle, and without were heap'd
‘Faggots and straw to last till Candlemas.
‘Upon the top of a green sloping hill
‘Our hamlet stood, whilst in the vale beneath
‘Another hamlet rose, and they were called
‘The sister villages. A lovely spot!
‘Such as the trav'ler oft would stop to view,
‘Over and over, but would nothing say,
‘Sorrowing to leave, yet loth to look again,
‘Lest he should cease to be a traveller.
‘From youth to age beside my cottage door,
‘A yew-tree waved, under whose spreading shade
‘I oft have sat, and view'd the glorious sun,
‘Smiling, with all around me; mark'd the hills
‘In the blue distance, over which these feet
‘In earlier days had wandered, stranger then

‘To every malady. How many an hour,
‘'Neath that cool tree, have I reclined myself,
‘And carved my name, while yet in boy-hood years,
‘And sung the merry song, or, with my lute,
‘Piped to the dancing villagers, and made
‘Tottering four-score forget his load of care,
‘Half young again! But, I am talking wild!
‘These pleasant thoughts so fill an old man's mind,
‘That he could dwell for ever on them. Now,
‘Sorrowing, my tongue a heavier tale shall tell.

‘Three nights before the wane of yonder moon,
‘There came a noise! Some, rushing to their doors,
‘Beheld with strange dismay, th' o'erwhelming flames
‘Consuming our near hamlet! We could hear
‘The cry of infants, and the mother's shriek,
‘Falling before the Danish massacre!
‘My better days were pass'd, and I had lain
‘Long 'neath my roof, in burdensome old age;
‘From morn to night, from night to lingering morn,
‘Seeking some change, that only brought again
‘The same unvarying round of restlessness;
‘When, like a sudden storm, the foe drew nigh!
‘Forgetful of old Nidor, all my friends
‘Sought each his life. My children were far off
‘Who would have succour'd me. Deserted thus,
‘A miserable man! it seem'd most hard
‘To lie and, all alone, receive my end,
‘Dreadful as certain. Resolute I rose;
‘And tho' till that sad hour, I thought myself
‘A weak bed-ridden man, yet sudden fear
‘So on me wrought, that I, in truth, appear'd
‘Gifted with youth afresh. Alert I seized
‘This neighbouring crutch, when, hastening through the door,
‘I just remember'd, that in Ethelney,
‘That fair sequester'd Isle! I had a son,

‘(As good a son as ever father priz'd,
‘Bounteous to all, so far as his low cot
‘Might deal in bounty;) and turn'd zealously
‘To seek his dwelling. I am on my way,
‘But never farther had I gone,—this moor
‘Would soon have proved old Nidor's bed of death,
‘But for your food, good christians! Pardon me!
‘I never saw your faces till this hour,
‘Nor know your names, nor whither you are bound
‘In these disastrous times; but if no house,
‘No better house should wait you, by my troth,
‘My son's shall be your dwelling. Haste with me!
‘And you shall find good cheer, tho' humble! Come,
‘I pray you come!’

Alfred uncertain stood:
When, as he paus'd, there to his sight appear'd
A stately pile, of which the king inquired,
‘It is,’ said Nidor, ‘Glastonbury; famed
‘O'er all the land, where holy monks abide;
‘And where the singing is both night and day.
‘By this I see my path is to the right,
‘And yours I trust.’

‘I cannot go thy way,’
Alfred replied. ‘The place in view, I seek,
‘But, I return with feelings of good will,
‘Thy kind proposal. Thine the friendly words,
‘Such as we Saxons loved, before the Danes
‘Made cold our hearts, and taught us to respect
‘Our wants, while yet uncertain. Take my prayers,
‘Thou good old man! my unfeign'd gratitude,
‘And health attend thee.’ Many greetings kind
Then each exchanged of blessings and of hopes,
And thus they parted.

Whilst they paced along,
Upon the abbey gazing with delight,
Whose circling arches rose majestical

And lofty turrets, mantled in the garb
Of hoar antiquity,—so dark!—so vast!
And awe inspiring!—raising many a thought,
Solemn, that told of virtues pass'd away—
The reverenced Founders, who, their earthly coil
Long had exchanged for heaven. Slowly the king
Raising his hand, thus to Alswitha spake:
‘This is a place of refuge! Joy it yields
‘To my distracted mind, to meet a spot
‘So safe and durable. Alswitha, hear!
‘This shall be thy abode; while I must haste
‘To cot obscure, conceal'd in forest shade,
‘Waiting the destin'd time, that shall unfold
‘New prospects, and revive our drooping hearts.

Alswitha answered, ‘Husband! thou for whom
‘My heart has never ceas'd to feel, since first
‘From Mercia's soil I came; oh pity me!
‘Nor add a weight too heavy to be borne
‘At this hard time. I, leave thee, Alfred! leave
‘My only friend! behold thee go amid
‘Ten thousand secret perils, and endure
‘That keenest of all ill—uncertainty?
‘It cannot be!’

When, earnest, thus the king:
‘Alswitha! dearly do I hold thy love,
‘Thy true affection; dearly do I prize
‘Thy presence, but, the thought of self, of joys
‘That to myself belong, at hour like this,
‘When Britain groans and bleeds, were weak indeed.
‘I for my people live, and them alone!
‘To see their wrongs redress'd, to scourge the Danes,
‘To raise again the frighted form of peace,
‘And place the crown safe on this infant's head;
‘Who little knows his danger, nor the pangs
‘That rend his parents! This is my design;

‘For this I yield all meaner purposes;
‘All other dear delights, and, not the least,
‘Thy smiles and counsel.’

Boldly cried the queen,
‘Uncommon times, demand uncommon deeds,
‘And lofty resolutions. Firm and well
‘Hast thou declared, and truly I revere
‘Thy spirit, unsubdued by time and chance,
‘And all the little storms that vulgar minds
‘Toss and o'erwhelm. Thou judgest right, O, king!
‘Go to thy place of hiding; there behold,
‘Tranquil, the tempest riding high through heaven:
‘Though fierce, it will not always last, and seize
‘The hour of sunshine to come forth and sing
‘The song of triumph; but, regard me, king!
‘I will not leave thee! I, unmoved, can bear
‘The tempest and the beating wind and rain:
‘These bring no terrors to my heart, I live
‘Beneath thy sight; away from thee, I die.
‘If with vain fear thou shudder at the snares
‘That lurk for woman, I will clothe these limbs
‘In iron-mail, or with the garb of man:
‘And look such terrors to th' obtruding eye,
‘That, aw'd to distance, all alike should mark
‘My frown, and tremble. Say not nay, O, king!
‘Beloved friend and husband!’

Alfred cried,
‘Thou canst not go with me! I have a path
‘Before me hazardous, of such a kind,
‘That man alone can venture. Canst thou climb
‘The mountain precipice, and rob the nest
‘Of eagles for thy food? Canst thou contend
‘With prowling wolves, and, on the topmast branch
‘Of lonely tree, watch till returning light,
‘Nor dare to dream of hardship?’ Thus the queen,

‘Hear thou thy loved Alswitha,—I can climb
‘The mountain precipice, and rob the nest
‘Of eagles for my food. I can contend
‘With prowling wolves, and, on the topmast branch
‘Of lonely tree, watch till returning light,
‘Nor dare to dream of hardship, if, my lord,
‘Thy voice I hear, and courage learn from thee!’
The king replied, while conflict reign'd within.
‘A heart like thine, firm as the beetling crag,
‘Might dare all perils, and serene look down,
‘Smiling, while others fear'd; yet, best beloved!
‘Hear one objection, sterner than the rest.
‘If thou canst perils dare—can this thy babe?’
Alswitha smote her breast, and answer'd not.

Near them, they now behold the Abbey walls,
Awhile forgotten. Alfred thus: ‘'Tis meet
‘To pass for trav'llers. Know, yon pious men
‘Our wants will aid; and grant asylum fit
‘For thee and for thy child.’—They knock. the door
Turns on its ponderous hinges, when the sound
Rang through the vaulted roof, and forthwith brought
An aged Father, who inquired the cause
Of their so early visit. Alfred spake.
‘Father! we hither come, to ask thy prayers,
‘And claim thy bounty. We have travelled far,
‘And, weary, here we stand.’—

The Monk replied,
‘First follow me, the holy chant to raise,
‘Then for inferior things.’ Him they obey'd,
Following thro' aisles that scarce receiv'd heaven's light,
Mid shrines and fretted pillars, till at length
They came before the altar, canopied
With broider'd vest, while dim and glimmering rays,
From lonely taper, spread o'er all the place
A dubious light, a gloom that to the heart

Convey'd a sudden awe, and many a fear
Doubtful and undefined.

These rites perform'd,
Each to the neighbouring hall repair'd, where stood
The liberal table, spread with food and drink,
And all were satisfied. Now to the spot
Where Alfred thoughtful sat, the abbot came,
And, with no rude solicitude, inquired
The cause that made him wander; whence he sped,
And whither he was bound, in times like these,
When danger and destruction roam'd abroad.
A good and hospitable man he was;
A smile beneficent beam'd o'er his face,
And his mild accent, so disposed the mind
To kindly feelings, and like music soft,
So lull'd the senses, that his words sank deep
Into all strangers' hearts.

Alfred replied,
‘Good father I am come, my wife and child,
‘From a loved home, where peace and plenty reign'd.
‘There never pilgrim-monk unheeded ask'd
‘For food or shelter; but we left it all,
‘Flying before the Danes, whose savage rage
‘No power might stand—whose breasts no pity move.
‘There is no safety now, throughout the land.
‘In town and hamlet, pale and troubled forms
‘Meet us on every side, aghast! who mourn
‘Some friend or relative, untimely slain
‘By these fierce Danes—faithless and bloody men!—
‘May yet the hour arrive, Oh, grant it heaven!
‘When wiser Saxons, (now at enmity,
‘Whilst foes the while upon their vitals prey,)
‘Beholding their delusion, may arise,
‘Unite their strength, and with a torrent's force
‘Sweep Denmark's hordes from this our groaning land.’

‘Stranger, thou speakest well,’ the abbot cried:

‘This is our only hope; and I may say,
‘The day is terrible to every man
‘Who loves his country. Should dissensions still
‘Afflict and palsy this our native land;
‘We all must perish! In a few more years
‘No Saxon blood will flow, for these fierce Danes
‘Have made a league with death's dark ministers,
‘And Alfred strives in vain.—At early morn,
‘At noon, and when the hour of eve draws near,
‘Silent and shivering at the heart, we mark
‘Yon lofty Tor to see if ghastly flames
‘Rise ominous, warning the sea-kings' march—
‘Slaughter before, and fire and waste behind.
‘Hard is our lot, for never lie we down
‘On nightly pillow, but, at sound, or heard
‘Or fancied, we arise and cross our breasts,
‘And listen fearfully, then, sleep again.
‘Only to start more terrified. Young man!
‘Thy wish is granted; here contented live
‘And happily; and when thou journeyest hence,
‘May peace go with thee!’

Alfred look'd, and cried,
With wonted dignity, ‘abbot! thy name?
When checking soon himself, he humbler spake.
‘I thank thee, father! take a stranger's thanks,
‘His only gift.’ The holy man replied,
‘To aid the houseless wanderer, well befits
‘The christian who has learn'd to imitate—
‘His master, who about went doing good.
‘But what the news thou bring'st? Where are the Danes?
‘If thou hast comfort, cheer our drooping hearts!’
When Alfred thus:

‘No comforter am I;
‘I mourn to say, it is a wint'ry scene,
‘All bleak and desolate; whilst every house
‘With the white frost is covered. Peace may come,

‘Prosperity may shine, but, in an hour
‘When low we lie, for feeble are our hopes,
‘Declining fast, and a dark veil between:
‘If safety can be found, this spot is safe,
‘Wherefore, good father! I, my earthly all,
‘This mother and her babe; heaven's choicest gifts!
‘Beneath thy roof—thy fostering care, will leave.
‘Preserve the rich deposit! To a place,
‘Distant, I hasten, but the hour draws on,
‘When with a lighter heart I may return.
‘'Tis hard to hope, yet harder to despair.’

Throughout the hall, each to his neighbour spake
As fancy prompted; but, at Alfred's words,
The clamour died away, whilst all approach'd
Successive, to the place, and listen'd, still;
And when the king had ceas'd, the abbot cried;

‘Fear not the enemy! his reign is short.
‘Know, gallant stranger! God will prosper yet
‘Our good king Alfred. He is wise as brave
‘Tutor'd in that best school, adversity,
‘And all the hopes of Britain rest alone
‘On him and on high heaven. Dismiss thy fears;
‘And if important calls demand thee hence,
‘Go satisfied, that never mortal trust
‘This heart betrayed. Safe be thy treasure here,
‘And safe, tho' perilous, thy journey back!
‘My blessing shall go with thee.’

Words so kind—
This unexpected praise, this flattering proof
Of unbought confidence, made the queen's heart,
Throb fast with gladness—as the king, to earth,
Look'd, whilst conflicting passions shook his frame;
Joy, sorrow, hope; fearing each eye might read
Upon his cheek his real character.

When thus he answered. ‘Sire! the faith thou hast
‘In better days, inspires again my breast;
‘And these thy words encourage me. I prize
‘All blessings, but the blessing given by one,
‘Like thee, a good man, brings a benefit
‘In after times, as doth the genial shower
‘Bathing the bud of Spring. Father! awhile
‘I claim thy patience.’

Alfred now arose.
The queen slow followed him, bearing her child,
Through where the cloisters stood, and to the trees,
(Laden with fruit, blithe Avalonia
Far from obtruding ear. When thus he spake:

‘Alswitha! dear art thou! but, thrice more dear
‘For these thy sorrows. Deem me not unkind,
‘In leaving thee 'mid those who little know
‘Thy worth, and thy hard fate; who never felt
‘The social tie divine; who never knew
‘A husband's struggles, nor the bitter pang
‘Of separation from that holiest friend—
‘A dear-loved wife. But thou hast that within
‘Which buoys thy spirit; lifts thy soaring mind
‘Above the power of circumstance,—thy heart—
‘Teaches to view these shifting scenes of life—
‘Smiling superior.—Do I feign regret
‘At leaving thee 'mid strangers, far from home?—
‘From early friendships, kindred sympathies?’
Silence prevail'd. At length the king pursued;
‘It is most hard! But we shall meet again!
‘Soon will my feet return, and I would hope
‘With tidings, such as thou wilt joy to learn:
‘But, doubt whate'er thou wilt, oh, never doubt
‘The pang this parting gives; oh, never doubt
‘Thy husband's true affection.’

Alfred turn'd;

He wept. Alswitha mark'd the tear! a tear
That on her soul impress'd a character,
Deep, and for ever fresh. Sudden she strove
To hide the anguish of her breast, and cried,
(In woman's softest tone!) ‘I trust that sigh
‘Came not for me! Oh, do not grieve for me!
‘Beneath this roof, and in this pious place,
‘I can live happily, and, tho' thy sight
‘Might cheer my spirit; I, full willingly,
‘That sight can yield, and when thou see'st it right,
‘Doubt not, with winged transport, that thy feet
‘Hither will turn, and thy heart join the heart
‘That is alone without thee. Cheer thou up,
‘And rest on heaven, we shall do well again,
‘Both thou and thine.’

Alfred, with transport, cried,
‘Partner in suffering! soothing are thy words!
‘Thou dost not know how soothing, at this hour
‘When darkness reigns. Beloved, ere I go
‘Grant me one boon—let me behold thee smile,
‘For wherefore should'st thou grieve, and in thy mind
‘Cherish foreboding sorrow? I must haste
‘To gather tidings, but, will soon return,
‘Joy in my eye, and gladness at my heart,
‘And we shall yet exult o'er perils past.’

Alswitha said. ‘I hear thy words, O, king!
‘And I should think thee cheerful, but thy face!
‘There is the myst'ry! There, thou canst not hide
‘The conflict hard within. Yet, was it kind,
‘Thus with mild stratagem, to strive to cheat
‘My heart of anguish, but, in vain! I see
‘Things as they are, and never more expect
‘Pleasure on earth. Now, hear me! If thou go,
‘Oh, do not danger court to prove thy strength,
‘Courage, or skill, but when thou seest it,

‘Turn off, and think of me. May rivers wide
‘Stop not thy course; no savage man approach
‘With dark designs! no wolf with hideous yell
‘Draw nigh thee! May no storms upon thy head
‘Wrathful, descend! and, at the hour of sleep,
‘If hospitable roof be far away,
‘May some propitious gale, the wither'd leaves,
‘Blow near, and angels guard thee!’

Alfred now
Viewing his rosy boy, thus mournful spake;
‘Mild infant! thou canst lift thy hands in sport,
‘And laugh unconscious of the cares that now
‘Oppress thy parents; but, the hour will come
‘When these light dreams will vanish; when thy heart
‘Will sink within thee, and the passing clouds
‘Seem leagued against thy peace. Delighted child!
‘Go on to smile, stretch out thy playful arms
‘In nature's holiday, and chaunt thy song,
‘Untutor'd—heedless of thy coming wrongs:
‘But, they will soon draw near. Evil and few
‘Are man's appointed days, and such indeed
‘Thy sire has found them. May a double share,
‘His, and thine own, have been his destiny!
‘Beloved child! if thou should'st never more
‘Behold these eyes, nor at a riper age
‘Receive a father's blessing, may high Heaven
‘Protect thee! God of heaven and earth, look down
‘And save my child! Alswitha! now, farewell!’
She sighed, but answered not, and as the King
Turned to pursue his way, his infant boy,
With sudden impulse, forward stretched his hands
And changed from smiles to tears. ‘Oh, fare thee well,’
Cried Alfred. ‘Fare thee well!’ when toward the hall,
Downcast and sad, he walked.

The holy Sire
A cordial had prepared for their return,

With hearty greetings, but, when he beheld
The king alone, he would have asked the cause,
And led him to the feast: but Alfred cried;
‘My soul is full! The sun is journeying on,
‘And I must leave thee! Grateful is my heart
‘But it is full, and I can only say,
‘Servant of God! protect my wife and child!’
This said, he thro' the lofty gateway pass'd.

BOOK IV.

ARGUMENT.

ALFRED in the Cottage of the Neatherd.

AH, who can tell the pangs which Alfred felt,
Whilst wandering slow o'er wilds and desert wastes,
Joyless, and pondering on the weight of ills,
That now o'erwhelmed him! what his mind endured,
Whose first of earthly hopes, was, to behold
His people happy! while his own great mind
Plann'd for their good, and nursed luxurious thoughts
Of high achievement. He beheld the world
And all the multitude of fellow-men,
Not as an alien. He had learned to weigh
What, of the mass of miseries we mourn,
To this our state was needful, what the effect
Of hostile innovation, and he thought,
With fervent joy of all a king might do.
Long had he fed on intellectual food:
The love of Nature and of nature's God
Had harmonized his spirit, he had felt
His heart attuned to love.

At evening hour,
In the warm summer months, while yet a boy,

Oft would he wander by the slow brook's side,
And mark its gentle noise, serving to break
Th' intensity of silence which oppressed
His listening sense, and gave to all around
New and obscure solemnity.

His heart,
Susceptible of shadows, forms, and things
Which pass th' unthinking by, intensely pored,
Now on itself; and now, excursive, roam'd
O'er shapes material; viewing with delight
Beauty transcendent, God's omnipotence,
Traced with imperishable characters,
Alike, on all that is. Whilst musing thus,
Each object—whether such as live their hour
Upon this teeming earth, then die away,
Or those sublime and everlasting forms
That throng heaven's concave—sun, and moon, and stars,
Each, to his ear, spake audibly. He saw
Divinity in all things, and adored,
With the enthusiast's rapt and ardent mind,
The glorious hosts of heaven, the clouds of night,
Morn's rich effulgence, with the seasons fair,
Diversly dress'd, and scattering as they dance,
Entwined, through æther, blessings infinite,
Oppressive with all good.

Whilst musing thus,
Gazing on lordly man, who would confine
Heaven's weight of care, to his own pamper'd self,
Oft he exclaimed, ‘Whence came the monster, Pride?
‘Didst thou, vain mortal! catch thy haughty mien
‘From scenes like these, and fancy that the light
‘Of the fair morning beam'd alone on thee?
‘For thee the skylark sung, the breeze awoke
‘Burdened with fragrance, and around thy head
‘Wanton'd in servile dalliance?—Spirits vile
‘May, in the turmoil of this world, assault

‘Oft-times our peace, but he who Nature loves,
‘And in the beauty of creation feels
‘His heart immerged; who views th' Almighty Hand,
‘Upholding, what Omnipotence first formed—
‘The world, and all its hosts of shapes and things,
‘Retiring to his own capacious mind,
‘Will hear the storm without, and calmly say,
‘These move me not.’

Now pondering on mankind—
(Error's dark reign, and tyranny's mad deeds)
With stern prophetic spirit, hear him cry,
‘Nor shall our race pass to the goal of time,
‘Still hoping from futurity, the joys,
‘E'en now within their grasp; the day shall come
‘When evils and oppressions infinite
‘Which we have borne, groaning beneath their weight,
‘Our wiser sons shall hear of, as a tale,
‘Discredited, that casts inglorious shade
‘O'er their brave ancestors. The sun shall burst,
‘Enthroned in brighter splendours, and survey
‘Regenerated man, rising sublime
‘From the wide sea of prejudice, the gulf
‘Of stormy superstition, that consumes
‘The fettered intellect, and sinks Heaven's work,
‘First of material order, to the low
‘And perishable insect of a day.’

With thoughts like these, familiar had he grown.
From the young dawn of reason he had plann'd
(If e'er the hour arrived that gave a crown)
Deeds, whose august reality should scoff
Dull Calculation, and to all display
What good the Great might do. But, royalty
Now came, and, with it, cares, whose crushing load
Bent him to earth, and made him fear the hopes
That once inspired him in life's sunny morn,

Would die away, like the first summer fruits
That just put on their bloom, when suddenly
The north-wind comes, and the dark veil of night
Casts o'er their early charms.

Weary at heart,
Rememb'ring each anticipated joy,
The King now stray'd alone, unknowing where;
O'er trackless wilds, where seldom human foot
Had mark'd the ground. his parted loaf was gone:
The berries of the wilderness assuaged
Oft-times his hunger, whilst the springs that gave—
Their noiseless stream, and roll'd between the hills,
Making the green grass greener, now had flown,
And left him,—prey to that worst misery,—
Thirst; for in vain he seeks the cooling draught;—
Enduring the parched tongue. His anxious look
Full oft reverted from the drooping flags
Grown grey in sunshine, whose forbidding hues
Restrain'd approach, and made the hurrying foot
Stand still, the eye turn off to other scenes,
The heart, to other hopes. Warm was the day,
When Alfred, weary with the tedious search
Of some clear spring's invigorating power,
Felt fatal langour stealing o'er his frame.

With light green leaf, rising o'er Winter's spoils,
Russet and brown, the gorse and fern were near,
And farther off, and far as he could see,
Blended with moss, and thorn, and sedgy grass,
With many a little plat of pasture fair
Opening between. Alfred in thoughtful mood,
Still onward sped, oppress'd by growing care,
Save when the warbling tenants of the wild,
Upstarting, gave to sad perplexity
Short respite. Many a fitful glance he cast
Of weary expectation o'er the heath,

Which seemed from each small eminence to spread
Wider its dreary reign. The King at length
Opprest and weary, lost amid the waste
Of endless desolation, felt his heart
For death prepared. He stood, and like the man
Who travels far, that calls his house, and takes
A parting leave, and with soft accent says,
To some, perchance, who little kindness knew,
‘Farewell, my friends!’ so Alfred look'd around
On all his mute companious—fern and heath,
And feebly cried—‘Farewell!’

When, by his road
Appear'd a figure, stretch'd upon the earth,
Of human shape. He hastens to the spot:
Trembling he saw!—It was old Nidor, dead!—
The aged Beggar. In one hand he held
His wallet empty, whilst beside him lay
A broken crutch!—‘Poor, miserable man!’
Alfred exclaim'd. ‘Had this my arm been near,
‘Thou hadst not perished.’ Silent he beheld,
Heaving the prayer to Heaven; then, passed away,
Musing on that impenetrable veil
That hides the future, screening many a gulf
From easy man, who unconcern'd looks on
To coming pleasures, when Death, unawares,
Sends him to dwell with blank forgetfulness.

Now sudden thoughts arose in Alfred's mind
Of those who never more might hear his fate.
He thought upon Alswitha, on his child—
His subjects, scatter'd o'er the ravaged land.
Far on his way he gaz'd, tho' hopeless. Sounds
And moving forms were none. It was a calm
So dead and so terrific that the world
Seem'd shadows, and all life extinct and gone.
When, lo! a drove of horses wild appear'd,

Far in the distance, that with speed approach'd,
And to a neighbouring dell rush'd down. The sight
From his distracting cares aroused the King;
When hastening to the brow, what fervent bliss
Swept through his bosom, when beneath, he saw,
Catching the sun's last radiance, a fair brook,
By whose green side the wild-hoof'd horses drank!

Thither he hastes, and copious draughts he drinks
At that pure stream. A sudden power, unknown,
Seem'd instant to pervade his frame; a power,
A spirit that infused new faculties. A vale
Now met his eye, a fair and woody vale,
Till then unmark'd, that round the barren hill
Spread its luxuriant verdure, and the stream,
Slow gliding on.

Alfred beside the brook
Pass'd earnest, for the eve was drawing near,
And he had hoped, before another sun
Sank in the crimson west, to rest his head
Beneath some humble dwelling; but, in vain,
For fast the shadows fell, and it was night.

The stream grew larger, by whose rushy side,
The King press'd on: but still no house appear'd.
What means that light he cried, as thro' the trees
‘A vivid beam it cast?—It vanishes!
‘Ah, cruel foe!’ he said. ‘Tempt not my feet!
‘Thou art no restless sprite, but that sad fire,
‘O'er moor and mountain fen, with giddy dance
‘Luring to death the wilder'd traveller.
‘Here will I rest awhile, beneath Heaven's care,
‘These reeds my pillow:’ when the king lay down,
And peaceful were the slumbers of the night.

The morning sun, magnificent, now rose,

Sending his red and winged harbingers,
Mantled in glory, to illume new climes,
And rouse new hearts, while heaven's wide concave glow'd
Intenser, as the Lord of Day advanced.
Alfred, encircled with the blaze, upsprang,
Shaking the drowsy feeling from his brain,
For he alone seem'd senseless, whilst, around,
All nature teem'd with life.

Wondering, he saw,
Where, on the eve, the doubtful light had shone,
A green-roof'd cottage, deep embower'd in trees,
Whose guardian arms encircled it, and spread,
On every side, voluptuous foliage, gay;
While round the sylvan dwelling, many a branch,
High over head, quick-wavering, strove
To hide th' azure sky, that here and there,
Struggled to pour its splendours on the sight.
Alfred beheld the cottage and exclaimed,
‘In spot like this, Ambition might grow wise.
‘Be this my home. Here will I rest awhile,
‘Secure and peaceful, striving to forget
‘A little space, the cares of royalty.’
When he approach'd and knock'd,

A voice within,
In shrill and fretful tone inquires the cause;
When to the door a woman came and cried,
‘What led thee hither, man? Whom seekest thou?’
‘I ask for bread,’ said Alfred; ‘long, these feet
‘Have toiled o'er barren hill, and dreary moor,
‘Nor have I tasted food, save here and there
‘Some scattered berries. Give thy suppliant bread,
‘And let him dwell awhile beneath thy roof:
‘What service in return these hands can do,
‘Shall be well done, and cheerfully.’—Aloud—
The woman answer'd, ‘Ill can I provide
‘For others' wants; I have a host myself;

‘Yet as a houseless and deserted man,
‘I will not spurn thee. Here shalt thou remain
‘Two only days; we cannot feed thee more,
‘For Acca, and Ceolric earn with toil
‘Their daily bread.’

‘Hast thou no constant work
‘For one who well will serve thee?’ Alfred said.
‘None,’ she replied. ‘But what canst thou perform?
‘Can'st fell a tree?’ The monarch looks demure.
Acca inquired, ‘Cans't mend the fishing net?—
‘Or build a hut, or shed? or shape the thong?
‘Neither,’ the king replied, ‘but I have heart,
‘And will, to serve thee, in what way I can.’
‘But what way is't?’ said Acca, ‘can'st thou sow?
‘Or reap? or milk the kine? or use the spade?’
‘Neither,’ the king replied, ‘but I can learn.’
Said Acca, ‘Learn!—thou art a helpless drone,
‘Where hast thou lived? Can'st spin? or shear the sheep?
‘Or rear the faggot pile? Can'st carry wood?’—
‘Aye, that I can do,’ cried the king, with joy;
‘For I have strength to spare.’ ‘Well, take thy food,’
Frowning, the housewife cried, ‘and mind my words,
‘Whate'er I tell thee, or, the penalty,
‘My anger, thou shalt know.’

Here many a day,
Toiling the king abode, and nobler heap
Of turf or stubble, never from the fields
Was borne by mortal man, than Alfred bore.
Yet ill, the king discharged his servitude;
His busy fancy ran, o'er coming years,
Upon his subjects' wrongs, and on the means
Best suited to support a tottering crown.
Acca perceiv'd full oft the wayward man
Pursuing fancies wild, indifferent grown,
To each accustomed charge of household sort,
Her great concern; and often, bitter words

Heap'd she, and hard reproaches, till at length
Her voice grew louder, when, the cottage door
Burst open, and the master entered in,—
Ceolric. ‘Wife! what moves thy wrath?’ he cried.
‘Whom hast thou 'neath our roof? I know him not.’
When, turning to the king, he view'd him well.

Acca replied, ‘It is a friendless man
‘Who sought our dwelling, and petition'd hard,
‘For food and service in thy absence. I,
‘Too readily by pity borne away!
‘(Fault of my easy nature) stood and heard
‘His mournful tale, who having promised fair
‘To do the servant's part, him I received;
‘But never came beneath a door, a man
‘More thoughtless, or perversely bent on dreams
‘Bewildering. Many an hour he sits and hums
‘About one Cædman, and then stops and frowns
‘At something in the air; then rises up,
‘And walks with stately mien, then sits again,
‘And shaves his bow, or with more furious eye,
‘Gazes in vacancy. In truth I think
‘The man half mad, for not an hour ago,
‘The household cakes that yonder lie, half burnt,
‘And smoking on the hearth, I to him gave,
‘And with strict charge, and caution often told,
‘Warn'd him to turn, and with due care preserve
‘From scorching heat; then to the fields I sped
‘To tend the kine; and now again return'd;
‘When, as the door I opened and look'd round;
‘Unmindful, on his chair he sat, his eyes
‘Fix'd on the floor, his knife beside, while near
‘Lay many a half-form'd bow. But, sad to tell!
‘My cakes, for thy return, prepared to shew
‘A wife's affection, lay involv'd in smoke;
‘Now nothing worth; and this strange loon at hand,

‘Regardless. Dost thou hear?’ she cried,
And stamp'd her foot, and with indignant ire,
Vow'd oft and bitterly, no other food
Should he receive, till he had eaten all
The black—burnt cakes.

Ceolric thus replied:
‘Heed not the cakes. It was a small mishap.
‘The young man has the look of honesty,
‘And soon will mend. But, wife, hast heard the news?’
‘The news! What news:’ eager, she answer made.
‘News that will make thee mourn,’ Ceolric said,
‘Why, Glastonbury!’ ‘Glastonbury!’ cried
Alfred uprising, ‘What of that?’ ‘Young man,
‘Mind thou thy work,’ said Acca. ‘Mind thy work!
‘But husband, what of Glastonbury? say!’
In mournful tones, he thus the answer gave.
‘The Danes with wrath have deluged it, and made
‘That comely pile a ruin. Acca turned
To Alfred near, and said, ‘Why tremblest thou?
‘But, husband, speak thou on—he thus pursued.
‘Oh, woe for England! That surpassing pile
‘Is now in ashes! all the pious monks
‘There, have been murdered! scarce one stone remains,
‘And fast the Danes march on and devastate
‘With undistinguish'd fury. Now I see
‘The end of Britain coming. ‘Tis an hour
‘That tries the strongest heart, and makes us know
‘What terror means. So seldom do I meet
‘A Saxon, that, in truth, it is a sight
‘That soothes my heart. Come cheer thou up, young man;
(Turning to Alfred, thus Ceolric spake.)
‘No doubt with us and all of Saxon blood,
‘Thou, too, hast suffer'd from these Danes, that spare
‘Nor age, nor sex. Awhile forget thy cares:
‘Welcome to this our dwelling: when the foe
‘Thus wage their warfare, Saxon should behold

‘A brother's face in Saxon.’ Thus again
Spake, tremblingly, the Neatherd,

‘Yester eve
‘I met a man fast flying, wild of look,
‘O'er yonder hill. He told me many a tale
‘Of Danish wrath, and Danish cruelty,
‘But one that made my big heart leap again.
‘Thou'st heard of Oddune! that brave general;’
(Alfred look'd up) ‘A nobler man ne'er met
‘Upon the field of fight, and measured swords,
‘Or cast the lance or dart. He lately came
‘Down to the West to seek his fortunes there,
‘And serve his monarch. Many a fearless youth
‘Him follow'd to the war, 'till soon he saw
‘A hopeful band of warriors, bold and true,
‘Aiding his cause; but, Acca, mark me well;
‘Scarce had he rais'd this gallant troop, and fired
‘Each heart with patriot ardour, when the news
‘That Hubba, with his army, near was found.
‘In this distracting hour short time was left
‘For consultation, and they instant march'd
‘To Kenwith's neighbouring castle There they are
‘By foes encompass'd. Lofty is the pile;
‘Firm built and massy, and a braver man
‘To bid defiance, never javelin hurl'd
‘From battlement or tower. A noble Thane,
‘God prosper him, and send him quick relief!—
‘Two armies westward roam. One Hubba leads,
‘Guthrum the other. From the ruin'd walls
‘Of Glastonbury, fast the former hies
‘To join proud Guthrum, scattering far and wide
‘Death and destruction.’

‘If he take that course,’
Cried Acca, trembling, ‘think of thy good sire—
‘Exposed and helpless! What will now become,
‘Of poor old Nidor?’ Thus Ceolric spake.

‘My aged father! God, I pray, from harm
‘Will screen thy wither'd limbs! I trust, no Danes
‘May find thee, O my father!—Our two sons,
‘(This comfort still is ours) with loyal hearts—
‘Follow our gallant monarch, whom we sent
‘No labour'd task, to join his fortunes; they,
‘Brave youths! are gone, and little do we know
‘How hard they fare.’

Said Acca, ‘What an hour—
‘We live in, and what dangers crowd around.
‘My head is weary with the toil of hope,
‘Whilst fears successive revel in my breast,
‘And fast consume me. ‘Mid such direful scenes,
‘Sorrow befits me well, yet, every hour
‘Makes me more callous; I shall soon become
‘Heedless of all things, for my heart seems changed.
‘I would, but cannot feel. Thy aged sire,
‘Whom I so used to love, is now no more
‘Than tale forgotten. Nay, I almost doubt
‘My recollection: never could this mind
‘Have known such deep affection for those youths,
‘And that old man.’—

Ceolric thus: ‘My wife,
‘It is a bitter time for thee and me,
‘But what are our dismays, compared with his—
‘Our good king Alfred? Think what he endures,
‘That injured prince; the noblest, best of men.
‘His heart is tender, and he calls his own,
‘All virtues and all trials. Think of him,
‘Driven from his father's throne, and forced to see
‘Himself to death devoted, and his queen,
‘And infant child, houseless and wanting bread:
‘Think of thy Prince!’

‘I feel at these thy words
‘Calmness within;’ cried Acca. ‘Hast thou heard,
‘Since last we parted, tidings of our King?’

The Neatherd thus. ‘Dishearten'd now he dwells
‘With a few faithful men, 'mid rocks, and woods,
‘And secret caverns, loan and dreary wastes,
‘Far from all human dwelling. What a joy,
‘For thee and me, that at this trying time
‘Our sons are with him, and a bolder pair
‘Of rustic Saxons, live not to oppose
‘The robber Danes.’ ‘Now is it time to rest,’
Acca replied, ‘for fast the sun declines;
‘And tho' we fail to sleep, 'tis well to court
‘That soother of all sorrow.—To thy room!’
Loud, to the king, she spake. He heard, when all
Passed to their reeden beds.

But Alfred's eye
No slumber visited. He watch'd the moon,
And counted o'er the brightest of the stars
That shone in heaven, and strove to dissipate
The ponderous load that on his heart press'd hard;
But it was vain: his many woes sprang up,
Preeminent, and dared his will, and bore
A master's sway—ruling his passive mind.
His faithful Oddune, compass'd round, and now,
No force to aid him. Of Alswitha slain!—
For ever gone! and of his infant son,
Toss'd haply on the hostile spear, whose cries
‘No father's arm might succour. 'Tis a voice
‘That speaks in thunder,’ cried the king, ‘my breast
‘Glows with one purpose. By the eternal God!
‘My heart is roused. The Danish cup is full;
‘The incense of their crimes hath steam'd aloft,
‘And heaven demands my vengeance!’ Many plans
All deadly, to and fro, through Alfred's mind
Pass'd rapid; till, at length, a heavy sleep
Fell on him, and his dreams were mixed with blood.

BOOK V.

ARGUMENT.

Continuation of Alfred in the cottage of the Neatherd.

At morn's first gleam, up from his lowly couch
The king arose, but not to joyousness:
Before reflection cleared his intellect
He felt a load press heavy. Memory soon
Laid bare the cause, whilst horror reign'd within.
He look'd abroad. Far as the eye might reach
Cloud heap'd on cloud, spread thro' the concave dark;
Like mountains, hurrying from the burden'd west,
Borne on the furious winds, that onward burst
In fitful gusts, and in their eddying rage
Reveal'd the power of elemental strife.
Cessation none. Careering still, they bear
With lawless fury, clouds of deeper dye
That scare the soul, and rouse mysterious fears
Of what might be.

Alfred around him gazed,
O'erwhelmed with cares that press'd him to the earth.
To Fancy's eye, it seem'd th' appointed hour
When Melancholy, 'throned in ebon state,
Claim'd homage of mankind. Each form around

Felt with himself deep sympathy. The fields
All grey appear'd. The hills were veil'd in mist;
Whilst to obstruct each avenue of joy,
Creation, with no early matin song,
Regaled the ear, for not a voice was heard
Save of the lonely rook, that, sailing fast
On the loud tempest, caw'd, then pass'd away,
Sudden, before the fury of the blast—
Tossing the forest near.

He now retired
To contemplate a scene more desolate—
His own distracted mind. Resolve was there,
But how, or when to execute, unknown.
He rose, and 'mid the conflict, once again
Acted the servant's part.

It was the time
When the first meal began. Ceolric sat
By the clean hearth, and, gazing at the sky,
To Acca thus. ‘It is a direful morn,
‘And fast and heavily the rain descends;
‘The tempest,—hear its sound! How sad to roam,
‘At such an hour, o'er the drear wilderness
‘Which bosoms our low cot. It gives me cheer
‘That I have pass'd its confines. Now, the storm,
‘And this out-pouring sky, the more endears
‘Domestic comfort.’—

Scarce had he declared,
When to the door there came a warrior man,
Clad in bright armour. In his hands he held,
Dripping with rain, a child. He entered in,
Whilst strange astonishment the master fills,
And Acca wonders, silent.—

‘Here I am,
‘Thank God,’ cried Sigbert! Alfred saw the child,—
It was his own! Grateful he look'd to heaven,
And with ejaculation, mute, retired.

Ceolric thus the armed man addressed.
‘What seek'st thou here? bold stranger! We are poor;
‘Yet, what thou needest, thou shalt have, and that
‘Right willingly.’ When Acca thus exclaim'd
‘But, whence this child, forlorn and destitute?
‘It is a beauteous boy, with angel smile.
‘Meek, innocent! I will relieve thy wants.
‘But wherefore didst thou bring,’ again she cried,
‘This infant in so rude an hour, 'mid rain
‘And the loud tempest?’ As she took the child
And press'd it to her bosom.

‘I have long,’
Cried Sigbert, ‘been in search of our good king,
‘To bear him tidings of brave Oddune's fate,
‘Beleager'd round in Kenwith, by the Danes;
‘Those demon men! but nothing can I learn.
‘He wanders now o'er moors, or hides himself
‘'Mid clefts of rock, far from all human search.
‘His subjects, (whom at midnight oft I curse)
‘By their distractions and base cowardice,
‘Have hurried to despair the best of kings.
‘I fear me bitterly some savage beast
‘Hath harm'd our monarch, for on yonder heath
‘I found his well-known mantle; see it here.
‘It is not smear'd with blood, yet how his garb
‘Should rest upon the ground, in such a place,
‘No tongue may tell. If, by high heaven ordain'd,
‘Evil hath lighted on our king, what fate—
‘Then waits for Saxons, sunk, dispirited,
‘It were not hard to say.’ ‘Oh woeful thought!’
Cried Acca, ‘Alfred hath all prayers. His sword,
‘Next after God, we trust in; but declare
‘How cam'st thou by this child, this lovely child,
‘That smiles on all, diverted, and looks up
‘With such calm sweetness?’

Sigbert thus replied:

‘Whilst wandering o'er yon heath, in toilsome search
‘Of Alfred, our good king, to bear him tidings,
‘Of Kenwith, and his friends, a piteous cry
‘Pierced through my ears: turning, I near espied
‘A murder'd monk, (for whom no bell hath toll'd!)
‘And underneath his cloak this infant boy.
‘His face was pale with fasting, and his cheek
‘Still wet with tears. His little arms he stretch'd,
‘At sight of me; and, though I was alone,
‘I could as soon have laid mine own head down,
‘And there have died, as left this lovely babe.
‘I rais'd him up, and to my bosom warm,
‘Press'd his cold limbs. Anon he look'd, and smiled.
‘Poor helpless babe! thus orphan'd, I will joy
‘To be thy foster-father; thou shalt live
‘Henceforth with me, and still participate
‘In all I have of this world's happiness.’

When Acca broke the silence, ‘Warrior bold,
‘I cannot stand and ponder, I must speak,
‘And praise thee for thy goodness, thus to aid
‘A wretched infant, and 'mid storms like these,
‘To bear him to our cot. It was most brave;
‘I laud thee for it, and if wealth were mine,
‘Or honors, thou should'st be the noblest man
‘Britain can boast, aye and the wealthiest too.’—
Replied the warrior. ‘Woeful was the sight
‘Of that poor murder'd man upon the heath.
‘So dread the look of death, I never saw.
‘His limbs! and then his head! My very sight,
‘I question'd, when I saw the helpless babe,
‘And thought that life could never sojourn near
‘A scene so dread.’

Faintly, thus Alfred ask'd,
‘Was there no mother near?’ Sigbert exclaim'd,
‘Regard thy work, young man! holding thy peace:

‘It suits thee to be silent.’ When he turn'd
To Acca and Ceolric, and exclaimed,
‘Wherefore thus harbour one so stout of limb?
‘It doth impeach your loyalty. He now
‘Should be in battle, fighting for his king.
‘Had every man like him, once started up
‘At sound of danger, and in concert join'd
‘To meet our furious enemies, and check
‘Their savage progress; how should we have leap'd
‘To see their mangled and bare carcasses,
‘Courting the raven's beak; but, dastard minds,
‘Like his, have shrunk from danger, and exposed
‘Our valiant prince, and kingdom, to the Danes,
‘And their fierce ravage.’ Turning to the king,
‘Haste, coward!’ he exclaim'd! ‘This moment haste,
‘And join the Saxons! Meet the Danish brood,
‘And beat them with o'erwhelming wrath to earth,
‘Disdaining mercy; or this sword shall, hence
‘Drive thee, Oh, heartless traitor!’

Alfred heard;
Then left his homely toil, and forward walked
‘Stately, to meet the warrior, when he cried,
‘Sigbert!’ and look'd majestical. The chief
One moment frown'd; when, pallid turn'd his cheek;
He felt distraction, and, that instant sank
Speechless upon his knee. Him, Alfred rais'd,
And forth conducted to a grove of firs,
Secure and silent—when he thus began:

‘Thou seest me, Sigbert! not as heretofore
‘Wessex's high Potentate, but, thus reduced
‘To menial service. In this guise, I am,
‘Hanging on fortune; but the time is come,
‘When other scenes await me. I must now
‘Go forth to conquer, or, for ever close
‘These eyes in death. The day, the hour is come,

‘When Saxons in their might, once more must rise
‘Superior to misfortune;—must arrest
‘The impious foe, and, fearless, vindicate
‘Their country's ancient glory. I sustain
‘Sorrows, and complicated woes, too great!—
‘Presumptuous thought! High Heaven administers,
‘In weight and measure, all the ills of man.
‘O, Sigbert! in an evil hour I left
‘Alswitha, and my child, my pride, my boy,
‘In Glastonbury! now, the passing gale
‘Sweeps o'er its smoking ruins! The fierce Danes
‘Have rased its deep foundations! She was there,
‘And, 'mid the slaughter. fell!’ Awhile he paus'd,
Then thus continued: ‘Sigbert, hear thy prince!
‘The child thou saw'st, crying beside the monk,
‘That very child whom thou hast hither brought
‘From yonder heath, is mine, my infant boy!
‘Thy hands have saved him; but that other loss
‘How shall I bear its weight? Her last fond look
‘Thus seem'd to say, ‘Alfred a long farewell!’
‘I never more shall see her,—she is gone!—
‘Gone down to death!’

A silence mark'd the air.
Again the Monarch. ‘Sigbert! clouds and night
‘Hang over us! my fallen queen I mourn;
‘My friends, now friends no more, but above all,
‘My country, of distemper sick, that needs
‘The boldest remedy. Soon shall this arm,
‘No more restrain'd, upon the pitiless Danes
‘Heaven's hottest vengeance shower. Their cup is full.
‘Despair, avaunt! I have a lion's heart,
‘And, lo! I pant for conflict!’—

Then the thought—
Of his loved queen, swept through his anguish'd mind,
Trembling again he spake, ‘I must awhile,
‘Sheath this my sword, and first, Alswitha seek,

‘Tho' fall'n and perish'd. I must find her corse,
‘The decent earth shall cover her loved form!’

When Sigbert thus. ‘O, best of kings! behold
‘Thy prostrate servant! self-accused and wild,
‘That he should thus address thee; thus abuse
‘Thy patient virtues. Pardon me, O, king!
‘And if thou dost not hate me, tell me so.’

Alfred replied. ‘I do indeed, not hate,
‘But rather love thee, Sigbert. Thou didst talk
‘Like honest freedom in an honest cause:
‘Thou thoughtest me a recreant from thy king,
‘And spakedst boldly to me. Had all men
‘Thy zeal inherited, far other scenes
‘Would now await us.’—Sigbert, earnest cried;
‘Illustrious prince! ordained to shew mankind
‘All that is just in thought, in sufferance great,
‘Regard thy servant's words! A holy joy,
‘That, at my latest hour, shall make my heart
‘Leap, and with life be satisfied, is this,
‘That I was doom'd by Providence to find
‘Thy infant child, and bear him in my arms
‘To place of safety. Now, one hope remains,
‘That thou wilt let me seek Alswitha's fate.
‘St. Alban and good angels be my guide!’

Yielding to duty, what affection claim'd,
‘Go,’ Alfred cried. ‘Tho’ of Alswitha's fate
‘Folly it were to doubt, to madness kin,
‘Yet haply thou may'st learn some circumstance,
‘Touching her end, that from my breast may drive—
‘That deadliest of all foes—uncertainty.
‘Speed on thy way! Meantime thy king will haste
(‘Aroused by duty, and the sense of wrong,)
‘To Selwood, seek his troops, and arm their breasts

‘With aggravated wrath, then lead them forth,
‘First, Oddune to release. His force with mine,
‘All valiant spirits, will a host present,
‘Augmented by bold spirits from the West,
(‘Nor least from Brystoe, that illustrious town,
‘No longer branded, ‘slave-mart, lost to shame!’
‘But famed for valour, worth, and loyalty,
‘Thro’ which Sabrina's rock-bound daughter flows;
‘Gem of our Isle, and pride of Wessex-land.)
‘Thus, with our force united, we will meet,
‘Fearless, the Danes, and, in our potency,
(‘If Heaven at length should prosper with his smile)
‘Drive them, with might resistless from our soil.
‘No idle words be ours.’—Sigbert his sword
More firmly girt, and thus to Alfred spake:
‘Here, take thy garment! Look thyself once more!
‘O king, I leave thee. All that man can do,
‘Expect from Sigbert.—Till we meet again,
‘Heaven guard thy head!’

Never such doubts, and fears,
And sore perplexities, on man had prey'd,
As felt the cottagers, when they beheld—
So strange a sight,—their servant dauntless stand
Before the warrior, who, with sudden dread,
Bent on his knee, and trembled, whilst the man,
Self-confident, lead, with commanding air
And aspect bold, to the near grove of firs,
The armed chief, so terrible. They gazed,
Astonish'd, when Ceolric thus bespake.

‘It is a sight, which makes my teeth and knees
‘Chatter and shake. Whom think'st thou is our man,
‘That thus the warrior bold should look amazed,
‘Kneeling in terror? Hast thou never heard
‘Of spirits that assume our outward form,
‘And do the work of mortals?—come and go. ‘Err!’ Alfred cried,

‘Unshackled by this earthly tenement?
‘The wond'rous deed doth so confuse my mind,
‘That scarcely I can act, or speak, or think,
‘As I was wont to do. Whence came he first?’
Acca again repeated her first tale,
How that he asked for bread, and pleaded hard
To stay and rest himself, and do the work
Of faithful servant. ‘But, I think,’ she cried,
‘His eye betray'd dark meaning, for I strove
‘Forward to send him, but his winning speech
‘So on me wrought, that I could only say,
‘Come in! I had no other power, and thus
‘The man came in: but, now it strikes my mind,
‘His gait, and attitude! and his wild looks,
‘And manner! 'Tis a wicked sprite! And then,
‘The warrior! Didst thou touch him, husband? why—
‘That look of terror? Comfort me and say
‘That thou art not a spirit! for my brain
‘Swims with uncertainty?’

In doubts like these,
The time pass'd on, when, at the cottage door
Alfred appear'd. That moment Acca shriek'd,
Whilst trembling stood Ceolric, whose pale lips
Mutter'd the broken prayer. Awhile the king—
Gazed round in wonderment. The sudden change
He wist not what it meant, and drawing near
Said slowly, ‘Friends! whence this surprise and dread?
‘Fear you your servant?’—From a neighbouring couch
The babe then saw its father, whose fresh dress
It knew full well, and stretch'd his infant arms
With eager joy, when Alfred sprang, and cried
‘My boy! My boy!’ and press'd him to his heart.—
The new and sudden transport of the man
Who call'd the child his boy, a deeper shade
Cast o'er the neatherd's mind; who now dismiss'd
His former apprehensions, and thus spake,

‘Good friend, I know thee not, thy name, nor state,
‘Thus veil'd in humble garb, yet now I think
‘That thou art one of noble blood, and born
‘To honors, such as we can ill bestow:
‘Declare thy name and character!’

The king
Look'd mild and said. ‘Neatherd; howe'er it seem,
‘Know that myself am Alfred!’ Wild dismay
Rush'd through Ceolric's mind. He gazed on earth—
Silent, when Acca to the king approach'd:
She stood, and would have spoken, but her tongue
Refused its office. Alfred thus again:
‘Behold in me your friend!’ When Acca cried.
‘Art thou our king? and this forsaken child
‘Our noble prince, prince Edward? Now,
‘My death approaches! I have seen enough!
‘What! thou our brave king Alfred? thou, the man,
‘Whom I have cross'd, unwittingly?—deny'd,
‘To this our cot, admission? Can it be,
‘That I should thus rebuke the best of kings,
‘And he forgive me?’ Alfred answer'd—‘Yea,
‘I do forgive thee! Thou hast shelter given
‘To one—a dreaming man, whose wilder'd mind
‘Left thy concerns, and wander'd far away:
‘Whither thou little knew'st! yet didst thou bear
‘With all his waywardness. But, had thy wrath
‘Sounded eternal like the troubled brook,
‘That deed would cancel all, when thou didst take
‘My starving infant and communicate
‘Food and kind warmth, whilst I his father stood
‘And heard thee comfort him, beheld thee press
‘His shivering hands close to thy breast, and tell
‘Of his calm sweetness. Then my grateful heart
‘Vow'd lasting kindness. View in me thy friend!’

Alfred now call'd the neatherd and thus spake:

‘I deem'd it wise to stray, remote from those
‘Who knew and who revered me, that my mind
‘Might ponder on the steep and rugged path
‘That lay before; yet, chiefly, to arouse
‘My sleeping subjects, and inspire their souls
‘With one resolve—to triumph o'er the Danes,
‘Or, nobly perish. After wandering far
‘O'er trackless deserts, and enduring oft
‘Hunger, and cold, and peril; here at length
‘I found a refuge; waiting till some hour
‘Of clear and certain meaning call'd me hence:
‘That hour is come! for Oddune, my brave friend,
‘Now sighs in vain for succour, 'mid the walls
‘Of Kenwith's castle. Neatherd, hear thy prince.
‘Thou shalt become my herald. Straight prepare
‘To bear this message. Flee to Oddune! Say,
‘Thy king approaches! Tell him I am roused,
‘And God will aid us. Warn him to defend
‘Right manfully the castle, from whose walls
‘Soon shall he view me hastening, with a host
‘Of firm and gallant warriors. Go thy way,
‘And in the depths of Selwood, meet thy king.’

Ceolric heard, and forth his sandals bound,
And took his knotted staff, and drawing near,
Thus earnest spake. ‘Thy servant will perform
‘All thou hast said, O king! No time, nor toil,
‘Nor danger shall deter him: he will haste,
‘Fearless, to do thy will. God favor him!
‘And give thee, soon, peace and prosperity.’
Thus saying he departed; when, his boy,
Alfred embraced, and thus to Acca spake:

‘Now must I go, 'mid other scenes and strifes,
‘Sorrows and dangers. Ill would it beseem
‘This babe to follow me: him must I leave

‘Where caution and fidelity will join
‘Alike to serve him. He has lost a friend—
‘A mother, who ador'd her infant child!
‘And I, a wife, most dear. Oh, look not at me!
‘No common loss is mine.’—

Silent he stood;
A few short moments, pondering; then again.
‘Acca with thee will I entrust my child!
‘Thou hast a heart of tenderness. I mark'd
‘Its secret workings. I can leave my boy
‘With thee contented, thou shalt be his guard;
‘This cot his dwelling; and, when I return
‘Again to claim my treasure, thou shalt know—
‘A monarch's gratitude.’

Acca replied,
With inarticulate and broken words,
‘Well shall my care repay thy confidence,
‘Not from the hope of coming recompense,
‘But that I love the child. Him will I guard
‘Both when he sleeps, and wakes, and when thou com'st
‘Again to seek thine infant, I will shew
‘His growing limbs, that from unceasing care
‘Spread out and thrive, and tell the silent tale
‘Of health and tenderness.’

When thus the king:
‘I know that thou wilt guard him and display
‘A mother's fondness.’ Close he clasp'd his boy,
And bless'd him, and the prayer, in earnestness,
Once more preferr'd, when Alfred left the door,
And urged his way toward Selwood's forest shade.

BOOK VI.

ARGUMENT.

Sigbert taken Prisoner by Guthrum.

Sigbert, from Ethelney, o'er moor and fen,
Some tidings of Alswaitha to obtain,
Walk'd musing; now elate with hope, now damp'd
With sudden apprehensions, then again
Heedless of danger. Eve was drawing near:
He long had journeyed, and it cheer'd his heart,
When having pass'd a forest, vast and dark,
To find a cottage. Toward the door he sped,
But, ere he reach'd it, sounds of boisterous grief,
And shrieks, burst forth! Awhile he stood and paus'd.
Again the shriek! He felt his sword, and came
Bold to the spot. It was two prowling Danes,
Who, ranging far for spoil, had here arrived,
And death was with them. Thro' the door he rush'd,
Th'impetuous Sigbert: when he saw a man,
An aged man, hard struggling, stretch'd on earth.
One Dane in act of murder stood! and one
Seized on the cotter's daughter, at whose shriek
He laughs aloud.

Not happier feels the man,
When wandering far o'er hill and lofty down,

The snows descending fast, the driving sleet,
And night approaching, whilst the scene presents
One wilderness all white, one yawning grave;
Not happier feels that man, while pausing sad,
To hear some village clock, from vale beneath,
Sounding the knell of time, that tells the tale
Of neighbouring habitation and of rest,
Than Sigbert felt to see these Danes. His eye,
Fierce-flashing, half unmann'd them. ‘Come,’ he cried,
Murd'rers of Edmund, come! Your might I dare!’
The strife begins. Sigbert's well-temper'd sword
Plays valiantly its part. One Dane he slew!
The other, more infuriate, aim'd the blow,
Death-dealing. Sigbert wards th' assault, and now
Beats him to earth, and stands the conqueror!
‘Monster, lie there!’ he cried, as through his heart,
Furious, he plung'd his sword.

The cottager
Rose slow and trembling, whilst his daughter came,
And, falling on one knee, said nought; her eye
Gazed on the valiant Saxon with a look
Impassion'd, and more eloquent than words—
And all the pomp and pageantry of praise.
When thus the old man spake. ‘I first must thank
‘God, for unlook'd deliv'rance, and then thee.’
‘Aye! Sigbert cried, ‘thank God! The work is his,
‘I am his servant; he it was who screen'd,
‘At such a time as this, my head, and fired—
‘My breast with vengeance unappeasable!
‘Saw'st thou his pleading eyes, yon prostrate Dane,
‘And how I scorn'd them? Joy it yields my heart
‘To think my sword, my caliburno true
‘Is stain'd with Danish blood, and that I thirst
‘Still to go on destroying. Forth declare,
‘Good father! how these Danes assaulted thee,
‘And whence they came.’

The old man sigh'd, and spake.
‘Your task, this hour, O chief, is difficult,
‘And I am sad. The horrible abyss
‘From which I just am rais'd, doth so o'erpower
‘And dim my recollection, that awhile
‘I must look round and think. My daughter, safe;
‘And I, in mine own house; and there the Danes,
‘Prostrate and slain! Now chieftain, who art thou?’
Sigbert replied, ‘I am, good father! one
‘Who travelleth this way on embassy
‘Of no small import. I am Alfred's friend,
‘Sent by our noble monarch, to inquire—
‘Of Glastonbury, seized by savage Danes,
‘And now in ruins. There was one within,
‘His queen, beloved and honour'd. Dost thou know
‘Aught of its dwellers?’

‘Yes,’ the old man said,
‘And what I know is thine. Short season back,
‘The abbot pass'd, and in his arms he bore
‘An infant boy. I asked him whence he came;
‘The Danes, he said, had plunder'd his abode,
‘The place thou namedst; murder'd every soul,
‘All but himself and the young child he bore,’
‘Dost thou say all,’ cried Sigbert, ‘every soul!’
‘Aye, every soul,’ he said, ‘save one alone,
‘The abbot; who through flames, with that young babe
‘Escaped miraculous.’—

‘The man thou nam'st,
‘O father!’ Sigbert cried, ‘I lately found,
‘Murder'd on yonder heath; the infant child,
‘Beneath his cloak, and living: but, tho' strange,
‘That child was Alfred's—Alfred's, our good king;
‘Whom, with his queen Alswitha, in that place,
‘Now burnt and fall'n, deem'd most secure, he left,
‘And sought his distant way.’

The old man cried,

‘What! Alfred's! That his child!’ ‘Yes,’ Sigbert said.
‘And at my monarch's bidding I am bound
‘To seek Alswitha, or obtain some news,
‘Or rumour of her fate. The old man thus:
‘Good warrior, it is vain. The queen is dead:
‘For, when the monk approach'd, and shew'd the babe,
‘I ask'd him, who its parents; that, he said,
‘He knew not. To the abbey gates they came,
‘And begg'd for food and shelter; when the man,
‘(Who by thy words was Alfred,) left them there,
‘And journey'd on alone, he knew not where.
‘If thou the queen art seeking, vain thy search,
‘For oft, and with fresh emphasis, the monk
‘Exclaimed with bitterness, I, only I,
‘And this poor babe, are left.’

The cottager
Then raised his voice and cried, ‘God bless our prince!
‘Oh, what a heavy crown is his; his woes
‘Are deep and manifold; but, that his boy—
‘His infant boy is safe, in truth, my heart,
‘At such a time, not prone to idle joy,
‘Beats high with transport. But, his murder'd queen!
‘Aye, that will try him. God, I trust will yet
‘Have pity on our monarch, loved of all,
‘And give him triumph o'er these Danes, accurs'd,—
‘All demons, in th' imposing shapes of men.’
‘Ah!’ Sigbert cried. ‘Infernal spawn,—out-pour'd
‘From the profoundest reservoirs of hell!’

Thus, of his king, the loyal cottager.
‘In truth, good warrior, not a man who breathes
‘On Saxon soil, who would not, him to serve,
‘Meet death itself.—Thy sword has rescued me,
‘Brave stranger, at an hour most terrible.
‘Forgetful of myself, I turn'd and saw
‘My helpless daughter, the devoted prey,

‘When I was gone—O spare me, warrior! Then,
‘Death had ten thousand terrors!—We must now
‘Leave this abode, though dear to me; the spot
‘Where I first drew my breath, and fondly hoped
‘To spend my few short days in quietness;
‘But I must leave it for some unknown home.
‘Good warrior! not a flower, or shrub, or tree,
‘Around my little dwelling, but my toil
‘First planted. I have mark'd their varied growth,
‘From year to year, and called them with delight,
‘God pardon! my mute children; for they all
‘Were very dear to me. The pear-tree tall,
‘My oft-shorn hedge-row, and the osier gate
‘Made by these hands; the green and level plat;
‘The woodbine climbing up, or, thro' the door,
‘That came, mild visitant! to give its sweets
‘To him who rear'd it; and the martin gay,
‘That round my thatch built ever. Well, in vain
‘These eyes survey the past, the time is come,
‘When I must bid adieu to all I love,
‘A long and last adieu, to scenes so fair!
‘Now, warrior! it is eve, and I will forth
‘Set forward on my journey. I must haste
‘To Cambria's shore, where many friends abide;
‘But chief, a minstrel in the court who dwells;
‘For never will I touch these men, these Danes.
‘Here let them lie! This was the seat of peace,
‘And blood affrights my spirit. 'Tis a sight
‘Arm'd with new terrors. Roving are the Danes
‘In every path, but I will yet attempt,
‘At this still hour, my daughter to conduct
‘To place of safety. Wilt thou, with me flee
‘To Cambria's land? that hospitable shore!
‘I there have faithful friends,’ the old man said,
‘Who will repay thee, aye, with better words,
‘And oftener named, than I; for I am old,

‘For time it takes me to revolve and tell
‘What thanks are due.’

Sigbert replied: ‘Old man!
‘It cheers me well to know that I have saved
‘Thy life, and this thy daughter's. She is young,
‘And many snares are round for innocence.
‘Flee thou to Cambria. Wise is thy resolve,
‘And angels guard thee; but, for me to shun
‘The ills that stalk abroad, and with thee seek
‘Safety in flight, whilst revagers prevail
‘O'er all the land, would bring Heaven's lightnings down.
‘I have survey'd my earthly all a wreck,
‘And vow'd eternal wrath. This heart hath sworn
‘To live but to destroy, to thirst for blood,
‘And hurl the dart of vengeance. I must now
‘To do my master's service; fare ye well!’
‘Stop!’ cried the cottager, ‘We will go forth
‘Together. I am old and many fears
‘Creep thro' me. But our food we first must part.’
And as he sought it, slow the daughter came
From her low seat, and said;

‘Brave Saxon! take
‘My fervent thanks! I have been watching thee,
‘And goodly is thy sight, for thou hast saved
‘My aged father! thou hast rescued me!
‘And, at a time!—Warrior, receive my thanks!
‘And Heaven reward thee, at some trying hour,
‘When hope hath vanish'd; at an hour like that
‘Which we have known.’—Sigbert thus answer made;
‘I am most happy, maiden! God it was
‘Who sent me thy deliv'rer. Trust in him,
‘And he will yet defend thee.’—Whilst he spake,
The old man enter'd. In his arms he bore
Two flagons, and some homely food. He cried,
‘Here, warrior! freely take, for thou may'st go
‘Long ways, and toilsome, ere thou find again

‘Or food or shelter; such has been the dread
‘Of Danish wrath, that all have fled their homes
‘As we are fleeing.’—

Quitting then the house,
Sigbert kind parting took. The cottager
Moved on disconsolate, and the loved child,
His daughter. Clear and tranquil were the heavens;
The moon was luminous, and Sigbert stood,
Unseen, to mark the houseless man turn round,
And view his cottage. Forward now he walk'd,
A little space, then turning look'd again,
As loath to leave it; whilst his daughter saw
And would have wept, but for her aged sire.

Now deepening mists, shrouded the silver moon,
And tempests threaten'd. Sigbert o'er the top
Of a bleak hill moved on, and what the dread
That shook his bosom, when distinct he saw,
On every side, distant, or near at hand,
The furious flames arise, whilst heaven's wide vault
Shone with the sanguine glare. The track of Danes
That hour was manifest!

Now down he came,
And, wandering through a calm and shady vale
Espied a ruin'd Abbey. To the spot
He hastened, and beheld the mouldering walls,
Black with the rust of age, and all within,
Silence and waste; while not a sound was heard,
But the wind moaning, not a form beheld,
Save one that fancy imaged to his mind—
The Spirit of Destruction. She who haunts
The moss-grown temples, and the wild resorts
Of bats and scorpions; where no mortal steps
Make the walls murmur with obtrusive sounds;
But cries and screeches from nocturnal beings
Sound evermore, whilst the whole progeny

Of doleful things, that court rank solitude,
Thrive and make merriment. Upon a pile
She loves to sit, of broken monuments,
And o'er the scene casts an exultant eye;
Smiling to view the massy pillars fallen—
The aged altars—trophies—pedestals;
And where the invulnerable shaft withstands
Her hate and her derision, round she strews
The creeping Ivy, with its living shade
To hide all forms of man.

He pass'd the door,
When, with a sudden shriek, he near him saw
A woman fleeing! Through the porch she rush'd;
Whom Sigbert followed: when she turn'd and cried,
‘Pity the wretched! Art thou one of us?—
‘A Saxon?’ ‘Yes,’ the warrior said, ‘I am;
‘A servant liege of Alfred our good king,
‘Who, God be prais'd, is safe. And who art thou?’
She strove to speak, but her full heart denied
Utt'rance, tho' feeble. Sigbert thus again.
‘Say, woman, dost thou know, or hast thou heard
‘Aught of our queen Alswitha? Tho' I seek
‘To learn some tidings of her, she, I fear,
‘Or rather know it now with certainty,
‘Perish'd when Glastonbury fell. Unknown,
‘Concealing thus her name, she there had fled:
‘And when the Danes o'er that famed place prevail'd,
‘Alfred our king, distracted, heard the news,
‘And, 'mid o'erwhelming care, commissioned me,
‘His servant, to find out her certain fate.
‘Hast thou, O woman! heard of Alfred's queen?’—
The woman answer'd, ‘Thou hast said her name
‘Of all unknown, and yet inquir'st of me
‘For Alfred's queen. Am I a prophetess?
‘Yet, from unlook'd-for quarter, I have heard
‘Some rumour of Alswitha! but no more

‘Ask thou to learn, for I have oft been told
‘Of Alfred, and his laws, and charities,
‘And long to see him. Lead me to the king!
‘To him alone will I my tale disclose.’

The warrior cried ‘This is most hard to bear!
‘Erelong shalt thou behold him. He is now
‘In Selwood's forest; whither with good speed
‘We soon may be.’ When thus the woman spake,
‘I thank thee, stranger! but my frame is weak,
‘I have been fasting long.’ Sigbert exclaim'd,
‘Joy to the friendly cottager! His store
‘Well shall supply thy wants!’—No dainty fare
‘Ever was half so choice, as those hard cates,
‘Sweeten'd by hunger! Sigbert earnest cried,
‘Now for thy tale.’ The woman answer made.
‘Bewildering thoughts oppress me. Pass we on,
‘Silent awhile, and when my mind is free,
‘My tongue shall speak.’—They both together sped,
Hour after hour till morn illumed the east,
Pond'ring in deep solicitude. At length,
Sigbert impatient cried. ‘Thee, I conjure!
‘Declare how cam'st thou here, in this lone place,
‘And what thou know'st of her, whom now I seek;
‘Our queen Alswitha?’ Thus the woman spake.
‘Warrior! no wondrous words are mine. From home,
‘Like countless numbers, I, by Danes am driven—
‘All wretched outcasts; but if more thou seek,
‘Stay till we Alfred meet.’

She scarce had said,
When hastening toward them, they, appall'd, beheld
A host of horsemen, riding furious on,
When Sigbert saw, and knew that they were Danes!
Each would have fled, but on a down they were,
No covert near. The woman, too, beheld,
And, shivering at her heart, ask'd tremblingly,

‘Are those the Danes?’ I hear their furious shouts!’
‘Those are the Danes!’ When, looking upward, both
Stood motionless, and saw their certain end.

It was a Danish army led by one—
The aged Guthrum—terrible and fierce;
When up he came. The woman firm advanced,
And him address'd.

‘O,Dane! behold in me,
‘A wife! a mother! Let me pass unharm'd.’
When thus the chief. ‘That thou a mother art,
‘I little heed, but there is in thy port
‘A something that half awes me. Wherefore thus,
‘Learn'dst thou to speak, and, on destruction's brink
‘Stand calm and fearless? Whither art thou bound?
‘Thy name?’

She answer'd, ‘view in me, O chief!
A wretched being; one whom many cares
‘Have lighted on,—severe and deadly cares,
‘Such and so deep, that one desire alone
‘Now buoys my spirit. Let me go in peace!
‘O chieftain! hast thou never felt a joy,
‘Shoot through thy frame, when, after wandering far,
‘Thou turnest homeward, and hast just descried
‘The smoke, uprising, 'mid the forest trees,
‘That told thy loved abode? Just such delight
‘Rush'd through my heart, before I saw these bands
‘And thee their leader. As thou valuest home,
‘Let me depart, and happiness be thine.’

The Dane look'd down, and seem'd within to feel
Strange tumults, when he cried: ‘Away with thee,
‘Thou subtle pleader! What and whence thou art,
‘I know not! but thy speech doth so inspire
‘With unknown thoughts my mind, that I suspect
‘Thine is some secret charm. Forbear awhile

‘Let me address this Saxon.’—

‘Art thou, too,
‘So smooth of tongue, and with such winning words
‘Arm'd to defeat my fury? Though thou speak'st
‘Soft as the song of Brag it shall not change
‘Guthrum's fix'd purpose. Now, O, man! declare
‘Why Saxons, tho' subdued, with desperate hope,
‘Still strive with Danes for mastery.’

‘Oh chief!’
Sigbert replied, ‘dost thou with settled brow
‘Inquire why we oppose the Danes? why we
‘Fight for our country?—Know! we yet are free,
‘And freedom prize, more than we dread thy wrath.
‘Warrior! thou art a Dane! and I am now,
‘As one that is not, for the Danes ne'er spare:
‘They never hear the pleader Mercy's voice,
‘And feel forgiveness. Take my single life,
‘But, by the blood of thousands now no more;
‘But, by the wrath of thousands gathering round,
‘But, by th' eternal justice, this I swear—
‘Vengeance shall follow thee! Now, fierce of eye,
‘Thou seest thy prey, and each quick breath I draw
‘Sounds like the last: yet, with expiring life,
‘I will speak fearlessly. Dost thou inquire
‘Why we withstand the Danes? We have our homes,
‘Our altars to defend—our children—wives—
‘Our king, the best of kings! whom God will yet
‘Deliver with his red right arm, and hurl
‘On every Dane fierce thunderbolts. Away!
‘Back to thy woods and caverns! Leave our soil
‘That groans beneath thee. Leave our suffering prince,
‘And quit this land, and, o'er the ocean haste,
‘Or, like devouring meteors, swords shall rise,
‘Spontaneous, like a forest beaming bright,
‘And thou shalt gaze on ruin, whose vast flood
‘Shall to destruction sweep the Danish race.’

Wondering at speech so wild, Guthrum replied:
‘Thy tongue doth so o'erleap all modesty,
‘That I, in truth, could smile. Words not a few,
‘And loud withal, drowning the surly wind,
‘Are thy strong mail—thy towers invincible.
‘But didst thou think with ravings such as these
‘To check a Dane triumphant? Saxon, know!
‘I hear a voice within—a well-known voice—
‘The ruler of the Gods. He bids me go
‘From strife to strife, from distant land to land,
‘Disdainful of all dangers. Hear me, man!
‘Though Danish heart I boast, I yet can shun
‘To take so mean a life. Do this, and live!
‘Cast on the ground thine armour; hang thy sword
‘On yonder spray, alike the dread of Danes;
‘Then, hither come, and swear that thou wilt hence
‘Own for thy sovereign, Hubba. Thus escape
‘The wrath that might consume thee.’

Sigbert cried—
‘I throw away my sword! renounce my king
‘And own for my liege sovereign whom thou call'st
‘Hubba! thy lord?—When next with labourings dire,
‘And mortal throe, earth shall again bring forth
‘Such monsters as the Danes, then will I fall
‘Before thy Moloch chieftain, and forget
‘My name and country. What hast thou to grant,
‘Or to withhold, that I should blast my hopes,
‘Deny the best of kings, and stain my tongue
‘With blasphemy, in calling whom I hate,
‘Loathe, execrate—my good and lawful king—
‘The tiger-hearted Hubba? Know, thou Dane!
‘I scorn thy power! I scorn thy legion'd host!
‘I scorn ye all! and, if to death ordain'd,
‘Death shall be sweeten'd with one thought, O, chief!
‘That I have vanquish'd thee.’ His sword he rais'd
And waved it in defiance.

Cried the Dane,
‘Parley is over. By Valhalla's Gods,
‘This sword shall end thee:’ as he drew it forth,
(Bidding his warriors leave him to the fray)
And rush'd to battle.—Fierce the combatants!
Both Sigbert and the Dane. ‘Saxon! thy sword!
‘Thou hast it not! Where art thou now?’—On earth
Prostrate lies Sigbert; over stands the Dane,
And with his pendant weapon, cries, ‘Now, man!
‘How feel'st thou? Where thy life?’ When Sigbert thus
(Fiercer as death drew near) ‘Abhorr'd of heaven
‘Destroy me! Here I lie. My naked breast
‘Courts thee to strike, and, when I cry forbear,
‘Question my hate of thee.’—Guthrum his sword
Uprais'd, and as it fell, the woman rush'd
Eager between, and cried, ‘Withhold thy hand,
‘Slaughter him not! or with him slaughter me!’
Wondering stood Guthrum. Thus again she spake:

‘Pardon me, chieftain! in thy face I see
‘Marks of no common character: there dwells
‘Greatness, but ill directed; valour, truth,
‘That might thy name exalt to highest heaven,
‘And make thee, as thou truly ought'st to be,
‘A friend—a benefactor to thy race.
‘But thou hast wander'd far. Thy mind is dark.
‘Thou trustest in the gods, who, like thyself,
‘Were once of flesh and blood; who roam'd through earth,
‘Destroying and destroy'd. Brave chieftain! know,
‘There is one God alone, one Lord, who sits
‘High in yon starry vault, and with a thought,
‘Alike, thro' heaven and earth, all things directs.
‘His name with awe we speak. He is that God
‘Who call'd us into being, who supports
‘All life—Omnipotent—Sovereign supreme!

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‘He, with His voice of thunder, bids us learn
‘To love each other, and to know, that all,
‘The ruler and the ruled, the rich and poor,
‘The prince and beggar, born in sultry climes,
‘Or where eternal snows all nature hide,
‘His children are. This mighty Lord hath said,
‘Thou shalt not murder! Love thine enemies!
‘And spare the vanquished! then, when life is o'er,
‘To mansions, where yon shining orb abides,
‘With all the brave and merciful, your souls
‘Shall live for ever. Now, O, warrior! check
‘That fierce and deadly wrath, and, dwell with those,
‘High in yon heavens, who suffer'd and forgave.’

The chieftain dropped his sword, and, slow, inquired,
‘Where is my heart? What sudden power is this,
‘Which rushes through my frame, and makes my arm
‘Tremble and hesitate to strike? This arm,
‘that hath its hundreds slain, and combat dared,
‘And furious onset, when the very air
‘Drank blood; such countless wounds, at once, all rais'd
‘Their crimson torrents—I, myself, suspect.’
When turning to his troops, the warrior cried:
‘Am I your chieftain? for this day hath seen
‘My sword draw back from blood!’—

Guthrum look'd up;
He saw the woman nigh, then thus again:
‘Thy words I well could bear, and well despise,
‘O, woman! but a something in thine air—
‘A grace, a majesty, doth make me feel,
‘Altho' a Dane, well arm'd, and as thou seest
‘Surrounded by this host of fearless men,
‘A most strange littleness. I half forget
‘That I am Denmark's chief, and thou a slave!
‘Away ye dastard feelings! I will now
‘To action rise and be myself once more.

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‘Did not this hour a living man defy
‘Guthrum the Dane, and with presumptuous threats
‘Offer him battle? Was it fancy vain,
‘Or, was it thou? (to Sigbert, low, he said;)
‘Thy destiny is seal'd! for I will deal
‘Instant destruction:’ High he rais'd his hand
And as all hearts stood still, waiting the blow—
Sudden he sheath'd his sword, and loud exclaim'd
‘Saxon, receive thy life! for thou art brave,
‘And never shall the brave man meet his death,
‘Disarm'd and prostrate, as I see thee now.
‘That thought hath saved thee. Rise! I spare thy life!
‘Thou shalt become my herald. Bear these words
‘To him, thy master, Alfred, whose high soul
‘Thou well canst imitate. Inform thy king,
‘One certain fate awaits him; tell him I,
‘Guthrum the Danish chief, am journeying on
‘Toward Kenwith, where the trembling Oddune lies,
‘And starves for succour, whilst around the walls
‘Hubba, my prince, encamps. I thither go,
‘To vanquish that proud Saxon, and to dogs
‘His carcass cast; when, by the Gods on high—
‘By Odin, Thor, and Freya and the race
‘Of matchless deities, who throng thy halls,
‘O, Valhall! we will hunt thy monarch out,
‘And if this land contain him, whether hid
‘In glen or cavern, wood or mountain bare,
‘This sword shall find, and these exulting eyes
‘Gaze on his mangled corse. Tell thou thy king,
‘His doom is certain! Let him call and pray
‘To the great God he worships, and behold
‘Whether his might can aid, when Danes, erelong,
‘Approach his hiding-place. His voice may sound,
‘Loud and more loud, but he shall learn how vain
‘Aid to invoke, when Denmark's warriors claim
‘Their fated prey.’

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Sigbert arose and said:
(Still loving life, when death was aught but sure)
‘Chieftain, I thank thee! thou wilt never mourn
‘This generous deed: but I have one request
‘On which yet hangs my breath. Guthrum hath said,
‘Depart!’ ‘But, warrior brave! can I depart
‘And leave this captive? Bid her haste with me,
‘And tho' a foe, I could half worship thee,’

The Dane assum'd a fiercer frown, and cried,
‘Thy life I give thee, but presumptuous man!
‘No more require; or, by the powers above,
‘Here shalt thou lie, a spectacle, to tell
‘What rashness merits. I will hence convey
‘This woman. She shall be my counsellor:
‘Her words, so strong and piercing, have so wrought
‘Upon my mind, that I desire to have
‘Her further converse. She with me shall go
‘And tell me of that God, the Spirit vast,
‘Of whom she spake. His might I may compare
‘With Odin and our gods: and she shall live
‘Contented with my child, yon damsel fair,
‘Who from the filial love that warms her heart,
‘Now follows me her father.’ When there came,
Forward with graceful air, a maid whose look
Spake of benignity. Mildly she said,
‘Stranger, thy friend am I.’ The woman look'd,
Startled, yet not a word she spake, but gave
Gently her hand.

Guthrum again exclaim'd,
‘Move, or for ever stay! but by this sword,
‘No harm shall touch the woman. I have sworn,
‘And never was an oath by Guthrum scorn'd.
‘Haste, satisfied; for she henceforth shall live
‘Pure as her eye is terrible. Away!’—
Bending to earth, the woman thus began:

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‘Oh, warrior! heed my prayer, nor thus oppress
‘A poor weak woman. Didst thou know what calls
‘Sound in mine ear, thou would'st regard my words,
‘And let me harmless pass; for I have one,
‘Far off, a husband, who my absence mourns,
‘And who would die to hear that I was met
‘By thee, O chieftain! and perforce convey'd,
‘Whither he knew not. Pity me, brave chief!
‘And let me call thee blessed.’

Guthrum look'd
Stern, and thus answer made. ‘Thou plead'st in vain!
‘I never change my purpose. Cease thy fears.
‘Thou shalt be cheer'd by her who calls me Sire.
‘My name is Guthrum. Tedious thus to wait.
‘Mount yonder steed! and, at some future time
‘Again thou may'st return, and seek thy home.’
‘To talk of future hopes,’ the woman said,
‘Were vain indeed. I have no future hopes!
‘The bird that for her young, flies many a mile,
‘And, now returns to seek them, when she finds
‘Her treasure gone, her all, her little all,
‘Gone, and no vestige left, feels such as I:
‘For I am homeward bound, and many a thought
‘Made my heart glad, but thou hast marr'd them all,
‘And life is now a blank,—a cheerless void!
‘I am a poor deserted woman, sunk
‘In prostrate misery. If I must go,—
‘For ever leave, one whom my heart adores!—
‘I would submit!’—

Approaching Sigbert now,
Fault'ring she cried, ‘Thou yet art free.
‘One favour do I ask.’ When from her neck
She took a string of pearls, and with a sigh,
The Saxon thus address'd. ‘Stranger, take this.
‘And if in times, or near, or far remote,
‘Thou e'er should'st see, one, who remembers these,

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‘Declare, that she who own'd them, now endures
‘Sorrows and hard captivity; yet, say,
‘She lov'd her husband—mourn'd her infant child—
‘Gone to his fathers! Tell him,’ she declared,
‘If e'er he saw her living, he should find—
‘Her heart still pure; and if, far off, she died,
‘To pity one, who, with her latest breath,
‘Call'd on her husband, and from Heaven implored,
‘Blessings on him and his.’

This having said,
She, on a charger, with the Danish force,
(The child of Guthrum near her, and her friend)
Sped o'er the plain, reluctant, looking back,
Whilst Sigbert, heartless, turn'd to seek the King.

105

BOOK VII.

ARGUMENT.

ALFRED meets an Army of Saxons, fleeing into Wales from Ivar; he persuades them to accompany him to Selwood Forest; meets his troops; sends heralds to arouse his Subjects.

Slow from the cottage door of Ethelney,
Languid at heart, tho' fix'd in his resolve,
The king departed, whilst his fancy pored
On Oddune, close confined, and haply forced
To war with famine: who, both night and morn,
Perchance from watch-tower top, gazed earnestly
To hail approaching succour. Alfred too
Dwelt on Alswitha's fate—that harrowing thought,
The inmate of his mind, that evermore,
When other sorrows came, an entrance gave,
Yet not possession. As he Selwood sought,
In bitterness of spirit, thus he cried.

‘Oh, what the cares of him who wears a crown,
‘And feels its heavy charge! What are his woes,
‘The prince, who knows his duties, and revolves
‘At noon, and night—at eve and early morn,
‘What best may serve his subjects, but perceives
‘Crosses and endless barriers throng his way.

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‘Ruler of Heaven! Almighty Sire! O, grant
‘Thy guidance and protection; Thy support,
‘In this last struggle for my country's cause!’

Whilst musing thus, with wonder he beheld
A host of strangers. Nearer now they come:
They knew their monarch by the port he bore;
When, with one general shout, aloud they cry,
‘Our King! Our King! Long live our glorious King!’
Alfred, advancing, thus the band address'd:
‘Friends, and brave subjects, cheering is your sight
‘At this lone hour. But, wherefore on your march?
‘And whither bound?’ Their leader thus replied:
‘O, king, we bear sad tidings! there are now,
‘Just landed on thy shores, a host of Danes,
‘Greater than eye hath witness'd and their chief,
‘Ivar the fierce. The company thou seest
‘Are bound to Cambria, for on English soil
‘Thro' Danes, the scourge, the wasters of all lands,
‘Safety is far away.’

Alfred replied,
Indignant at his subjects' cowardice,
‘Men! with your king return, and scorn to flee.
‘Who dares invade our soil!’ When one replied:
‘We must at such a time resist e'en thee.
‘Death hovers round. Our welfare is in flight,
‘And we have vow'd, all that before thee stand,
‘To seek in other climes, that safe retreat
‘Thy kingdom cannot yield.’

Alfred arous'd
From transient slumber, now was hastening fast
To meet his subjects: poring with delight
On future contests, courage bravely tried,
And many a deed, magnanimous, that led
To certain triumph; but when he beheld,
In those he met, the ignoble soul, that shrank

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From glorious enterprize, he felt his heart
Sink with such killing damp, as he endures
Who, journeying o'er some rude and barren waste,
Perchance Helsingia, or those desert hills
Tydal or Doffrin, where the whirlwind roars,
Eternal, whilst the eddying snows drift round,
And tempests rave,—sounding their ceaseless war;—
As he endures, while toiling o'er these scenes
Of dread magnificence, and in the joys
Of home partaking, when he sees, aghast,
The bridge, that o'er the boisterous torrent hung,
From clift to clift, borne from its giddy height,
And the loud bellowing tide impassable.

After a moment's pause, Alfred replied:
‘Before you go, I know that you will hear,
‘Patient, your monarch.’ Round they all approach,
When thus he spake:

‘Subjects! tho' absent long
‘I have been planning for you, and am now
‘Returning in your cause. The adverse hour
‘We all have known, yet, let us not despair,
‘And we shall conquer. Think how Saxons met
‘In former times, the Caledonian host,
‘Fierce from their snowy mountains! Think again,
‘How we, undaunted, faced that daring man—
‘Rollo the Norman, when upon our coast
‘His navy rode, and less than Saxon heart
‘(Such was his might) had awed, but, in our strength,
‘We dared him, and the robber chieftain fled
‘To ravage weaker climes. So shall the foe,
‘That now assaults us, flee. Before the wrath
‘Of injured Saxons, weak the hostile spear,
‘And weak the hand that guides it. Ills may rise,
‘Many, and threaten to destroy our race,
‘The very name of Saxon, but, the day,

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‘The glorious day of triumph hastens fast.
‘There is a point in human wretchedness
‘Beyond whose bound, the wretched cannot feel,
‘And nothing here is lasting. We have felt,
‘Each that before me stands, that prostrate state,
‘That absence of all hope, and we may now
‘Look on to happier times. Cheer up, brave men!
‘The king whom you have served, and by whose side
‘Met the fierce fight undaunted, now demands
‘Your further aid, and shall he plead in vain?
‘In desp'rate hour like this, will you forsake
‘Me, your liege Prince? Seek ignominious flight?
‘Have I thus fought and suffered, now to hear
‘The voice of disobedience?—now to find
‘A coward's heart in Saxon? am I doom'd
‘To reign, but not to rule, and at this time,
‘Behold you shun the conflict, when the foe
‘Spreads rapine o'er our land? It cannot be!
‘Some Fiend hath spread the calumny; the sound
‘Came from the air, for never Saxon tongue
‘Dealt in such words.—

‘My subjects! I have long
‘Endured a weighty burden, I have lived,
‘Goaded with cares, which filled my mind by day,
‘And, when night came, assumed a character
‘Ten-fold more fearful. What have I sustain'd
‘These ills for?—to support a crazy crown?
‘For what have I defied the elements,
‘And bared my head, and 'mid the hottest strife,
‘Mix'd undismay'd?—to guard the name of King?
‘Thou know'st, O heart! that now art beating high,
‘Thou know'st it was not! These my feet have toil'd
‘This mind hath ponder'd, and this head endured
‘Life's crushing cares for nobler purposes!—
‘Whom have you dared the fight for? for your king?
‘To save yourselves? or, hurl destruction's brand

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‘Fierce on the Danes? No! nobler views were yours.
‘You fought for liberty. You fought to save
‘All that is dear in life—your peaceful homes
‘Your helpless sires, your wives, your innocents!
‘And, not for these alone, but, distant heirs—
‘For generations yet unborn, the race
‘Of future Saxons, down to farthest time;
‘Who, oft as they shall hear what we endured
‘To guard their rights, the precious blood we shed
‘To make their lives secure, and bid the form
‘Of holy Freedom rise engirt with flowers
‘Of amaranthine hue, shall look to Heaven,
‘And with no common fervour bless the names
‘Of us their great forefathers, who for them,
‘Endured, but triumph'd—suffered, but obtain'd.—
‘Now boldly I advance to meet the foe;
‘And you whose souls shrink with the coward's fear,
‘Turn not to me! Haste to your safe retreat,
‘And joy, if joy you can, when far away,
‘To think of those who suffer'd from your flight,
‘To think for what your brethren fought and died.’
Alfred his sword unsheath'd, the scabbard cast
Far in the air, and singly marched along.
All follow'd, shouting, ‘Death or Victory!’

‘Alfred beheld and cried, ‘Ye gallant host,
‘Receive my praises. Now again I see
‘My former subjects; now th' inspiring hope
‘Of triumph and prosperity makes glad,
‘The heart, once sinking; now the time draws near
‘When Saxons, long estranged from happiness,
‘May forward look and smile. Your country's hope,
‘To Selwood's forest near I lead you on.
‘Yet, first approach, who dar'd resist my will,
‘And talk'd of flight rather than victory.’
Trembling, the man drew near; when thus the king.

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‘Coward! be this thy punishment. Away!
‘Flee thou to Cambria. By thyself depart,
‘And we will fight thy battles. We will screen
‘Thy children from the fury of the Danes.’

The man replied, ‘Pardon an erring mind.
‘'Till these thy words I knew not the full cause
‘For which we combat. Now I see aright.
‘My heart is true, and if I do not hence
‘Fight manfully, and due atonement make
‘For past offence—let my sons curse their sire.’
Alfred replied: ‘Saxon my wrath is past!
‘Th' Almighty asks no more, and why should man.
‘Thou art my friend.’ This having said, they all,
Sought the near forest Selwood.

Braver men
Ne'er combated misfortune, than who dwelt
Embower'd there. When first they heard their king
Cry, ‘March to Selwood. Thither shall ye find
‘Hope and your prince together;’ on they march'd,
And in their monarch's ills forgot their own.
They there a fortress rear'd entrench'd and strong,
And peace was with them. Round a little hill
They pitch'd their tents, with trees all cover'd o'er,
The growth of ages, 'mid whose spreading limbs
Of beech, and oak, and elm, the castle rose,
Cheering each Saxon's heart.—

And when the hour,
The silent hour of sunset, deep'ning slow,
Made grey the forest, on the roots of trees,
Or stones, or mosses, many a mournful group
Sat with fix'd brow, and told some direful tale
Of Danish cruelty, hair-breadth escapes,
Or, filled with sorrow, mourn'd their fallen friends.

'Twas on a tranquil eve when thus they sat,

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Communing. In her glory the fair moon
Shone over head. The breeze of night was still,
And quietness, unbroken quietness,
Mark'd all around; save where the bittern's voice
Came from far distance, making yet more plain
The silence universal. When one spake:—
‘Dread apprehensions fill my mind. I feel
‘Fears, searching—for our wise and noble king.
‘In wretched state he left us. Sad his heart;
‘And in the depth of hard disquietude
‘He bade us all farewell. Such wrongs are his,
‘That, how his brain may suffer, we may hope,
‘But cannot say. I mark'd his last address;
‘He seem'd bewilder'd. Never shall I more
‘Our king behold! his road was perilous,
‘And some avenging Dane, or Melancholy,
‘Or Frenzy wild, hath on him seiz'd, and then
‘Where is the hope of Britons? Here we are,
‘Eating our pittance, but at length ordain'd
‘To death or abject servitude.’ No tongue
Answered the warrior, and, as mute they sat,
A noise is heard! Each upward sprang and cried,
‘To arms! The enemy!’

Scarce had they said,
When each appear'd, clad in his war array.
Spies are appointed. Now the fearful noise
Draws nearer, and more loud and terrible
It sounded in their ears. The chieftains still
Ponder how best to act, when one exclaim'd,
‘The trying hour is come. I know yon voice.
‘It is the shout of Danes! Some traitorous tongue
‘Hath told them our retreat, and they are now
‘Hastening to meet us. We have lost our king,
‘But not our courage.’ All, their swords displayed,
And clash'd their shields, and felt the fixed resolve
To die or triumph. Wistfully they look'd,

112

Each silent, when they saw the spies approach.
They cry, ‘The king! He comes, our monarch comes!’
Forth with wild ecstasy they rush, while now
The springs of hope burst forth, and shouts arise,
Startling the tranquil sky.

Alfred his friends,
Well-known, beheld. He sees their glistening eyes
Speak clear of exultation. Glad at heart,
He would have greeted each, embraced them all,
But all had equal claims, and where to turn
He knew not, pond'ring still. So feels the man
Who after wearying toil, has reach'd at length
Some lofty summit, from whose brow, his eye
Roams o'er the space below; tho' charm'd with all,
Yet gazing idly; doubtful where to fix
His ravish'd sight, on distant hill, or mead,
Or woody vale, or foaming cataract,—
Like some huge serpent, with its glittering scales,
Coiling o'er crags, or with its line of light
Streaking the mount,—as sleeping in its joy;
So still it seems, by distance sooth'd to rest.
Alfred prepared to speak, but still the shouts—
‘Long live our king!’ drown'd each inferior sound;
When on he pass'd, surrounded by a host
Of loud-rejoicing subjects. Now the king
Approach'd the citadel, and, from the bank,
High heap'd, that belted it, addressed his troops.

‘Saxons and friends beloved! you thus to meet,
‘After short absence, in some common time,
‘Would waken pleasure, but to see you now
‘With hearts your own, unconquer'd, and prepared
‘Once more to serve your country,—warms my breast
‘With exultation, such as clothes in shade
‘Past sorrows, now retiring like a dream.
‘Yet memory checks the ardour of my speech.

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‘When last we parted, many a heavy care
‘Press'd on my heart, but since that cheerless hour,
‘My woes have doubled. She whom I adored,—
‘Your queen—Alswitha, now, no longer lives!
‘The Danes have murder'd her!’

The rising wind,
That at that instant swept across the trees—
Their topmost branches spreading more and more,
Till every limb, both far and near, obey'd
The general impulse, seem'd to imitate
The murmur that at first around the king
Rose in slow-moving sounds, then spread itself,
Till every Saxon heard the doleful news.

Alfred again: ‘If ever man endured
‘Perplexities and sore disquietude,
‘That man am I! I, for Alswitha feel,
‘For you, my friends, your children yet unborn.
‘Hence, learn of me your monarch.—Late, I saw
‘The hopeless prospect, and despair endured,
‘Palsying the heart! but now, when deeper wrongs
‘Have press'd me down, my soul, elastic, spurns
‘Its feeble trammels, and to action calls
‘Its firm and latent powers. A little grief
‘Hearts may o'erwhelm, when ills of bolder sort
‘Meet due resistance—such has been my lot.
‘This is my resolution. I am come
‘To dare again the war; to claim once more,
‘Warriors! your final efforts; to arouse
‘Each Saxon, and inspire his heart anew.
‘What tho' the base Northumbrian shun the fight,
‘And Mercia in this dark extremity,
‘Withhold her promised succour, let our hearts
‘Glow with intenser zeal. Let Wessex' sons
‘Shine greatest in misfortune. Let us rise,
‘And bid distrust, stand off! despair, avaunt!

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‘And learn that courage, arm'd in freedom's cause,
‘No barrier knows.—Think, oh ye list'ning host!
‘How many injur'd spirits round us throng,
‘And urge us to the fight! how many tongues
‘Of children and of mothers, wives and friends,
‘Plead at the throne of justice for our cause,
‘And us, their brave defenders! Think again
‘Of future generations, who shall feel
‘The blaze of liberty, or eat the bread
‘Of anguish and subjection.’—Louder yet,
Sounded through all the air, the general shout,
‘Long live our monarch! Death or victory!’
When thus again the king;

‘I know too well
‘What Saxon heart is made of, to suspect
‘Your resolution, bold and gallant men!
‘Yet, know that courage, courage good and true,
‘Thinks deep, and, from a view dispassionate,
‘Looks well around; in silence calculates
‘Each possibility; then calmly plans—
‘What best may lead to a triumphant end.
‘This you have done, and heaven will prosper you.—
‘Disastrous news prevails! Ivar the Dane
‘On Saxon soil hath landed, with new hordes
‘Bent on our utter ruin. Undismay'd
‘I heard the tidings. It inflamed my heart
‘With more determin'd zeal, and from mine eyes
‘Tore the thick film. I then beheld this truth,—
‘Most clear,—that nothing now could Britain save
‘But her own innate courage, with the smiles
‘Of him who smiles on courage, when the cause
‘Like ours is just.—Soon as to-morrow's sun
‘Illumes the east, a chosen band shall speed
‘Throughout our towns and villages, to call
‘All men to arms, in whom there still survives
‘One latent spark of love to home, or friends,

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‘Country, or king:—to tell them with a voice—
‘Oracular, that if they now should fail
‘To join our standard, and let cowardice
‘Unnerve their spirits, hope itself is fled,
‘And we must hence crouch at the conqueror's car!

‘Not so,’—full many a warrior round exclaim'd,
‘Nor at to-morrow's dawn will we depart
‘To rouse thy people, we will, undismay'd,
‘This instant leave thee. Yonder silver orb
‘Shall light our steps, and many a gallant man
‘Soon crowd around thy standard.’

Forth they speed—
To range thro' Wessex, calling all to arms.

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BOOK VIII.

ARGUMENT.

Alfred's interview with a Hermit—Sigbert returns—His narration.

Ere yet the east told of approaching morn,
Alfred arose, disturb'd with many a care.
He knew the wrath of Ivar, and the deeds
His hand might do, ere Saxon stemm'd his course.
He thought upon Alswitha. Stillness mark'd
The scene around him, when he left the fort,
And wandered through the forest, till he came
To a green plat, o'ercanopied with trees,
Whose thick umbrageous limbs half hid the light,
Unfolding slow. ‘This,’ said the troubled king,
‘Shall be my altar.’ When he pour'd the prayer.

‘Maker of all around! of heaven and earth!
‘Altho' th' angelic host may not endure
‘Thy majesty, each suppliant thou wilt hear
‘Who with a contrite heart approacheth thee.
‘In this last struggle for my country's rights,
‘Grant me success’ But as thine eye, beneath
‘Futurity's dark veil, pierces and sees

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‘The end from the beginning, Thou alone
‘Know'st what is best, and let thy will be done!
‘Thou art my only trust. I hasten now
‘To raise the sword, and may I never raise
‘That scourge of human kind, but in the cause
‘Of life and liberty, when I can ask,
‘As I this moment do, Thy blessing on it.
‘And if hereafter, in some happier time,
‘These gathering tempests over, Thou should'st fix
‘My throne in steadfastness—may royalty
‘Change not my heart, my gratitude to Thee,
‘Nor blind my mind to truth. May life appear
‘What now it does, a shadow, a brief tale,
‘The dream of morn, a fleeting summer cloud,
‘Fair to behold, but whose stability
‘Changes beneath the sight. May I aspire
‘E'en then, to serve my Maker, to promote
‘That cause transcendent, which to fallen man
‘Breathes solace to the spirit, whisp'ring peace,
‘Thro' the Great Sacrifice of Calvary!—
‘Our joy in life, our only hope in death!
‘If call'd, erelong, to wear the diadem
‘In peace and quietness, O, grant thine aid!
‘Be mine the great example! May I learn—
‘To love my subjects—love my fellow-kind—
‘To do all good, and know that I was made,
‘Not for parade and ornament, a king,
‘But to advance all virtues, so shall years
‘Far distant bless me, and thy smiles at last
‘Crown this my mortal life.’

The king now roam'd
Far through the tangled trees; for images,
Succeeding fast, had with their rapid speed
So fill'd his mind, that he had wander'd on
To the far distant portion of the wood,
Unknowing, when he stopp'd, and, looking round,

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Beheld a man, who in the vale of years—
Far on had travelled. A long beard he had;
A garment loose about his shoulders hung,
And in his hand, feebly he held a staff.
A look more free from all created care
No eye had seen.

Alfred drew near and said,
‘Pardon me, father! whither art thou bound,
‘Thus early? ‘Son,’ the old man cried, ‘thy words
‘Come from an honest tongue, tho' my dim sight
‘But half perceives thee. Whither art thou bound?
‘For this lone track along the forest's verge
‘My feet have worn, and I have seldom seen
‘The welcome stranger. May I ask the cause
‘Of thine appearance, at this early hour,
‘When the first beam scarce glimmers in the sky?’
Alfred replied: ‘Good father, I am one
‘Whose heart is sad, and I have hither stray'd,
‘To ease perchance the melancholy pang
‘That goads my bosom. May I now inquire
‘Who thou art, with a countenance so mild,
‘And so commanding in a place like this?’

The old man answered, ‘I a hermit am,
‘Whose path this is at night and early morn,
‘When birds in concert sing, and I can feel
‘That there is life abroad, tho' in my heart
‘I feel it for another; for I now
‘Creep where I once have bounded, and shall soon
‘Cease e'en to creep, for old age comes apace,
‘And I with this good staff move feebly, yet
‘I dread it not, for in my early days
‘I walk'd with wisdom.’ ‘Father,’ Alfred cried,
‘It is a goodly thing to walk, like thee,
‘With wisdom, but to know what wisdom is,
‘Sometimes is hard. What guide is thine, old man?

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The hermit answered, ‘Son, I love to hear
‘Such questions asked, for to inquire the way
‘That leads to truth, in this our erring world,
‘Shews a right spirit. Son my guide was this—
‘The Word of God, which understood and felt,
‘Both in the head and in the heart, promotes
‘That quiet contemplation of all round,
‘Wisdom loves best—that first of earthly gifts—
‘A peaceful conscience. I have oft sustain'd
‘Sore troubles, and endured such cares, as seem'd
‘Too hard for man; but, I o'ercame them all
‘By faith in Heaven; and here at length I am,
‘Still hoping, not forgotten, and about
‘To change my earthly dwelling, I would hope
‘For an inheritance beyond the skies.’

‘Father!’ the king replied, ‘no common words
‘Seem thine, and, of experience, thou hast gain'd
‘By deep researches, and communing oft
‘With heavenly influence, I would fain partake.’
The hermit thus. ‘Thy wish, I willing grant,
‘And may my humble words hereafter rise,
‘In some still moment, and bestow on thee
‘A portion of that joy which I have felt,
‘From the same recollection.—This the sum
‘Of fourscore years, and this the best advice
‘An aged man can give.—A prize is thine,
‘Known chiefly by its want, for thou hast youth
‘And health before thee, let it not pass by,
‘Unwelcom'd, unimproved. I tell thee, son!
‘This is true wisdom; God, to love and serve,—
‘In the one way, alone acceptable,—
‘By faith in him who died that we might live!—
‘There is a secret energy in faith. Its power
‘Gives strength to feebleness:—the natural man,
‘Though humble in the scale of intellect,

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‘It lifts beyond his level. It confers
‘A character of dignity;—a rank
‘Felt by the loftiest;—'bove all contumely.
‘Its countenance—great in humility,
‘Presents credentials of its higher birth;—
‘Springing from truth, integrity,—a mind
‘Whose principles are drawn exclusively
‘From Heaven's pure law.

‘An elevation this
‘Steadfast,—amid the perishable things
‘That sway earth's vassals. Still let infidels,
‘Scoffers and tainted spirits, phantoms chase,
‘Worship their idols, and, in enmity,
‘Heap loud reproach on wisdom's votaries,—
‘Their triumph will be brief. This truth is stamp'd
‘Indelible, in the celestial archives.—None!—
‘None but the pure in heart to Heaven ascend.
‘Subjects of Faith, the friends of Calvary.
‘These are the truly great, who will be found
‘Acquitted, welcomed to the seraph throng,
‘In that dread moment, when the sons of men—
‘The small, the mighty,—all alike to Him,—
‘Who tries the heart and reins, shall hear their doom!
‘The meanest in the family of faith,
‘Renew'd and sanctified, God will confess,
‘And honour, when earth's pomp and pageantry—
‘Scroll-like, have pass'd away.

‘Let the vain world
‘Erect their Babels!—nobler hopes be thine!—
‘Reaching beyond earth's low solicitudes.—
‘The sovereign ruler own, and supplicate:
‘His favour seek;—his guidance, not thine own—
‘Confide in, and tho' rough the road be found,
‘The end will well repay thee, and become
‘Prelude to peace on earth, and bliss in Heaven.
‘That vast profound,—unfathomably deep!

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‘The human mind—the spark of Deity,
‘On purity, alone, can rest itself—
‘Contented, conscious of its origin,
‘Which mocks the lofty things that man calls great,
‘Soaring above them. Where is he, whose heart,
‘Blest with created good, can calmly say,
‘I ask no more?’ Can wealth or honors yield
‘Abiding happiness? Can splendour soothe
‘The craving appetite that asks for bread
‘Earth never granted? Can the scepter'd King,
‘Stretch'd on the couch of state, whose anxious brow
‘Laurels entwine, while all soft melodies
‘Glide through the air—can he this blessing boast?
‘Can these low objects fill th' immortal mind,—
‘E'en bless'd with health? But when the Foe draws near,
‘So fast approaching!—with his Sable Train,
‘Langour, Disease, and Death, earth's proudest gifts
‘Will vanish, lost in littleness and night!’

The hermit thus continued. ‘Hear me, son!
‘If the long catalogue of earthly joys
‘Fail to support the breast, which toils beneath
‘Their proudest blessings, and endures them all
‘Rather than owns their worth; what is there here,
‘Wisdom may covet, and the deathless mind
‘Esteem its greatest good?—Virtue alone!
‘The offspring of Religion.—Love to man—
‘To God, and, Faith in His Adored Son.
‘This is the pearl of price unspeakable!
‘Let those declare th' extent of earthly power
‘To stay the mind, whose restless hearts have sought
‘Tranquillity in all created things,
‘But found it not: tho' disappointed, still
‘Grasping at shadows, vainly seeking rest,
‘Yet, like the troubled ocean, to and fro
‘Toss'd by perpetual storms; striving to fill

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‘That aching void within, which baffles them,—
‘Whate'er their boast of potent antidotes,
‘Till they have tasted of the Word of Life,
‘And learn'd to say, (My Father, and My God!)
‘Then shall the hour, that calls them hence, be peace.
‘A very bitter thing it is, to view
‘In Death an enemy, to feel disease,
‘Incurable, advancing, or old age
‘Creep on, and find no consolations kind,
‘Smooth the rough way, when at life's precipice!
‘Mind not thy cares, if cares thou hast, young man!
‘They are the lot of mortals, and approach
‘Not of themselves, but are the ministers
‘Of Him who loves His creatures, and appoints
‘These his best means to do them benefit;
‘Yet, one thing heed! Grieve not that God, who made
‘Man in His image, and appointed him,
‘But for his own perverseness, to possess,
‘In Heaven above, 'mid saints and seraphim
‘Pure and eternal joys. This ever fear!
‘For there shall come a time, to him who sins
‘Against the light within him, when his heart
‘Shall loath all good, and with abhorrence view
‘The flower he may not touch, which to his mind
‘Brings hateful recollections.—Once again,
‘As I may never more behold thy face,
‘In this uncertain, shadowy, fleeting state,
‘Let me, my son! conjure thee, to esteem,
‘'Bove all created things, that Precious Book!
‘That anchor of all hope! that Treasury
‘Of holy knowledge, which, in boundless love,
‘God hath bestow'd on man. There, mortals hear
‘Of a diviner heritage; a land
‘Where Patriarchs and Prophets now enjoy,
‘With all th' assembled Worth of years pass'd by,
‘Felicities supreme,—e'en in that world

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‘Where dwells alone, 'mid the vast Universe,
‘Pure Righteousness—the brightest Gem of Heaven!’

Thus Alfred, with unwonted earnestness.
‘Father! I fain would know the precious source
‘Whence this thy wisdom flows; the avenue
‘Thro' which thy mind possess'd, thy heart acquired,
‘This fund and plenitude of Sacred Truths.’
The Hermit answer'd thus.

‘Stranger! two springs
‘Have pour'd their healing waters on my soul.
‘First, portions of the Sacred Oracles,
‘To my own tongue transferr'd, by Wessex' King,
‘Alfred, whom God preserve! A treasure this,
‘Conferr'd on me, and thousands, which will shower
‘Blessings and benedictions on his head—
‘From age to age,—yea, through Eternity!
‘Next, and not least,—the teachings of God's Spirit,
‘(Without whose aid all human help were vain)
‘So freely given, to all who supplicate
‘In the prevailing name of Him, whose blood,
‘For guilty man, once flow'd upon the Cross.
‘If e'er I Alfred meet, (presumptuous thought!)
‘How would I urge, intreat, conjure, implore,
‘That he would perfect,—give, munificent,
‘To Saxons, hungering for the Bread of Life,
‘The Scriptures, in their full and amplest form.
‘His fragments come like nectar to the soul!
‘What then must be the whole?—the Government
‘Of twice two-thousand years of God to man,—
‘His dealings, warnings, revelations, laws,
‘All given to fit a People for the skies?
‘Stranger, these Scriptures are the balm of woe.
‘Drink of their words; bind them about thy heart;
‘Make them thy daily thought, thy nightly prayer!
‘They open, when this transient life shall end,

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‘Rich and stupendous views, such as o'erwhelm,
‘(When for a moment earthly things retire)
‘The soul with ecstasy. They cast a beam,
‘Cheering, o'er death's dark vale, and with their hopes,
‘Stable as Heaven, 'mid prospects infinite,
‘Conquer the Mighty Conqueror of mankind!
‘Whilst reading of that glorious company
‘Who shout Hosannas to their Lord, my heart
‘Glows as I read, for there I hope to dwell!
‘(Th' imperfect left behind) to meet again
‘Each friend departed, destin'd there to form
‘Superior friendships, and mature those flowers
‘Which budded here below. Oh, joyous thought!
‘The Weeping, and the Wept, how soon to meet,
‘(A point between) never to part again!
‘There, in the regions of beatitude,
‘Our souls shall welcome countless spirits pure,
‘Lights of past ages, thro' th' eternal year,
‘To bask in light and love. T'indulge the thought
‘That I, erelong, shall taste this happiness,
‘Thro' Him who is the Way, the Truth, the Life,
‘Makes me o'er Earth's wide wilderness pass on,
‘Regardless of its thorns, remembering well,
‘When these low, momentary pangs are o'er,
‘I have a better rest.—There, may we meet,
‘When time shall be no more!’

Alfred thus spake.
‘The King, whose toils thou praisest, may he yet,—
‘Should favouring hour arrive, his work renew;
‘And, thro' the land, the heralds of Glad Tidings,—
‘The Scriptures, circulate, till every house
‘(If will could work a miracle so great)
‘Possess'd it, from the Cottage to the Throne.
‘Now father, fare thee well. Thy precepts rare
‘My spirit warm. They sink into my heart;
‘And on them I shall ponder fervently,

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‘When far away. There are important calls
‘Which need my service, but again I trust
‘To see and hear thee. Father, now farewell!’
‘Farewell, my son!’ the Hermit said, when both
Turn'd, with a mutual prayer, to seek their homes.

The King now hastens to the distant fort,
More confident and calm. He saw the gate,
And entering in, beheld each warrior's eye
Glisten with rapture; but a settled gloom
Mark'd his contemplant brow, or if he smiled,
His features quick return'd to their first state;
Like the tall reed upon the mountain top,
Which when the breeze sweeps over it, reclines,
To mount again. He thought of Sigbert now,
And his long absence. Every secret hope,
That yet Alswitha lived, forsook his heart;
And he was sad and silent! When a noise
Came from without, and as he rais'd his eye,
Sigbert, to his astonishment, appear'd!

‘I need not ask the news,’ the King exclaim'd,
‘I see thy face! but, heaven endue my mind
‘With strength to bear its burden. Speak thou on!
‘And tell thy tale howe'er calamitous.’
Sigbert replied, ‘Oh, best of kings, I bring
‘Poor tidings for thee. Would that I were dead,
‘For to behold thy countenance, to me,
‘Is worse than death.’—

Alfred look'd up and said;
‘Thou dost mistake me, Sigbert! I can bear
‘All that thou hast to say. Now let me know
‘The worst! for, not to know, might try indeed
‘My resolution.’ Sigbert spake; ‘O. king,
‘Pardon my failure! little have I learn'd
‘Of thy good queen, Alswitha!’ ‘Hast thou heard

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Aught of her?’ cried the king. Sigbert replied,
‘Something I have obtain'd. Astonish'd hear!
‘I have been made a pris'ner! I have met,
‘Guthrum, the Danish chief, and but escaped
‘To bear a threat to thee!’—Alfred replied,
Eager, uprising, ‘Dost thou mock thy king?
‘But if thy mind be serious, tell thy tale!
‘And tho' I speak to thee, answer me not
‘'Till thou hast ended.’

Sigbert thus began:
‘Leaving the grove where late I saw my king,
‘Full many an hour I wander'd, and a man
‘Met not these eyes, save one poor cottager,
‘His home forsaking, from the Danes, who spread
‘Terrors around! Now night was drawing near,
‘And in the dim horizon, I could see
‘Surrounding fires—the Foe! whose brands destroy'd
‘Thy subjects' habitations. Thro' my frame,
‘Crept horror, and descending from a hill,
‘Where the fierce north-wind blew, I saw a pile,
‘What once had been an abbey; now o'ergrown
‘With moss and ivy. To the spot I hied
‘For nightly shelter. As I enter'd in,
‘I heard a voice, and looking round, beheld,
‘A woman, fleeing! Fast I followed her,
‘And bade her answer, if she aught had heard,
‘Whether for life or death, of one, unknown,
‘A female, who, when Glastonbury fell,
‘There sojourn'd;—with no pompous servitude,
‘Yet Alfred's queen. I told her, by thy grace,
‘I now inquired her fate.—The woman look'd—
‘Wild, and o'erpower'd with something at her heart;
‘When thus she cried: Good warrior, I have heard
‘A rumour that Alswitha lives, but more
‘Ask not to know. Forth, lead me to the king!
‘To him alone will I my tale declare.

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‘Pleased with the dawn of hope, I eager cried,
‘Haste thou with me. Erelong shalt thou behold
‘Alfred our monarch. As we journey'd on
‘To seek thee here—Oh, miserable man!
‘We met the Danes! an army, led by one,
‘Old, but most fierce to look on, Guthrum named,
‘And soon the host drew near. Needless to tell
‘All that was talk'd and threaten'd, 'tis enough
‘To say that like a Saxon, undismay'd,
‘I saw my fate, deem'd sure, and that I then
‘Pleaded my master's cause. Full plain he saw
‘I fear'd him not, and when he drew his sword
‘To slay me, something check'd his hand; he cried,
‘Rise prostrate Saxon! I will spare thy life—
‘Convey this message to thy haughty king.’

What were his words?’ Alfred exclaim'd, ‘Tell each!’
‘If thou would'st hear indeed his very words,’
Sigbert replied, ‘this was his lofty taunt:—
‘Saxon, inform thy king, where'er he be,
‘One certain fate awaits him. Tell him I,
‘Guthrum the Danish chief, am hastening now
‘Toward Kenwith, where the trembling Oddune lies,
‘And starves for succour; whilst around the walls,
‘Hubba, my prince, encamps. I thither go
‘To vanquish that proud Saxon, and to dogs
‘His carcass cast, when, by the Gods on high,
‘By Odin, Thor, and Freya, and the race
‘Of matchless deities, who throng thy halls,
‘O, Valhall! we will hunt thy monarch out,
‘And if this land contain him, whether hid
‘In glen or cavern, wood or mountain bare,
‘These swords shall find, and these exultant eyes
‘Gaze on his mangled corse.’

Alfred replied,
‘My God hath given the stars their course, and fix'd

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‘The bounds of ocean, when he raves, and dares
‘All but Omnipotence, and that same God
‘Will, to my bitter foes, the Danes, appoint
‘A bound impassable! They shall not rule!
‘They shall not Oddune slay! They shall not yet,
‘Spoil to the uttermost this goodly land,
‘For there is one in Heaven!—Now, tell thy tale!’

Sigbert again: ‘I thank'd the Dane and said,
‘But let this woman bear me company.
‘Thus he replied, with an indignant frown,
‘Thy life I give thee, but, presumptuous man!
‘No more require, or by the powers above,
‘Here shalt thou lie, a spectacle, to tell
‘What rashness merits.’ Madness had it been
‘For Sigbert to contend; so with the Dane
‘The woman journey'd.’

With distraction wild
Alfred exclaim'd—‘Doth my Alswitha live?
‘Oh no! Delusive thought! Can it be true?—
‘This hard uncertainty, these doubts and fears,
‘Alternate jarring, so consume my heart,
‘That it were merciful to know indeed
‘That she were dead! yet, any thing with life!
‘Art thou still living?—She is gone, who knew
‘Tidings of her I honour!’ Alfred now
Stood motionless, when Sigbert thus again.

‘One thing had near escaped me; ere she pass'd,
‘From her fair neck she took these pearls, and said,
‘With faltering voice, ‘If in hereafter times
‘Thou e'er should'st see, one who remembers these,
‘Declare, that she who own'd them, now endures
‘The hard captivity.’ When Sigbert placed
The pearls before his monarch. At the sight,
Sudden he starts! and feeble utterance gave—
‘That woman was Alswitha!’

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Alfred stood,
While twenty times the crow might flap his wing,
Trembling in fixed amazement!—Now to find
Alswitha lived, yet, by the hostile Dane
Borne from his sight, a dark uncertain joy
Gave to the king; like what he feels, the man—
Shipwreck'd, and clinging fast to oar or spar,
Who 'scapes the angry surge, and when at length
The crag he climbs, finds, with the bitter pang,
That he alone survives of all the crew.

‘Alswitha!’ cried the king, ‘I never more
‘Shall see thee, nor the music of thy voice
‘Hear, and rejoice at!’ Alfred spake again:
‘Sigbert, declare as thou hast faith in Heaven,
‘What said the Dane, and what Alswitha said?
‘Declare each word!’—Sigbert thus answer made:
‘In that disastrous hour I little knew
‘For whom I pleaded! When I freedom claim'd
‘For her, unknown, the wrathful Dane replied,
‘Saxon away! Thy pleading speech is vain!
‘She shall become my counsellor; her words
‘Have so impress'd my mind, that I desire
‘To hear her further. (For Alswitha spake
‘With most full confidence of that great God
‘He dared defy, which made his sinews quake,
‘His cheek turn pallid.) She shall go, he cried,
‘And tell me of that God, the Spirit vast
‘Which late she spake of, whom I may compare
‘With Odin and our Gods. He further said,
‘His soul was awed, that in her he beheld,
‘A grace! a majesty!’—

‘Tell me no more!’
Alfred exclaim'd, ‘but, speak, what said the queen—
‘What were Alswitha's words?’ Sigbert replied,
‘She answer'd thus, whilst tears bedew'd her cheek:

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‘Oh warrior, stay me not! nor thus oppress
‘A poor weak woman. Didst thou know what calls
‘Sound in mine ear, thou would'st regard my words
‘And let me harmless pass; for I have one,
‘Far off, a husband, who my absence mourns,
‘And who would die, to hear that I was met
‘By thee, oh chieftain! and perforce convey'd
‘He knew not where. Pity my many woes,
‘And let me call thee blessed.’

Alfred cried,
‘This soothes me! Now proceed!’ Sigbert again:
‘The Dane thus spake, ‘Woman thou plead'st in vain,
‘I never change my purpose. Cease thy fears;
‘Thou shalt be cheer'd by one who calls me sire,
‘By my high-minded Daughter, yonder maid,
‘Foll'wing from love her father to the wars.
‘My name is Guthrum. Tedious thus to wait.
‘Mount yonder steed! and at some future time,
‘Again thou may'st return and find thy home.
‘What more she said, oh prince, I must not tell;
‘Thou canst not hear it.’ Cried the anxious king,
‘Tell me each word! for never felt this heart
‘More firm and more collected.’ Sigbert said,
‘These were her words:

‘To talk of future hopes
‘Were vain indeed! I have no future hopes!
‘The bird that for her young flies many a mile,
‘And now returns to seek them, when she finds
‘Her treasure gone, her all, her little all,
‘Gone and no vestige left, feels such as I!
‘For I am homeward bound, whilst opening joys
‘Made my heart glad, but thou hast marr'd them all,
‘And life is now a blank, a cheerless void.
‘So many thoughts now strike my mind, such looks,
‘So many words she spake of tenderness,
‘That power miraculous must me have kept

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‘From thought and recollection. To myself
‘Who near her stood, she cried, ‘Thou yet art free!
‘One favour do I ask.’ When, from her neck,
‘She took that string of pearls, of which I spake,
‘And weeping bade me, if I e'er should meet
‘The man who knew them, of her thus to say:—
‘She loved her husband! mourn'd her infant child,
‘Gone to its fathers.’ ‘Tell him,’ she exclaim'd,
‘If e'er he see me living, he shall find
‘My heart still pure, and if, far off, I died,
‘To pity one, who with her latest breath
‘Call'd on her husband, and from Heaven implored
‘Blessings on him and his.’—Alfred replied,
‘This is indeed too searching. Now retire:
‘To-morrow I shall see thee!’

Sigbert heard,
And left the king to loneliness and night.

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BOOK IX.

ARGUMENT.

CEOLRIC'S return and narration; Bands from Wessex reach the camp. Consultation of Alfred with his chiefs. Sigbert rebuked for the violence of his spirit. An attempt to burn the Danish fleet resolved on.

Soon as the dawn appear'd, to Alfred's door,
Sigbert approach'd and enter'd. Pacing slow
He saw the King, who, wild of look, exclaim'd:
‘Sigbert, my plan is fix'd! This arm shall meet
‘Guthrum the Dane! This sword contend for her
‘Whom he hath made a captive! I must first
‘Rescue Alswitha; seek her dwelling out,
‘Then dare the conflict.—No! I do mistake!
‘My country first! Oh Sigbert! in my mind
‘Such jarring resolutions come and go,
‘That I am now like one whom thought hath left,
‘And manly fortitude.’

Sigbert replied,
‘Early this morn, a man approach'd our fort—
‘A stranger, and inquired for thee; his name,
‘Ceolric.’ ‘What! Ceolric?’ Alfred cried,
‘Bid him our presence seek.’ Sigbert retired,
And now Ceolric enters: when the king

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Drew near the cottager, and thus began:
‘I joy to see thee! Often have I dwelt,
‘With deep solicitude, on many a toil,
‘And peril unsuspected, thou might'st meet
‘In this thy journey. Welcome here! but say,
‘How doth brave Oddune fare?’

Ceolric spake.
‘I travelled on, O, king, from Ethelney,
‘Cautious, and soon arrived where proudly rose
‘The castle Kenwith. Towering high it stands,
‘Firm as the rock on which it rests itself.
‘Now to a neighbouring hill I sped, and found
‘The Danes encamped at hand. As thus I watch'd,
‘Trembling, yet confident, I saw the foe—
‘March to the castle wall with swords and bows,
‘And the long spear, the ladder and the torch.
‘They came beneath! I saw the assault commence!
‘Then in my heart I shook, and felt cold dews
‘Start from my brow, thinking the hour was come,
‘When Oddune, and his gallant host, must feel—
‘Death near at hand. I view'd, in dread array,
‘Danes mount the walls, but what delight was mine,
‘When on the battlements, distinct I saw
‘The Saxon's busier sword. And now the Danes
‘Fell to the ground. I saw them fall, and seem'd
‘With mine own arm to force them to the earth;
‘At length, discomfited, the enemy
‘In rage retired.—The castle well I mark'd,
‘And on the topmost tower there stood a man
‘Looking methought for succour. Many an hour
‘I watch'd him from the hill, and there he gazed
‘Now eastward, and then west, and north, and south,
‘Alternate; and when eve came on, I saw,
‘Clear in the light horizon—darkening slow,
‘His head the latest object, looking still
‘For hourly aid.’ Alfred aloud exclaim'd,

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‘And he shall soon behold me;—speak thou on!’
Ceolric spake:—

‘Now night was drawing near,
‘And from the hill I hasten'd, whilst a thought,
‘That made my brow look solemn, troubled me.—
‘I knew my danger, yet remembering well
‘The import of thy charge, I strove to feel
‘Like him who fears his God, and serves his King.
‘From the high hill I mark'd a certain spot,
‘Where, as I fondly thought, I might approach,
‘Unnoticed, to the frowning battlements.
‘This spot I safe attained; when from beneath,
‘I look'd and feebly cried, Lend me your aid,
‘Good Saxons!’ All was still. I then again
‘Call'd louder, ‘Aid me,’ but a certain dread
‘So check'd my voice, that I could hardly hear
‘Myself say, ‘Aid me!’ Chilling blew the wind.
‘The night was dark and stormy, and I stood,
‘Trembling, whilst many a fear assail'd my heart.
‘As pondering thus, I heard some drawing near,
‘And by their speech perceivcd that they were Danes!
‘Close underneath the wall I stretch'd myself,
‘And heard them passing whisper, ‘We shall soon
‘Conquer this stubborn Saxon. Not one soul—
‘Shall live to tell what he endured to save
‘This castle for his master. Tho' we fail'd—
‘On the past day, when, with full confidence,
‘We dared the walls, yet that discomfiture,
‘Tho' hard to bear, shall on the second morn,
‘From this good time, when we the fight renew,
‘Inspire new ardour. We the sacrifice
‘Ere long shall offer up; there then shall need
‘No Valkyries to determine who shall fall,
‘For every Saxon's blood shall drench the ground!
‘This portion of the wall, shall next sustain
‘The Danish onset. Toward the wall they strode,

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‘And eyed it well. I thought they touch'd me! still,
‘Lay I and trembled, when, a whizzing dart
‘Came from above! Discover'd fast they fled.
‘Now, to the man above who hurl'd the shaft,
‘Rising, I cried, ‘Saxon! a friend is near!’
‘When o'er the ramparts leaning, one exclaim'd,
‘What voice is that? Speak, or this iron lance
‘Shall pierce thy heart.’ Earnest, I him address'd,
‘I am thy brother Saxon! Stay thy hand,
‘And listen to me! Then he stay'd his hand.
‘He cried, ‘Thy name!’ I answer'd, I am come
‘With tidings to thy chieftain, from our king!’
‘When thus the Saxon, ‘Speed thou to the gate!’
‘Unnoticed, I approach'd it. He with joy
‘Led me toward Oddune.

‘Night was far advanced,
‘And as the hall I enter'd, I, the chief
‘With many a noble warrior, earnest saw,
‘Held in deep converse.’ Oddune thus began:
‘Thy business? stranger!’ ‘Doubt me not, I said:
‘I bear a message from our king! He look'd,
‘And each around him, eager, and so still
‘All seem'd at once, that I the sudden hush
‘Felt in my heart, and every word I spake
‘Seem'd to recoil upon myself. I cried;
‘Alfred our king is safe! He knows thy state,
‘And soon, to thy relief, will hither come,
‘Leading a host of men, resolv'd to die
‘Or rescue thee, oh chieftain!’ Oddune cried,
‘Withhold awhile!’ and suddenly uprose.
‘His breath was laboured, and he stalk'd along,—
‘I never saw such strides, and such wild looks!
‘But soon he stopped, and said, ‘Thanks to our God!
‘We shall not starve! Now, stranger, speak thou on!
‘I then declared all that thou bad'st me say;
‘Telling thy fix'd resolve; that Se!wood's shade

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‘Was the resort of Saxons, and that soon,
‘Kenwith would see the royal banner near.’
‘When Oddune rose, and shouted, ‘We shall yet
‘Live to behold our king! right manfully
‘Will we defend these walls.’ Such fearful joy
‘Sparkling in every eye, I oft have heard—
‘Hath been, yet never saw; for to my mind
‘They seem'd like idiots, laughing now aloud,
‘And walking to and fro, confused, then fix'd
‘And pondering with stern brow! but soon I saw
‘It was excess of gladness, for tho' wild,
‘They were most gentle. Oddune thus declared:
‘Friends, I partake your transport. Now our hearts
‘Beat high with exultation, but, our joy,
‘Prudence must temper, and the certainty
‘That succour fast approaches, arm our minds
‘With deeper caution. Flee each to his post!
‘Instruct the sentinels! Watch well from far
‘The little cloud of danger. Triumph soon
‘All shall partake!’

Turning to me he said,
‘I thank thee, stranger! Haste thou to the king;
‘Convey our gratulations, and assure
‘The best of monarchs, nothing will we leave
‘Undone to serve him, here within these walls,
‘Or in hereafter times. Tell thou the king,
‘Our hearts are good. Tho' many a pressing doubt
‘Hath troubled us, one foe alone we fear'd,—
‘The waster famine! Tell him we rejoice
‘To learn his resolution. Bid him hold
‘No anxious cares for us; we yet have food
‘For many days.’—When Alfred, rising, cried,
‘For many days did our brave Oddune say?
‘That many day's provision he had left?
‘Then is he safe! I yet shall see his face!
‘Speak on!’—Ceolric answer'd: ‘I, the chief,

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‘Told of the hostile threats which I had heard
‘When 'neath the walls, and of the second charge
‘He might expect from Hubba, on the morn,
‘Next to that coming. Me the warrior thank'd,
‘With true and hearty zeal, when I retired,
‘And through the gate escaping sought thee here.’

Alfred replied, ‘Brave man, receive my praise!
‘Thou hast perform'd, with zeal, thy perilous part,
‘And I will well reward thee. Now return,
‘Back to thy home. I do not tell thee yet
‘My resolutions, but, to Ethelney,
‘Speed on, and wait my summons. Thou wilt know
‘For what I send thee, when within thy cot
‘Thou enterest, for a pearl is there, whose price,
‘Words may not name—but, guard it as thy life!’
Ceolric cried: ‘That I have served thy cause,
‘Yields me the pleasure which I fain would speak,
‘But cannot; my imperfect words are few,
‘Yet spring they from a heart, which thou may'st trust
‘With all thou hast at Ethelney. Farewell!’

Alfred exclaim'd, ‘Sigbert, what shouts are those?
‘Methinks of exultation. Haste! Inquire!’
Sigbert withdrew awhile, and now return'd,
Leading a chief, who thus the king address'd.—
‘At thy command, O monarch! we set forth
‘To warn thy subjects, and inspire again
‘Each languid heart with hope, when, as we reach'd
‘The skirts of this vast forest, we beheld
‘Exulting bands advance—Wessex' brave sons,
‘Hast'ning to serve their king. They all had heard,
‘O'erwhelmed with sorrow, that their noble prince,
‘(Indignant grown at that disastrous spirit—
‘That languid, cowardly, and prostrate heart,
‘Which o'er the land prevail'd,) had left his troops,

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‘His few and faithful foll'wers, and retired
‘From War to Solitude; resolved that those
‘Who would not fight, when freedom call'd to arms,
‘Should groan with slav'ry. At the news, there spread
‘Throughout all Wessex, faithful still to thee,
‘One general panic, one unfeign'd concern,
‘That roused them from their slumbers, and awoke
‘The patriot's feelings. Through the Western Land,
‘Alfred! and War!’ was heard: whilst, now, without,
‘Wessex' first levies stand, brave companies,
‘Who but precede their brethren, hastening fast
‘To join their king, and follow where he leads.’

Alfred the tidings heard, and hastens forth
With heart exultant. At his sight, the air
Teems with loud acclamations. He essay'd
T'address his subjects, but, more vain the task
Than his, amid the fury of the storm,
Who would some distant mariner forewarn
Of fatal rock, to which he onward drives.
He stood, but still the shout, ‘Long live the king!’
Rang through the air, and when, awhile, it ceas'd,
So solemn was the silence, and so loud
The deaf'ning noise that follow'd, that it seem'd
Like the deep calm, that, o'er the western world,
Strikes on the ear, when the fierce Hurricane
Retires, a little space, then sounds afresh,
With huger peal, and more exalted wrath,
Roaring along the firmament. At length,
The clamour died away, when, thus, the king.

‘Brave men, I hail you! Grateful to my heart
‘Are ye, O, subjects, in this hour of need.
‘To dare the war, to meet th' insulting Dane,
‘In one grand struggle, late had I resolved,
‘Supported by the few who faithful were:

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‘For this I hither sped; and, to behold,
‘As at this moment, Wessex pour her sons
‘Around my standard—hosts whom I had deem'd,
‘(Most wrongfully) lost to their country's cause,
‘Assures me, that this struggle shall conduct
‘To peace and liberty. Let others shrink,
‘Inglorious from the conflict, to herself,
‘If Wessex be but true, altho' her ranks
‘May not with Danes compare, yet shall her zeal
‘Furnish new armies, troops invincible,
‘And compensate for each deficiency,
‘By her own courage. When the British spirit,
‘Like the roused lion, at the voice of war,
‘Rises in all his majesty of strength,
‘His eye is lightning, thunder is his voice,
‘His sword is pestilence, which in its course
‘Withers the mighty, and, in vengeance drest,
‘Spreads terrors, that might hold a world at bay.’

Amid the general shout, ‘long live the king!’
Alfred his chieftains call'd. They crowd around;
When, thus, the king. ‘To view the first faint dawn
‘Of that returning spirit, which once sway'd
‘Our brave forefathers, raises in my breast
‘Tumultuous happiness. What further bands,
‘In freedom's cause, from Wessex may arrive,
‘Will serve our cause hereafter, but, declare!
‘Placed as we are, what course must we pursue,
‘With instant execution? Now to pause
‘Might plunge us in despair.’

A chieftain thus.
‘Since Mercia, 'wakened from her lethargy,
‘And now arous'd, hath promis'd us support,
‘With her brave warriors, would it not be wise
‘To stay the hour of action, 'till these men
‘Draw near to aid us?’ Alfred rose and cried,

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‘Beware of baseless hopes, those unseen rocks,
‘Leagued with perdition! Mercia vows again
‘To send us succours—but, too well, we know
‘What Mercia's vows are!—Doth she, to her wrongs,
‘Add insults, in this last extremity,
‘By plighting oaths afresh? Degenerate race!
‘We have believed too long! Now be our trust
‘Dependent on ourselves! This be our hope—
‘Brave warriors, this our only confidence!’

Another rose, and Alfred thus address'd;
‘If I may speak, O king! I will express
‘The language of sincerity, tho' not,
‘Haply, of wisdom. This would I advise.
‘Let us advance, down to the southern shore,
‘With march precipitous, and bravely dare
‘Ivar, to meet the war; so shall our swords
‘Subdue one half the Danes, before they join
‘Hubba the fierce, and thro' our suffering land
‘Wide-wasting ruin spread.’—Silence ensued,
‘When Sigbert rose. ‘Since liberty is given,
‘And all are free to speak, I must declare
‘My opposition. Let us not depart
‘Down to the southern shore, but instant speed
‘To seek the Danish army! Let us haste,
‘And Hubba meet, that chieftain at whose name,
‘The babe upon its mother's breast turns pale,—
‘Feeling instinctive terror. Let us count
‘The moments 'till the fight, and when it comes,
‘Call to our standard, havoc; bid each flower,
‘And herb, and lofty tree, all nurture scorn,
‘But Danish blood, that soon shall flow so fast
‘And in such living torrents, that the rain
‘Awhile may stay itself, and nature wear
‘A garb of crimson.’—Each in wonder look'd,
When Alfred cried, ‘your sentiments, oh, chiefs!

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‘I wait to hear you.’ One arose and said,
‘What doth our king advise?’

Alfred thus spake:
‘Tidings have late arrived from Kenwith's towers,
‘That Oddune fears not; nor doth want so press
‘Upon our brethren there, that we should yield,
‘Plans of high moment. This your king's resolve.
‘Soon as the morrow dawns, we will depart,
‘Not to meet Ivar, but to burn his fleet.
‘To waste the Danish navy; to prevent
‘The foe's escape, when by our arms o'erpower'd
‘He flies before our onslaught, and again
‘Trusts to his barks. Cut off, and circumscribed
‘By Saxon might, the tiger-hearted Danes
‘Must fall before us. Never shall they more,
‘As they were wont in adverse circumstance,
‘Speed to their hovering ships, to pour afresh,
‘In some more favouring moment on our shores,
‘Their aggravated wrath. The time is come
‘When, in dread struggle, man with man must strive.
‘Our clift-bound isle in this tremendous hour,
‘Shall hem them in; so may they learn, too late,
‘How terrible, when roused, is Saxon wrath.’

The instant Alfred ended, shouts arose,
‘The fleet! The fleet! There let our vengeance rest.’
Nor hail'd they Alfred's words, with common form
Of placid acceptation, but like men
Who know their lives and welfare jointly hang
On that which they determine. Alfred thus,
‘Vet'rans, on whom our country's hopes depend,
‘Upon the coming morn, our march begins.’
When calling Sigbert, thus alone he spake.

‘Regard me, Sigbert! I am one who loves,
‘The heart that meditates on truth, the tongue

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‘That dares declare it. Much I prize thy worth,
‘Thy many services, and hope ere long
‘To make thee recompense, yet must I name
‘The thing condemn'd, tho' in my dearest friend.
‘Thy soul is filled with hatred and blind wrath;—
‘His deadliest foe, the christian never hates—
‘Sigbert thy mind is poison'd; thou dost thirst,
‘With craving appetite, for Danish blood,—
‘Not for the good it yields, but, to appease
‘Vengeance unbridled, and supreme revenge.
‘Thy wrongs are great! My wrongs are manifold!
‘Yet let us not exclude that holy light,—
‘Truth, from our minds. Have not the Danes some wrongs
‘To vex their spirits? Our Northumbrian prince,
‘Amid his castle's caverns, deep and dark,
‘Murder'd the Danish king?—the very sire
‘Of these our fierce invaders? Let this thought,
‘Not quench our zeal, nor stay our arm in fight;
‘But in the hour of triumph, calm our wrath.
‘Sigbert, with me thou must not wage the war, Thou hast profess'd thyself, singled of heaven
‘To bear glad tidings and good-will to men!—
‘How cam'st thou by that garb? A calling thine,
‘When in faith chosen, and with zeal fulfill'd—
‘Most dignified, and first of human kind!
‘Henceforth respect thy sacred character!
‘And, not the least of noble purposes,
‘Increase thy learning; strive, with me, to raise
‘Thy country, from its state of abjectness,
‘To the high port which Wisdom gives her sons.

Sigbert astonish'd heard. His face now glow'd,
Now pale appear'd, whilst in his mind arose
Conflicting passions; when he cried, ‘Oh king!
‘Dost thou indeed declare, that I must leave
‘My sword, and my good armour; shun the fight,

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‘And never, from this moment, more rejoice
‘O'er vanquish'd Dane?’ Silent, he stood awhile,
Then thus again. ‘Monarch thy words are just!
‘They well accord with something at my heart,—
‘An inward monitor, which in the hour,
‘Dispassionate, approves what now thou say'st:
‘Yet I am desolate. Each friend I loved,
‘These Danes have slain! Shall I, like coward, crouch
‘In low, base abjectness, and court the foe
‘To murder, unresisted?—see the Danes,
‘Thick as the solar atom, scattering round
‘All plagues, yet sheathe my sword? My very soul
‘Revolts at these thy words! I cannot check
‘This loathing of all mercy! I must live,
‘In fix'd and undistinguishable hate!

Alfred replied, in slow and solemn tone,
‘Thou know'st not of what texture thou art made.
‘Thy many wrongs have so disturb'd thy thoughts,
‘So warm'd thy faculties, that thou dost see
‘Plain things confused. Sigbert, before thee lie
‘Two paths; declare thy choice! Be thou henceforth
‘Devoted to thy God; resign the thought
‘Avenging, and put on the ornament—
‘Accordant with thy calling; shew thyself
‘Prepared to teach, by having first been taught;
‘Or, else, renounce thy sacred character!
‘Throw off the hypocrite! confess thyself
‘The slave of hate, and all the passions, fierce,
‘Rude nature groans beneath; then wield thy sword,
‘Not for the end, but for the thirst of blood!
‘This thou may'st do, yet know the recompence!
‘It is the scoff of men, the frown of God!
‘In me it is becoming thus to say,
‘For Heaven hath rais'd me up, howe'er unfit,
‘To govern this his people, and to see

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‘His teachers pure; and never will I view
‘Heaven's ministers, clothed in the garb of war.
‘Discard the priesthood! or, renounce the sword!’

Sigbert amaz'd, look'd up, then earnest cried,
‘With deep conviction I thy words approve.
‘I cannot wield the sword, and still retain
‘The spirit Heaven approves; yet do I feel
‘Hatred so deeply fix'd, and in my heart
‘Such wrath, such cravings, not to be subdued,
‘That I must grasp the sword.”

Alfred replied,
‘I hear thy resolution! Yielding thus
‘Thy sacerdotal robe, thou now shalt have
‘Station of trust, where thou may'st hence display
‘Due courage, and promote thy country's weal.
‘Forth for the march prepare! The hour draws on,
‘When Denmark's fleet shall stream with Saxon fires.’

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BOOK X.

ARGUMENT.

ALFRED'S interview with a Witch.—The burning of the Danish Fleet.

Before the morn arrived, Sigbert uprose,
With thought distracted. Thro' night's silent hours
Sleepless he lay, revolving o'er and o'er
On Alfred's words and gestures; with their barbs
Piercing his heart. Each sentence which he spake,
Impress'd his mind with such strong characters
That oft he half forgot them, and the cares,
Of late so terrible, seem'd in oblivion lost:
Then, like some tide or ocean long embank'd
That bursts its barriers—fierce—impetuous,
Casting its world of waters o'er the land,
In Sigbert's feverish mind, the monarch's voice
Resistless enter'd, scorning the weak bound
Of human will.

Now Alfred's words seem'd harsh,
And with resentment Sigbert view'd them o'er,
Till something gently whisper'd in his ear
Of the forbearing spirit, and kind heart
Which Christian priest became. He thought again
On what his mind once was, the seat of peace

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Of lowliness, that could at eve and morn,
Respect that precept, ‘Love thine enemies,’
And say, with fervent utt'rance, ‘If there be
‘Those who despite me, pardon them, Oh Lord!’
But in his heart he felt that time was gone.
Whilst musing thus, the sudden thought arose
Of many a friend gone down to death, like fruit
Untimely cast to earth. He felt a glow
Pervade his cheek, and as he upward look'd,
And cried, ‘Oh grant me, righteous Heaven, thy fires,
‘That I may blast these Danes!’ Turning, he saw
Alfred, beholding! Sigbert's mind then felt
As tho' some spirit watch'd him from the sky,—
With awful majesty. Or like the man,
Sleeping on earth, who, when the night draws near,
Sudden awakes, and sees the full-orbed moon
Upon his face, gazing in quietness.

Alfred, the mild rebuke thus tender'd him.
‘Sigbert, thy head is wrong, thy heart is right.
‘Thou'rt like the snow, fast falling to the earth,
‘Darken'd, when upward view'd, but light below.
‘With thoughts uneasy, sleep deriding us,
‘We two, the earliest, hail the ruddy dawn.
‘Haste, rouse the troops! We now must buckle on
‘Once more our armour, seize again the sword,
‘Direct the hostile weapon, and implore
‘Heaven's blessing on th' exploit that lies before.’—
Like the gay lark, which on an April morn
Forsakes his nest, while yet the sun is hid,
And nature dim and silent, as his note
Awakes the feather'd tribes, and makes the air
Ring with their warblings, so at Alfred's voice,
Out from their tents, impatient, pour'd his troops,
In exultation, and wild vehemence,
Greeting their monarch. Thus he welcomed them.

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‘Subjects, I joy to see you! When the light
‘First streaks the east, we know that morn is nigh,
‘And now your hearts are roused, I see, at hand,
‘The first faint dawn of our prosperity.
‘To burn the Danish fleet is our design,
‘Not to provoke the fight. Five hundred men
‘Now do I take. The rest, till we return,
‘Prepare the means of war.’—Th' appointment made;
Alfred inquires, ‘If all to waste the foe
Felt their hearts ready?’ Each his sword uprais'd,
And clash'd his shield. When Alfred cried, ‘Oh God!
‘Thou art our confidence;’ and onward march'd.

Thoughts of approaching scenes now o'er their brow
Cast the stern look. Silent they moved along,
Save that the steady tread of multitudes,
Heard ever, sounded like the gushing noise
Made by some bark upon the ocean wide,
In calm and quiet weather, when the air
Gives but one sound—the parting of the waves.—
Long time they march'd, and pleasant was the sight,
When passing through the towns and villages,
Shadows of what they were, now fall'n, or burnt,
To see the aged by the road-way side,
Creep from their sack'd and shattered tenements,
(The local fondness lingering at their heart)
The cripple and the fatherless, the maim'd,
The mother, and her children, stand to bless,
As to the wars they pass'd, their noble king
And his brave followers. Entering now a wood,
With toil o'ercome, beneath the spreading trees,
The sun unclouded, they awhile recline,
The better to recruit their strength, and nerve,
Their spirits for fresh labour.

Whilst they lay
Stretch'd in their sylvan bower, with solemn look,

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Portentous of revealment tragical,
Sigbert drew near, and Alfred thus addressed.
‘Most gracious king, there is a witch at hand!
‘Believe thy servant. Wand'ring thro' this wood,
‘Late in a musing hour, with fears aroused,
‘I saw her in her moss-clad hut, alone,
‘Her imp beside her, of the feline form—
‘Two centuries old, or more. Most noble king!
‘Shall I conduct thee to her secret haunt?’

Alfred replied, ‘Sigbert, tho' strange it seem,
Truth lies beneath—Thou hast much lore to learn,
‘And much to unlearn, ere thou wilt be wise.
‘Thine are the idle, weak and wandering dreams,
‘Which, hearing, we might smile at, not deride,
‘But for their baneful influence on man's heart.’

‘Most noble king,’ Sigbert astonish'd cried,
‘As from my inmost spirit I believe,
‘No one endued with proper faculties
‘Could look upon her brown and haggard form
‘And doubt one moment, that she is, full true,
‘A witch malign.’—Alfred thus answer made.
‘She may be old and feeble, and strange tales
‘Folly may of her tell, but wisdom spurns
‘These idle fancies. Mark me, whilst our bands
‘Refresh their weary limbs, I would an hour
‘Steal from anxiety, to see and hear
‘This form terrific! Speed thou on thy way.’
Alfred and Sigbert seek the witch at hand.

Upon the borders of the forest deep,
Her dwelling stood, of turf and osiers made;
The roof o'ergrown with ivy, weeds, and moss,
Confused and wild, uncurb'd from year to year,
Half green, half grey;—scarce human dwelling-place.

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They glimpse the form of import terrible!
There by her crazy door, on three-legged stool,
The beldame sat—courting the breeze, that play'd
Amid her few white tresses; silence round—
Save where the throstle gave his sprightly song.
Against her rugged staff, with back upraised,
Her one companion, sabler than the night,
Came purring, forward now, now back again,
Pressing alternate sides,—with happiness,—
Felt, and by touch of sympathy convey'd.
‘Behold her!’ Sigbert said, ‘There sits the hag!—
‘Fearful, of might unknown, weaving her spells
‘And leagued with powers infernal. Take thou care
‘Not to arouse her ire, for she hath means,
‘And habitudes—of a mysterious kind,
‘And with a look—can, to decrepitude,
‘Wither the stoutest frame.’

They reach the spot.
Touch'd for old age, so lone and comfortless,
When pity needing most, by most denied,
Alfred, with soothing voice, the dame address'd;
(She striving to rise up, from courtesy,
The king with gentle hand, slow press'd her down.)
Accosting thus the aged solitaire.

‘Nay, rise not, mother. Forms, I heed them not.—
‘For curious spirit, wilt thou pardon me?
‘Thou hast repute for necromantic arts,
‘And intercourse with things unlawful. Say!
‘What is this power of thine, in myst'ry veil'd,
‘Filling with dread obscure the country round?’

The feeble wreck of generations past,
Thus answer'd. ‘Master, in thy look and voice,
‘There is a something that e'en whispers me,
‘Not all are hostile, and, if possible,

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‘I should e'en think that I beheld a friend.
‘Trust me, no power is mine—injurious things
‘To heap on mortals, Would that all around
‘Display'd the honest frankness thou dost show,
‘That I might understand, and vindicate
‘This aged head from falsehoods; but, there are
‘Who deal their blows in darkness, and resolve
‘What shall be, not what is, their will the truth;—
‘What fancy dictates. Stranger, trust my words!
‘No arts are mine. Blessings I fain would shower,
‘Rather than curses—on my bitterest foes,
‘And I have many such.—Toward man or beast
‘No wish of harm hath harbour'd in this breast—
‘From youth to these grey hairs. My only crime—
‘Is this,—my sallow look,—my silvery lock,—
‘My tottering step, and this poor thing that purs,—
‘The sole companion that adheres to me,
‘And tells me, choicest cordial of my heart!
‘'Mid strangers all, one friend is faithful still!’

Adown her furrow'd cheek—the slow tear steals!
When Alfred, turning, thus to Sigbert spake.
‘What say'st thou to this dweller in the woods?
‘Thou answerest not! Confusion in thy face
‘Sits manifest. Learn wisdom, and behold—
‘In superstition—that disastrous foe
‘Which quenches pity, and the genial stream
‘That cheers, and warms, and fructifies the heart
‘Turns into deadliest poison!’

Now in tones—
Of kindliest sympathy, the monarch spake.
‘Mother! thy lot is hard. Age brings its weight,
‘But calumny is weightier far than all.
‘One antidote there is, the consciousness
‘Of charges undeserved, and an appeal—
‘To him whose judgment errs not.—Thro' this life

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‘Of strange vicissitudes, thy years have borne
‘Doubtless, a liberal share; while distant friends
‘Suspend their toil—under the green-wood tree,
‘Declare thy sorrows, one will pity thee.’
Feebly and slow, the lonely woman spake.

‘My lot is hard indeed, for I am doomed—
‘Still to live on, when all my friends are dead;
‘Husband and neighbours. I had once three sons,
‘Fighting in Alfred's wars.—God bless our king!
‘But they are dead, the Danes, our country's bane,
‘Dread scourge! have slain them! and I too shall fall,
‘With all around, if Alfred conquer not.
‘I know how little life has left for me,
‘And daily feel some monitor of death,
‘Yet as my years increase, a growing love
‘Of life increases, for my humble cot
‘Still has its charms for me. Altho' my limbs
‘Tremble at every breath, and I survive—
‘A friendless woman, tottering o'er the grave,
‘The melancholy mother of the dead,
‘Oh! blame me not, but pity, if thou canst!
‘My coward heart still clings to its loved home.
‘A wretched thing it is for age like mine
‘To lose its recollection, and at eve
‘To know my sons are slain, and yet at morn
‘To cherish expectations, and look round,
‘Eager, to see them ope' my cottage door,
‘'Till memory comes. But tho' I know them gone,
‘Fondly I hope 'gainst hope. Delusion vain!
‘I never more shall see them!—They are dead!—
‘The feelings these of nature; in reserve,
‘I have a hope, to alien hearts unknown.’
After a pause, the woman thus again.

‘There is one evil, next in magnitude,

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‘Adding new sorrows to a burden'd heart.
‘The hamlets round me, in their cruel spite
‘Harbour hard thoughts, and on me heap their scorn;
‘Eye me askance,—with fiends, as holding converse;
‘Regarding me—scarce of the human kind,—
‘As one, to whom all nature subject lies,
‘Roaming at will, thro' air, and calling up
‘Sickness, or murrain;—charging every ill
‘Befalling them or theirs—upon this head;—
‘On me!—who ne'er deprived in wantonness
‘An insect of the life its maker gave!’—
‘Weep not,’ cried Alfred; ‘soon thy cares will end.
‘There is a better hope!—a better world!
‘Be this thy consolation!’—Such a glance,
Casting a gleam of sunshine o'er her face—
She gave the king,—so manifest of joy
From unexpected source, that she appear'd
Old as she was, and hanging on life's verge,
E'en lovely!—showing that the soul retains
Its pristine rank, and that no outward form
Wrinkle, or hue;—the last extreme of age,
Can hold the spirit captive, in itself
Young ever,—smiling at the waster—Time.

Amid an evil and tumultuous world
She in her cot had held communion sweet
With lofty contemplations,—with that state
The christian's resting-place, which o'er her brow
A look unearthly cast.—The passing word
Utter'd by Alfred, of congenial kind,
So unexpected, feelings woke within,
Repress'd before,—(as the meridian sun,
Expands the petal, calls the flowret forth.)
With gladden'd visage, mildly thus she spake.
‘My hope is in the Saviour of the world!—
‘Say, stranger! do I err?’

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‘Thine is true wisdom. This the stable ground!
‘The rock of ages!—whereon he who stands,
‘Unmoved, shall see Decay, with whirlwind rage,
‘Sweep earth, and all its perishable chaff
‘Into oblivion!—whilst this hope remains,
‘Firm as Heaven's pillars and the throne of God!
‘Endure thy burden, worn, disconsolate,
‘The bridge is nearly pass'd! Hold on thy way!
‘Look upward! Treasures wait thee in the skies!—
‘Duties imperious call me hence. Farewell!’
Into her wither'd hand he drops the purse
And presses it;—and as she look'd to Heaven—
Alfred and Sigbert haste to other scenes.

While roaming thro' the wood, a vista spreads
Sudden before them, and distinct they spy—
Upon a neighbouring hill, with earnest step—
Warriors! alike, their name and course unknown!
‘From weapon, and from dress,’ Alfred exclaim'd,
‘I judge them Danes. Yon tree I instant climb.’
Upon the topmost branch he now appears,
When hastening down he cried, ‘Those are the Danes!
‘Perchance the host, just landed on our coast;
‘Led on by Ivar, that disastrous chief,
‘His sword once more t'embrue in Saxon blood!
‘Now speed we back.’

While hastening on their way,—
Alfred thus spake.—‘Sigbert, solemnity
‘Reigns at my heart. The danger dread was near!
‘We knew it not. But for the moving tale
‘Of that poor, wrong'd, and suffering woman old,
‘With this our slender band, we might have met
‘The check, at least, I will not say defeat,
‘Thro' force unequal;—thus doth Providence
‘Work out its secret purposes, and make
‘Small things subserve the great.’,

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Sigbert replied;
‘It may be well. Soon shall these polar bears
‘Sustain our onset, and their countless bones
‘Strew our highways.’ When, with a serious look,
He thus began. ‘Monarch! believe my words!
‘That Hag, whom thou with misplaced tenderness,
‘Didst pity, is a Witch! I know her such!
‘And I could bring a goodly host to swear—
‘They've seen her on her broom ride royally!
‘I mark'd her scowling eye!—her subtle lear!
‘And I could read dark workings on her brow!
‘Trust me, at dead of night, she revel keeps,
‘Till the grey dawn appears, with wicked Sprites,
‘And there concocts device and malady—
‘Plague, pestilence, for all who rouse her wrath.
‘I pray, my king from this brief interview
‘May 'scape all harm! She is a hypocrite!
‘Her words are vain!’

Alfred his spirit stems,
Yet half indignant, thus the answer gave.—
‘The shores may limit ocean, but no power
‘Short of Omnipotence, can folly bind.
‘Sigbert, the time hastes on, nor distant is,
‘When if thy faith be other than that woman's,—
‘By thee traduced, and that most wrongfully!
‘Thou wilt be glad to yield thy place for hers.
‘Strange changes wait—the Mighty and the Mean!
‘Hereafter I may speak more pertinent:
‘Now speed we on.’

The camp at length is reach'd,
When Alfred thus his anxious troops address'd.
‘After this brief suspension of your toil,
‘Chieftains, and men revered, prepare your ears
‘For tidings unexpected. From a wood,
‘I have beheld a Danish multitude,
‘Hasting to join their fellows.’—At his words

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‘Silence intense prevail'd—when not a sound
‘Save of the leaves, that from the passing breeze
‘Quiver'd and stopp'd alternate, met the ear.
When thus again the king.—‘Let them combine,
‘Our present object is the Danish fleet,
‘Augmented now by Ivar's,—but, erelong,
‘Ordain'd to fill Heaven's concave with their glare.
‘Now for the southern coast!’

With patient toil,
The Saxons, stout in their resolve and heart,
Press'd earnest on. Now, from a lofty hill,
The ocean green they spy, and on the strand,
Thick as autumnal leaves, the Danish fleet.
Alfred rejoicing cried, ‘That prize is ours!
‘Behold yon barks, that hither brought our foe—
‘To waste this isle, and we ourselves to whelm
‘In death or bondage. With yon ships they rove,
‘Plaguing all lands. Why hath not Britain fleets—
‘To meet, and to repel these robber Danes?
‘But more of this when peace shall bless our isle.

Whilst on the hill-top, thoughtful, Alfred gazed,
Sigbert he call'd, and thus the mandate gave.
‘Speed cautious to the beach. Look well around,
‘And mark what force protects the enemy.’
Sigbert the words received, and hasted on.—
Joy, beaming from his eye.—Back he returns,
And thus exulting cried. ‘Rejoice, O king!
‘There is no foe, no man to meet our swords,
‘But there are women, numberless; the wives
‘Of these our fierce invaders. Children too,
‘Countless are there, rising, with venom charged,
‘To aid their fathers.’

Alfred heard, nor paused
Longer if mercy he might shew or not,
Than doth the running brook which path to take

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When stones its course oppose. Aloud he cried,
‘Propitious moment! When the brave behold
‘Where to display their brav'ry, fervent joy
‘Makes glad their heart. These women we will spare.
‘We will do justice to ourselves! our swords
‘On men war only. Sad the destiny
‘That prompts the warrior's deeds, but when he finds
‘A cheap and bloodless vict'ry, unforeseen;
‘It cheers his heart, like some well water'd spot,
‘Verdant and fair, 'mid Lybia's burning sands,
‘The fainting trav'ler.’—Scarce had Alfred said,
When shouts arose, ‘Spare, spare the weak. Our swords
‘Must meet resistance, victory else were shame,’

Now toward the beach they haste. Whilst on their way,
Speeding o'er neighbouring hill, Alfred espied
Two Danes escaping. ‘Mark them!’ he exclaim'd.
‘Sigbert, I know thee fleet and resolute.
‘Take with thee whom thou wilt. Haste after them,
‘And when o'ercome, conduct them to our sight:
‘If not arrested, tidings they may bear
‘Injurious to our purpose.’—Sigbert heard,
And bounded on alone.

To those around
Alfred thus spake: ‘Light ye your brands. I lead—
‘To give yon fleet to the devouring flames.’
Waving the torch, fast to the ships they speed.
These having reach'd, the king with wonder saw
No bank to guard! no forces to protect!
‘This,’ he exclaim'd, ‘is Danish confidence!
‘Beholding none to check them, they believed
‘This isle subdued, and every Saxon's sword
‘Wrench'd from his grasp. Delusion oft is found
‘Precursor of destruction.’

Alfred now,
Foremost proceeded to the stranded ships

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Bearing the Danish women, and exclaim'd,
‘Strangers whence are you?’ From a bark uprose
A woman tall, who to the king drew near,
And with an eye of fiery meaning cried:
‘First murder me! Saxon behold my heart!’
The king awhile stood silent, then replied:
‘Woman! thy death I seek not,’ With wild eye,
Him she address'd: ‘Thou art the Saxon foe!
‘Mercy we ask not, but, to death look on
‘Firm as thou seest me! All here await—
‘Slaughter! We are forsaken of our gods—
‘Our husbands: let us die! But this I say,
‘I am the wife of one renown'd in war,
‘Who, for my death, over this land will spread
‘One sea of gore, whilst Danes to madness stung,
‘Shall hunt thee down to Hela's flaming gates;
‘Thee and thy race! Now let the hungry ravens
‘Wade through our blood—Death hath no terrors here!’

By her bold words, rous'd to superior rage,
Each Danish woman rose, and from the barks
Look'd eager, waiting undismay'd their end;
Whilst Saxons, thronging round, astonish'd saw
The look of fury, and the eye that spake—
Infuriate passion. Alfred thus replied:
‘Rash women, cease! Your lives are safe! Abide,
‘Here, where you are; no harm shall on you light;
‘But if you rather seek your husbands, go!
‘Protected here or there. This fleet must fall.
‘But as we war on men, and men alone,
‘The mother and her infant, Saxon wrath
‘Will never light upon. To show you all
‘What hearts are ours, not to yourselves alone
‘Safety we grant, your food shall be preserved.
‘The barks that hold it, still shall minister
‘To your requirements, and if aught should fail,

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‘A foe, unsparing, shall replenish it.’

The woman cried, ‘thou art a gallant chief!
‘Pity it were, methinks, to see thee fall,
‘As soon thou must, before the sword, whose edge,
‘Keen as the icy blast, thou knowest not.
‘Here will we, waiting, mark the fiery brand.—
‘Devour and spoil!’

The king to those around,
Turning, thus spake. ‘Vet'rans, regard your prince!
‘No man of Saxon blood, howe'er provok'd,
‘Will lift his hand 'gainst woman. Such are safe,
‘Alike in war or peace.—Cowards, alone,
‘(Unworthy the ennobling name of man)
‘Daughters of Eve, will strike, or persecute.’
‘To those around he cried,—‘On this whole fleet,—
‘Save such as bear the mothers, and their food,
‘Waste! Spare not! Devastate!’—He scarce had said,
When flaming brands advance—from bark to bark,
'Till one wide blaze illumines earth and heaven!

Whilst the destroying columns raised on high
Their forked splendors, Alfred view'd the scene,
Calm and unmoved—planning the future deed;
Whilst all the host of Saxons sported round;
Exulting in their frantic merriment.
So on some calm and wintry eve, appears
The boreal meteor, through whose dancing light
Arcturus shines, tranquil and dignified,
Urging his destin'd course.

As in the west
The glorious sun appeared, the blaze of earth
Still mingled with the crimson glow of heaven:
When Alfred cried, ‘Brave and intrepid men!
‘Had Danes opposed, then had your courage shone;
‘Now is the honor less, the use the same:

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‘Thanks fervent to the unseen hand of heaven!
‘Now will we march to Selwood, and embrace
‘Our waiting brethren; then are we prepared
‘To meet the Danish chieftains and decide
‘Oddune's suspended fate.’ Instant they cried,
‘To Selwood! Live our prince!’ when Sigbert stood,
Sudden, before the king!—

Dark was his eye,
While not a word he spake. The king exclaim'd,
‘Where now the Danes?’ Nor yet a word he spake,
But, look'd to earth, abash'd, when Alfred thus:
‘Thy sword is bloody! I conjure thee, say
‘Whence came it?’ He replied, ‘O king,
‘I fear to tell thee;—I have slain the foe.’
‘Slain him! cried Alfred, ‘How,’ and whence the deed?
‘Did I not warn thee with a monarch's voice
‘To spare him, and conduct him to our sight?’
Sigbert thus answer'd. ‘Lenient some may be,
‘I cannot spare a Dane. One hideous form,
‘And one alone, of the two flying foes,
‘These eyes beheld. O'ertaking him, I cried,
‘Dane! death is near. We fought; I vanquish'd him;
‘And who the Ordeal fears, feels not as I!’
‘When vanquish'd,’ Alfred said, ‘why brought'st thou not
‘Thy one foe hither?’ Sigbert answer made.

‘It must be told!—then, know, O king! the Dane
‘Pleaded for life, and earnest, but mine ear
‘Scorn'd his petition. Him I thus address'd:
‘If angels from their silver clouds look'd down,
‘And shouted, ‘Spare him!’ with a voice of thunder,
‘I would disdain them all, for ere thou breath'st
‘A second time, thy venom'd blood shall flow!
‘So saying, I the prostrate demon slew.’

‘What!’ Alfred said. ‘Didst thou disdain a foe

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‘Asking for mercy?’ Sigbert thus; ‘I did,
‘For thinking of my many wrongs, I cried,
‘When tigers spare their prey, then, nor till then,
‘I will spare thee, and instant through his heart
‘Plunged this my sword.’ With slow and solemn tone
Alfred replied, ‘Thou art no friend of mine!
‘I now disclaim thee! Never from this hour
‘Approach thy king, but let the murderer's scorn
‘Light on thee, and reward this evil deed!’

Sigbert look'd earth-ward, with the visage dark
Accused by conscience, deadliest of all foes!—
Then turn'd, and, sad at heart, roam'd far away.
When Alfred, joyous, thns address'd his bands;
Loud exultation round.—‘Rejoice, brave men!
‘This night hath saved the state! Return we now
‘To Selwood. On the morrow we may say
‘Where duty next shall call us.’—

The wide shore
Rang with their loud acclaim—re-echoed far;
And all triumphant to the forest march'd.

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BOOK XI.

ARGUMENT.

Oddune escapes from Kenwith Castle, and arrives at Selwood Forest.

Now had the Saxons reach'd, 'mid Selwood's wilds,
Safely their fort. Whilst journeying on their way,
Absorbed in thought, the tread of multitudes
Distinct was heard. And often by the skirt
Of some deep wood, or in the valley, sounds
From the wild echo came, that to their minds
Convey'd a transient freedom from the cares
Still prone to rise;—like what the mariner,
Shipwreck'd, may feel, when, 'scaping in his boat
On the wide sea, he casts a ravish'd eye
At the warm glow of heaven—the setting sun.

Ere the grey dawn appear'd, the king arose,
And wander'd 'mid the prostrate host, whose shields
Upon the ground, lay scatter'd, deep impress'd
With honorable scars. The sun now rose,
Glowing refulgent; whilst the dewdrops bright,
Spread o'er the neighbouring trees, or couchant thorn,
Look'd like celestial spirits, to the eye
Of sportive fancy, that around encamp'd

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To guard the sleeping Saxons.—Alfred spake,
When all upleaping, round him throng, to learn
Their future destiny. Thus he began:

‘Exult, brave men! the God whom you have serv'd
‘And in whose strength confided, hath appear'd
‘For you and me. I would not buoy your hearts
‘With hopes ideal, for I now declare,
‘Full and distinct, to every man around,
‘Our prospect still is hid in mists and clouds,
‘Thick and portentous. Tho' success hath crown'd
‘Our late endeavour, yet we know full well
‘The malice, the exterminating rage
‘Of these our enemies. Their fleet destroy'd,
‘Will but inspire their minds with deeper wrath
‘And more determin'd vengeance; for, our eyes
‘Soon will behold them, not, as heretofore,
‘Vindictive only, but, with wolfish hearts,
‘Fill'd with o'erwhelming rage, and black revenge.—
‘Subjects beloved! when of success I spake,
‘It was the final issue; for the race
‘Of future Saxons. We shall till the soil,
‘But they will reap! I must declare my thoughts!
‘Mine is the full propulsion of the heart,
‘Not to be check'd. Cut off from aid, the Danes
‘Before our growing might, at length must fall;
‘But, fatal is the process. I may die!
‘Nay, many round me list'ning, too, may die!
‘But, Oh! for what? Reserve your latest breath,
‘If in the fight you fall, to ask, for what?—
‘Your country's cause!—and with that thought expire.—

‘Oh ye, in after times, who know the worth
‘Of peace and liberty, who underneath
‘Your quiet tents, survey the scene around,
‘Smiling upon your offspring, whilst no dread

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‘Of fierce barbarians haunt your midnight couch;
‘And when you wander thro' the thicket's shade,
‘Withhold the solitary path, lest there
‘Some vengeful Dane should crouch, oh! think of us,
‘Of what we bore, to purchase for our sons
‘The boon their fathers knew not!—In us dwells
‘A gen'rous anxiousness, a kindling hope,
‘To live for after times. Not to exhaust
‘The sum of usefulness,—upon one age;
‘But rather, with solicitude divine,
‘To scatter seed, which shall luxuriate
‘And upward spring, when he who sow'd has long
‘Slept with his fathers. This be my desire!
‘Subjects! endure the language of my heart.
‘As heaven alone foresees—who soon may die;
‘If war should lay me low, you who survive,
‘Forget not to declare, I valued life
‘But for my subjects' good. My little reign
‘Hath not disclosed my character. I feel
‘Such yearnings to be call'd—the faithful friend,—
‘The father of my people; I have pored
‘With such full fervency, upon the good
‘Of you, O Saxons;—I have cherish'd long
‘Such scenes ideal, when, upon my throne,—
‘So nobly fought for, and so hardly won,
‘I might uncurb'd consult your benefit,
‘And practise all I ponder'd, that, in truth,
‘The thought of sudden and untimely death
‘Doth half a coward make me. Did I say—
‘Coward? Oh! no. There is no trembling here.
‘I only dread, lest, in hereafter times,
‘This heart, now warm, should swerve from its resolves,
‘And, lost to honour, Alfred's name appear,
‘In the long list of lofty potentates,—
‘Of whom the record stands,—‘They lived, and died!’—
‘If He who searches man's profoundest thoughts,

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‘And knows the frailty of our best resolves—
‘Poor human nature!—should in me behold
‘Th' inconstant spirit,—I desire not life!
‘I only pray that God would raise some up,
‘Of purer thought, and sterner fortitude,
‘To meet this evil day!’

Each Saxon round
At these last words, was sad. Tho' grieving, none
Spake of his grief. Words had no power to tell
The deep interior sorrows of the heart.—
Alfred again. ‘It soothes my troubled mind
‘Thus to have said. We now must Oddune seek,
‘That man magnanimous, who haply now
‘His last meal contemplates. Famine severe
‘We must avert. Soon shall that chief behold
‘Our waving banner, and if heaven permit,
‘Find at our hand deliv'rance.’

All, aloud,
Shouted, ‘to Kenwith!’ Scarce had the sound ceased,
When in the air an answering shout was heard!
Thoughtful the Saxons look'd, when to their joy,
Oddune the brave drew night!—the gallant man,
For whom their swords were drawn, their hearts arous'd.
He flew to Alfred, kneeling on the earth
He clasp'd his hand. The king, amazed, exclaim'd,
‘Oddune! and is it thou? My doubtful sight,
‘I cannot trust it! let me hear thy voice!’
Said Oddune, looking up, ‘Oh best of kings!
‘It is thy faithful servant.’ Alfred spake,
‘How cam'st thou here? Declare!’ The chief replied
‘From the besiegers' sword, by night we fled,
‘Urged on by famine. Now are we prepared
‘To follow thee, oh king! and prove again
‘Our courage and devotion.’ Alfred thus,
‘Oddune speak on! Too deep an interest mine,
‘Not to require from thee each circumstance,

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‘Since last we parted.’ Thus the chief began.

‘When in the woody glen, and by the side
‘Of that clear brook I left thee, I, alone,
‘Pass'd on disconsolate, and felt poor hopes
‘That better days would ever meet us more.
‘Whilst thus I sped, it was a moving sight
‘To see the earth untill'd, the orchard plat
‘O'ergrown with weeds, and ever by my path,
‘What once had been a dwelling, desolate,
‘The walls all black with smoke. How beat my heart,
‘When as I pass'd some cottage, roofless, burnt,
‘I saw the little garden, still adorn'd
‘With many an humble plant, and bedded round,
‘With the wild thyme, tho' half o'ergrown with weeds,
‘That, springing up, declared no master near
‘To check them, or relieve the scatter'd flowers
‘That from beneath peep'd out. Full vain to tell
‘The havoc of these Normans, all around
‘I mark'd their fatal tracks!—wide wasting fire,
‘And desolation wider!—As the west,
‘With heavy heart I reach'd, throughout the land
‘Tidings I sent for all of Saxon blood,
‘Instant, to join my standard. Soon I saw
‘Full many a loyal and intrepid youth
‘Throng eager round me, and again I thought
‘Success might crown our cause. Before the morn
‘We rose to practise arms. A braver band
‘No chieftain's heart might cheer. Still we went on
‘Collecting, and each day beheld our ranks
‘Grow with our confidence. But now the news
‘Reach'd us, that Hubba from the Cambrian shore
‘Pass'd over with a host of mighty men;—
‘Refresh'd, with appetite for fire and blood!
‘I then revolved what best might serve our cause,
‘And call'd for counsel. To resist were vain.

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‘There was a certain castle, Kenwith, near:
‘To that we fled; when as we reach'd the gates,
‘Upon a hill, adjacent, we beheld
‘Hubba the Danish chief.

‘The castle walls
‘Scarce had we reach'd, when up the enemy
‘Came shouting, and a fierce and haughty Dane
‘Bore me this summons.’ ‘Instant spread thy gates,
‘Or, by immortal Thor! before the morn,
‘Death shall o'erwhelm thee.’ Thus I answer gave.
‘Insatiate Waster from the north, thy threats
‘Oddune disdains! Tell Hubba, ours a king,
‘Matchless for worth and valour, such as Danes,
‘Ere long shall learn to estimate. Away!
‘We have not learn'd to fear.’ ‘The man retired
‘Now night was drawing near, when thus I cried,
‘Saxons attend. Through all the castle search,
‘And name what food; for we are now cut off
‘From present succour. Instant search was made,
‘And soon I learn'd that there was left in store
‘Slender provision only. Loud I cried,
‘We will transmute that little into much.’
‘Now we resolved, with consultation due,
‘To send some man to tell thee of our state;—
‘Some cautious man, and resolute withal.
‘One of tried confidence I call'd—he came—
‘I thus address'd him. Find thou out our king!
‘Seek him alike thro' town and hamlet small!
‘Ask of the lonely travell'r, for behold,
‘On thee, and on thy mission hang our lives.’

The king replied, ‘I saw him not. What course
‘Took the said man?’ Oddune replied, ‘Forbear:
‘Soon shalt thou know. The night now waned away
‘In earnest consultation, and we weigh'd
‘What best might serve. When from the watch-tower top

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‘We spied the sun uprising, bursting forth
‘In all his splendors; with that goodly sight
‘We saw the Danes, nearing our castle walls.
‘I need not tell, to thee, what thoughts were ours
‘At that dread moment, when, before us, Danes
‘Raved for our blood.—All was full confidence!
‘The men who round me throng'd were resolute,
‘Patriots, who loved their king, their country prized,
‘Now panting, as of yore, to meet the foe.
‘From the high battlements we could behold
‘The work of death preparing, and the hour
‘Approaching fast when every Saxon man
‘Must prove his sword and heart. For many a day
‘This sight we saw. And now the foe advanced,
‘Prepared for storm and slaughter.—Near our walls,
‘There stood a mighty host, who with such shouts
‘Fill'd the surrounding air, that, for awhile,
‘We only heard, one sense predominant.
‘And now they raised their ladders, and began
‘To mount the walls! I need not tell, O, King!
‘How we received them. Never saw I yet
‘The Saxon's sword so busy, or their shields
‘Staying so many darts. We stood like men.
‘Upon that morn, tho' not unmindful, I,
‘Fought with less ardour, to myself it seem'd,
‘Than each man who around thee listens, still,
‘So dreadful was their valour.’—

At his words
The shout prevail'd, and when again the chief
Prepared to speak, the sounds more lofty grew,
Holding his words at bay. Like some tall tree,
Pride of the mountain, when the tempest bends
Its quivering head, and as it aims once more
To cast its foliage back, and gaze at heaven,
More furious feels the blast. When Alfred cried,
‘The coward never owns his cowardice.

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‘Oddune, I know thee well. Speak on.’ He spake.
‘Hard was the conflict, but at length we saw
‘The Danish sword rise heavily, whilst heaps
‘Writhing o'er heaps, beneath the ramparts lay;
‘And all that yet ascended, came to know
‘What 'twas to die.’—

The contest now was o'er.
‘Back to their camp, we view'd the Danes retire,
‘Discomfited, calling most vehement
‘On gods, but not the living God! Our hearts
‘Felt as they ought to feel. From the first day,
‘Silent, there stood upon our loftiest tower
‘One anxious to behold if friendly force
‘Drew night to succour; for we yet had hopes,
‘Fond, but unwise, and not to be essay'd
‘By reason, that thou yet would'st show thyself
‘From unlook'd quarter; so the patient man,
‘Gazed, and for ever gazed.—Now anxious thoughts
‘Came on us, for the messenger whose way
‘Dangers beset: whilst each man felt, yet feared
‘To tell his feelings. When the night drew near,
‘As planning in our hall, to our surprise,
‘Before us stood a man, Ceolric named,
‘By thee, with a paternal earnestness.
‘Sent to declare of succour. When we knew
‘Thy welfare, and that soon the Saxon sword
‘Would fly to aid us, rapture were a word
‘Too weak to speak our joy. The herald told
‘Of words which he had heard, when 'neath the walls
‘Trembling he crouch'd. We thank'd him, and again
‘Bade him seek thee.’—

‘Now fast our food declined.
‘While musing sad at heart, sudden I felt
‘An animating power arise. I cried,
‘What once I heard thee utter, ‘Spirits brave
‘Shine most in peril. When the thunders sound,

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‘And little minds exclaim, One moment more
‘And death will visit us, the brave stand firm,
‘And, tho' alive to danger, dictate calm
‘What best may serve them.’ Such let us be found!
‘Alfred this sword presented me, and said,
‘I need not name thy duty,’ and in truth
‘He needed not, I knew it. Hear me, friends!
‘Provision scanty only now remains.
‘Two paths present themselves. Within these walls,
‘T'encounter famine, or, made desperate,
‘Pass through yon gates at midnight, and, if doom'd
‘To meet our foes, fight manfully, urged on
‘By all that fear forebodes, or hope inspires.
‘Each answer'd, ‘Let us dare the sudden flight.’
‘This was our resolution.’—

‘When eve came,
‘From the high battlements we saw the sun
‘Go down, resplendent, and anon, no ray
‘Shone through the sky. Now, where the Danish camp
‘Spread wide, we mark'd th'ascending fires, and thought
‘Of victims immolated to their gods;
‘Such was the light in heaven. We told our host,
‘Twelve hundred men, and, having left in view
‘The Saxon standard, through the gate we pass'd!—
‘'Twas darkness all. The hollow wind flew by,
‘And each could hear it rise, and die away—
‘So perfect was the silence.

‘From the gate
‘We sudden turn'd, to keep the fatal spot
‘Most distant, where, with fires and shouts, the Danes
‘Held their mad orgies. Onward then we march'd,
‘Still as the night, unceasing. One long day,
‘Rapid we urg'd our course, and, on the next,
‘We met a chilling sight!—A sight which some
‘Little might heed, yet such as thou wilt hear,
‘O king, with sorrow: we beheld the man,

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‘Whom, on a former day, we sent to thee
‘To tell our state, stretch'd mangled on the earth!
‘We knew the arm that smote him. Pardon me.
‘If I recount his worth, for he was one—
Too good to be pass'd by—

‘I knew him well.
‘Beside my castle stood his cot, the seat
‘Of many comforts, and, tho' poor and low,
‘He loved it and was cheerful. When the storm,
‘The accustom'd chase forbade, I loved to stray
‘To this low cottage, where I learn'd that man
‘Required not wealth to taste of happiness.
‘The mother at her spinning wheel was there,
‘And round, her elder children, who, like her,
‘Earn'd well their bread. And ever as the eve,
‘With lengthening shadows, slowly gather'd round,
‘The sire, returning from his distant toil,
‘Beheld his child, that, to the old oak-tree,
‘Totter'd to meet his father; who, with joy,
‘Parents best know, quicken'd his tardy step
‘At sight of him, and with the outstretched arm,
‘Caught up his rosy boy, embracing him,
‘And bore him to his lowly dwelling near;
‘Where, as he entered, the fond smile arose,
‘Spontaneous on each brow. Then would he taste
‘The frugal meal, or, holding on each knee
‘A prattling infant, toy awhile, or tell,
‘Some direful tale, haply of Beli's sons,
‘Or Ludd's calamities, that made their eyes,
‘(Ready alike to weep or smile,) look up
‘In childhood's vacant wonderment. When late,
‘I, at thy bidding, reach'd the west, to rouse
‘Courage in all who loved the Saxon weal,
‘I sought him first. 'Twas as the eve advanced;
‘I saw him with his family, but not

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‘Cheerful, as heretofore; a sullen gloom
‘Lower'd o'er his brow, for many a man went by,
‘And told of thy disasters, and the Danes.
‘Palsied with hopeless dread, full many a day
‘He had not left his cot, for when he saw
‘His helpless children, and a wife so dear,
‘He grasp'd his father's sword, and with his son,
‘Worthy of such a sire, a noble youth,
‘Stood, fearless, to resist what foe or foes
‘Might dare invade them. When he view'd me near,
‘(I yet behold him,) rushing out, he cried,
‘My master! Is it thou? And art thou yet
‘Spared in this dying hour?’ I answer'd not,
‘For creeping round my knees his children came
‘Welcome to bear; whilst from his mother's breast
‘One toward me bent; I saw his infant smiles,
‘And half forgot my sorrows. But enough!
‘Oswald I thus address'd. Shout, gallant man!
‘To raise the country hither am I come,
‘Sent by our monarch. We must one and all
‘Make the last effort. Looking firm, he said,
‘Here are my wife and children! need I say,
‘How dear they are? thou know'st it! yet e'en these,
‘I can forsake to aid the best of kings,
‘And serve my country! Speak, and I obey,’

‘Never will come the hour that I shall lose
‘The touching and heart-harrowing spectacle,
‘When from his door he pass'd. The mother came,
‘Who silent stood before, and, weeping, cried,
‘Husband, may God preserve thee!’ Saying this,
‘Back she retired. The children now drew near,
‘And one, a blooming girl address'd me thus;
‘From harm preserve my father! Noble chief!
‘We have no other friend.’ ‘She thought my power,
‘Next to omnipotent. Ill-fated maid!

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‘If living, thou hast sorrow yet in store.
‘We left the cottage. Never braver man
‘Join'd in thy service. Through the country round,
‘He journey'd, calling Wessex' sons to arms;
‘And soon a valiant host, to serve their king,
‘Came crowding near. I told thee how we fled
‘To Kenwith, and in that important hour,
‘Requiring some stout heart, I thought of him,
‘And sent him as a wary man, yet bold,
‘To bear our state to thee; and here alas!
‘Lay his sad corse! Each gazer round exclaim'd,
‘Poor Oswald!’ Ours were true and unbought tears.
‘We gave him sepulture!

‘But I must say
‘Something of Oswald's son, Montalto named.
‘Bold, gen'rous, and preeminent for worth:
‘Frank, lion-hearted:—rich in mental store;
‘Wealth not derived from others, but himself;
‘From the rich stores of a reflective mind:
‘By nature taught. When he beheld his sire
‘Eager for war, ‘I by my father's side,’
‘Loud he exclaim'd, ‘will meet the wasting Dane,
‘And fight for Alfred—while one drop of blood
‘Flows in these veins.’—The mother hasten'd near,
‘And gazing at me, with a tearful eye,
‘Said plaintively, ‘Chieftain, my heart will break!
‘Spare me my son! Take not Montalto hence!
‘Let one suffice! These little ones around
‘He must protect!’—I saw the weeping tribe!
‘Wilt thou withhold, thy censure? At that sight
‘My heart relented!—‘Stay!’ I to him spake.—
‘Be thou a father, till thy sire's return!’
‘On every visage, joy, a gleam o'erspread!
‘Not so Montalto.—With the settled brow,
‘One knee on earth, the youth thus answer'd me.’
‘O, chieftain, hear my prayer!—Restrain me not!

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‘Thy will I prize, but I, whate'er thou say'st,
‘At such a time when foes devour our land,
‘Must serve my king and country!—If I haste,
‘(Nor long delay) to join the battle-plain,
‘Deem not my reverence less, O, chief, for thee!
‘Now must I sorrowing,—leave the little ones,—
‘The mother, best of mothers! whom I love—
‘Heaven knows how dearly! yet the whole I leave,
‘To that good Providence which governs all!’
‘Which said, he hasten'd to his cottage door.
‘Such is the stable texture of his mind,
‘That he, erelong, I judge, will join our ranks,—
‘No Saxon more courageous. With thy grace,
‘Him will I raise above th' unletter'd hind.’
‘Aye!’ Alfred cried, ‘Distinguish his desert.
‘Such men are rare, and we must honour them.
‘Merit with me shall never want a friend.’
When Oddune once again his speech pursued.

‘But now I tell thee of my progress here.
‘I knew that Selwood was our king's resort,
‘And having reach'd its confines, we, awhile,
‘Paused in uncertainty, when looking round
‘We saw a lonely damsel, with her load
‘Of fruits and cates, of whom we ask'd for thee.
‘Timid, she answer'd, ‘To the king's resort
‘I now am bound.’ Conducted by the maid,
‘We reach'd this castle, and with unfeign'd joy
‘Once more behold our monarch.’

Alfred cried.
‘Subjects! thrice welcome after toils like yours!’
‘When, turning to his valiant friend, he spake.
‘Good Oddune this most piteous tale of thine,—
‘Of Oswald, that true-hearted cottager,
‘Afflicts me, and so hangs upon my mind,
‘That I could half have wish'd I had not heard—

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‘What do I say? should ever king reject
‘Misfortune's touching voice?—a moment shun
‘Sorrows his subjects bear, and, not to hear,
‘Fancy they are not felt?—This luxury—
‘I know it not! my ear shall hear them all.—
‘This heart commiserate; and if I live—
‘To the extreme of possibility,
‘This hand relieve. Such are the duties stern,
‘I recognise. Kings should exist alone
‘To bless their subjects.—All that thou hast said
‘Mem'ry will hold with solemn faithfulness,
‘And if the hour of peace should ere arrive,
‘I may convince that wretched family,
‘That they have yet a friend.’

Oddune once more.
‘If not obtrusive, I, one other word
‘Would speak of young Montalto, for, in truth
‘He is no fleeting character; a son
‘With mind and heart of all rare qualities.
‘Some call him Bard, but he himself denies
‘Title so high. A shepherd youth is he,
‘Fond of his simple lute, on which he plays,
‘His flock beside, while oft the villagers
‘Crowd round to listen, and in festive hour
‘Join in the evening dance. But I must cease.
‘These are unsuited words for royal ears.’—
‘Nay,’ Alfred cried, ‘speak on. Some moments few
‘The busiest may devote to recreate;
‘And after these thy words, the change of thought
‘May best prepare us for more cogent things.’

Bending, thus Oddune spake. ‘This shepherd youth
‘Montalto, with his crook, and rustic pipe
‘Roam'd o'er the hills, and made the vallies ring
‘With his sweet melody. A youth so prized,
‘Courteous, and kind at heart, and good withal—

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‘Above the common standard, gain'd the smiles,
‘(O, loveliest moment of life's holyday!—
‘To which the elder turn, unconsciously,
‘With ever new delight, and fondly say,
‘Once, I was happy! That sweet Calenture,—
‘When love first beam'd upon his youthful heart—
‘That verdant spot! where memory lingers still,
‘Loath leaving it!) Montalto gain'd the smiles,
‘Reciprocal, of one a shepherd maid,
‘Lovely as chaste, while all the country round
‘Heaped praises on Matilda, and her swain.
‘To tempt her to the early walk, when dews
‘Hung on the thorn,—creation smiling round,
‘This lover's song he late addressed to her.

Come Matilda, blooming Fair,
Hear thine own Montalto call;
With the lark will we repair
To the loud, rough waterfall.

Who can view the woodbine wreathe,
Lovely guardian, round the bower;
Who the early perfume breathe,
And not hail the balmy hour.

Now, wandering thro' the meadow wide,
With the wood-note warbling loud;
Now by the the clear meandering tide,
Gliding, like a monarch proud.

Who can view the yellow corn,
To the reaper bending low;
Or the ruby cloud of Morn,
Nor the grateful heart o'erflow.

What with nature may compare,
To awake the lofty thought;
Nature, ever new and fair,
Now to pomp of glory wrought!

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Oh! what proof, what line on line,
Teeming through our Earthly Ball;—
With a plenitude divine,
Of a Great—Eternal All!

Before the fervent noon-tide ray,
Mark the air, with quiet deep;
While yet the ruddy dawn delay,
And with dew the flowret weep,

All alone will we retreat,
Far from every prying eye;
And beguile the moment fleet
With delightful coloquy.

Come, improve the happy time,
While we think, the whole may fade;
In the morning hour of prime,
Come, Matilda, blooming Maid!

Alfred thus spake; ‘Good Oddune, at this hour,
‘Thoughts of high import fill my mind, yet, know,
‘Should heaven our efforts bless, and we, the Danes
‘Hurl from our land, remembrance I will keep
‘Of young Montalto, and his promised bride;—
‘Claim'd by their own desert, and to award
‘Some honor to poor Oswald!—Spirit his
‘Refreshing to the burden'd memory—
‘That turns from names inferior, to survey
‘Our human nature, in its grandest form.
‘Cramp'd by the power of circumstance, I now
‘Can only heave the sigh, and wish, not act.

‘Most noble king!’ Oddune obeisant cried,
‘I have one other Lay, safely lock'd up
‘In this my mem'ry of the shepherd youth's—
‘Montalto! would'st thou hear it at this hour?
‘I prize it, tho' the chaff preponderates.
‘It has a secret meaning, to be sought

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‘Amid the rubbish that encumbers it.—
‘Fit for the winter eve,—the christmas fire,
‘When stories fly like sparks from Vulcan's forge;
‘Fancy predominant. But thou shalt judge.’
Alfred, with passing smile, this answer made.
‘Oddune! thou'rt smitten by old Poesy.
‘I like thee better for thy little weakness.
‘I too am touch'd by the same malady.
‘But this in happier times. Yet may I say—
‘When evening closes round, few moments then
‘I may bestow upon Montalto's Lay:
‘Now sterner duties call us. War is near!
‘We must prepare for battle! haste thou forth!
‘I follow thee. Our all is now at stake!
‘The Danes, to madness stung—soon will present
‘The hostile front, calling our valour forth.’

Oddune obey'd; when thro' the Saxon hosts,
Joyful he ranged, and found, with bounding heart,
One hope predominant; for all aspired
To meet the infuriate wasters of their land.—
Now, at the midnight hour, when stillness reign'd,
Oddune the king approach'd. Thus he began.
‘This is Montalto's Lay.

In Albion's olden times was born,
No matter where,—a lovely Mary:
Her cheek was like the blush of morn,
Lightsome and gay as Fawn or Fairy.
But still, she was not free from ailing;
She had one small, but common failing.

To Wish, and Wish, was her delight,—
More changeful than the Shepherd's fold.
The weather never suited quite,
It was too hot,—or else too cold:
And then,—some distant object pleased her,
But what was present always teazed her.

178

A Wizard Sage, with stately stride
Once cross'd her path, and saw her sad.
‘What ails thee? Gentle Maid!’ he cried,
‘I like the damsel blithe and glad,’
Oh, Sir!' she said, ‘I wish in vain,
‘And when I'm weary, wish again.

‘I see the hoar-frost deck the sprays,
‘But Winter has no charms for me;
‘I love the long and joyous days
‘When nature smiles in ecstasy.’
‘'Tis done!’ the Wizard cried, when, lo!
The heavens with Cancer's radiance glow.

Pleased with the change, the Sun she hails.
But soon his scorching beams oppress'd her;
‘I lïke,’ she cried, ‘bleak Winter's gales,
‘His ice-bound streams, and rugged vesture;—
‘When parties,—meeting with delight,
‘Recount the freaks of Imp or Sprite.—

‘When, 'mid the crackling hearth, all pale,
‘We hear the tempest rave without;
‘Repeating Ghost or Elfin tale,
‘Till all their nearest neighbours doubt,
‘And see, distinct, in earth or air,
‘Some Spirit glide, or Goblin glare.’

The Wizard heard, when, instant, round,
Old Frost's teeth-chattering empire spread;—
The leafless tree, the iron ground,
With dark'ning clouds, portentous! dread!
The snows now mantle vale and hill,
And the wintry winds are loud and chill!

The maiden, shrinking, shivering, cried,—
‘I wish sweet Summer's balm were near!’
The Wizard heard, and thus replied,—
‘Haste Summer!’ when the prospect drear,—
Vanish'd! and, at the potent sound,
All forms luxuriant reign around!

179

When thus the Wizard.—‘From this hour,
‘Summers and Winters, thee obey!
‘Call either! Well improve thy power!’—
Exulting in imperial sway,
With views, like ocean, unconfined,
All rapturous visions fill her mind.

She first on Winter calls, and then,
The Summer pleas'd her taste the best;
Then surly Winter comes again,
And then the Hours, in garlands drest.
Each follows each, as Fancy reasons,
And thus successive pass the seasons.

Alas! in her tumultuous dream,
She thought not of the march of Years;
She heeds not Time's retreating stream,
That never in its flood appears!
And now, on her once lovely face,
The eye the stamp of age might trace!

It chanced that on a summer's morn,
She, musing, stray'd o'er neighbouring mountain;
And as she sped thro' brake and thorn,
She look'd into a glassy fountain.
She starts! she shrieks! the frantic cry
Proclaims the sufferer's agony!

In loneliness she breathes her pain;—
‘How shall my heart its anguish hide!
‘I never shall be young again
The bud has droop'd, the flower has died!
‘Wishes have been my broken reed,
‘And my days have pass'd with lightning speed!’

While in the depths of sorrow drown'd
(Where hope no transient gleam might borrow;)
The Wizard Mary weeping found.
When thus she faltering told her sorrow;—
‘For wishes I my life have sold!
‘I once was young, but now am old!

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‘I scarce have breathed th' inspiring air—
‘Before my mortal periods close:
‘The slow-declining years—prepare
The weary spirit for repose;
‘And reverend is the mouldering tree,
‘But youth and age are one to me.’

The Wizard thus.—‘I read thy fate!
‘In vain thou mourn'st thy days mispent!
‘Knowledge with thee hath come too late,—
‘So steep'd in Thankless Discontent!
‘Mourn on,—thy wasted hours and years,
‘And shed thine unavailing tears.’

Bereft, disconsolate, opprest!
The mourner stands, with downcast head!
Commotion revels in her breast,
But utterance from her lips has fled.
The Tear,—to magic power allied,
Now softens him who came to chide!

‘Thou hast been first in Folly's train,
‘But if, (he utter'd) at this time,
‘I raise my Wand, and once again
‘Restore thee to thy pristine prime;
‘Wilt thou renounce thy Wishing Chains?—
‘And deem that best which Heaven ordains?’

She cried,—joy flashing from her eyes,
‘Let others grasp at phantoms vain,
‘Wishes! your treacheries I despise!
‘I spurn my fetters with disdain!
‘Give me my youth, and I will strive
‘To keep Contentment's spark alive.’

He touch'd her, when she stands arrayed
All lovely as the roseate Spring!
The graceful mien!—the blooming maid!
(Brief honors! ever on the wing!)
When thus the Sage, impressive spake;—
‘To nobler aspirations wake!

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With thee all excellence is youth,
‘Unmindful of thy nobler part!
‘Prize rather Wisdom, Virtue, Truth;
‘The graces of the mind and heart!
‘These shall survive, and lustre shed,
‘When beauty fades, and youth is fled!’

‘The days of mortal man are few.—
‘There is a heritage in sight!
‘That object steadfast, keep in view,
‘And plume thy pinions for the flight!
‘Man's life is emblem'd by the grass!
‘Improve the moments as they pass!’

‘A dream! A lullaby!’ Alfred exclaim'd.
‘Yet hath it one redeeming quality.—
‘There is a prize,—a heritage before us!
‘Oddune! may'st thou, may I, and all we love,
‘That greatest of all interests keep in sight!’
‘Heaven grant it!’ Oddune cried.
‘All else is chaff!’

He moves not. Other words seemed gathering fast—
By hesitation checked. The King beholds
Confusion in the Chieftain's countenance,
When, smiling, he inquires,—‘What hast thou more,
‘Good Oddune, at this hour to claim our thoughts?—
‘I wait to hear thee.’—Thus the Warrior spake.

‘Will it intrusion prove, most noble King,
‘If I recount to thee one other lay
‘Of young Montalto.—'Tis a record dread,
‘Yet teeming with instruction,—of a youth,
‘With cheering prospects, blasted in one hour—
‘When wine had madden'd him. Now, wretch he is,
‘And wildly calls on her whom he has slain,—
‘Forgetful of the deed so horrible!
‘From whose example, the intemperate crew
‘Wisdom might learn, and shun, more earnestly
‘Th' intoxicating bowl, than scorpions dire,

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‘And deadliest poisons. If my prayer thou grant,
‘In condescension, speak, I pray my lord.’

Half loath, yet courteous, thus the King replies.
‘This once I hear thee, but, the interdict,
‘Pass I on all beside. I wait thy speech,’

Oddune, obeisant, thus.—‘The youth was named,—
‘Proud Ailward.’ Near the castle where I dwell
Was his abode, and at this very hour
He stands a monument, where all may read
How terrible is passion, which resents
Remonstrance, tho' expressed in gentlest guise.
Montalto found him, wandering, wild, and wan,
And, pitying, strove to cheer him; pointed out
The sinner's refuge;—reason'd valiantly
Against despair, but his solicitudes
Proved fruitless. Reason from her base was hurl'd!
To chronicle so sad a spectacle,
Our rustic bard, Montalto, pour'd the strain.

What youth is that, who on the tomb
Kneels, poring, in you lonely place?—
His hands outspread, and with a gloom,
Stamp'd, like a seal, upon his face?

He nothing heeds the passer by,
Bent o'er the cold sepulchral stone:
The deep-sunk, listless, wandering eye
Declares an anguish, all his own

He shrinks not from the wintry snow,—
Unconscious he, in sorrow drown'd:
The rains descend! the tempests blow!
He hears not, heeds not, sight or sound.

Whence are those wailing griefs forlorn?—
Which all may hear, tho' none may share?
‘O, misery that I was born,
‘And made this crushing load to bear!

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‘My mother! when shall Ailward hear
‘Those tender tones that once were thine?
‘Where art thou gone? my mother dear!—
‘Ah!—never more must joy be mine!

‘An unquench'd fire consumes my breath!
‘My crimes uprise in dread array!
‘The night to me is lingering death,
‘While torturing Demons on me prey!’

The quivering heart, the trembling knee—
Proclaim the waves that o'er him roll!
What can this deed of darkness be,
Which drinks the spirit, racks the soul!

Oh! it is deep, which we would fain
Blot out!—as memory's darkest day!
Oh! it is branded with a stain—
Which Oceans might not wash away!—

Fill'd with th' inebriate draught, the child
Unshrinking, acts th' assassin's part!
He grasp'd the blade, in fury wild,
And plung'd it to a mother's heart!

Excess no longer steels his breast!
His eye is dim! his cheek is pale!
Reflection comes with horrors drest,
And o'er his spirit casts the veil!

He roams a Maniac! See him there!
No peace is his, in sun or shade!
He wrings his hands, and in despair
Weeps o'er the grave himself has made!

‘A touching tale!’ cried Alfred, ‘and the more,
‘That truth is with it.’—Plaintive, thus the king,—
(The tear descending)—‘What unnumbered hosts
‘Of crimes and outrage on intemperance wait!
‘War slays his thousands, but a vaster crowd
‘Wine immolates!—men loving life,—who yet—
‘Speed with avidity the road to death!
‘Now, Oddune, fare thee well.’
The chieftain heard

And bending left the presence of the King.

184

BOOK XII.

SCENE—THE DANISH CAMP BEFORE KENWITH CASTLE.

ARGUMENT.

The Danes attack Kenwith Castle; find the Saxons fled; Ivar arrives; Death of Ella; intelligence brought of the destruction of the Fleet; Quarrel of Hubba and Guthrum.

Hubba exclaim'd, gazing on Kenwith's walls,
‘Now is the hour arrived! Soon shall yon flag
‘That thus exalts its head, waving in scorn,
‘With every man in that devoted pile
‘On earth lie prostrate.’ Turning to his troops,
Wrathful he cried, ‘When on the battlements
‘This sword you see triumphant, spreading round,
‘Death and destruction, view your wrathful prince!
‘Nor till you see him stay the work of death,
‘Warriors, stay ye! for, by immortal Thor,
‘I swear no Saxon shall survive this day.’
When Guthrum rais'd his voice, but, as he spake,
Hubba, impatient cried, ‘Silence, O, man!
‘No moment this for words! Prepare thy sword.
‘We haste to triumph.’ When, the banner, near,
Eager he seiz'd, and march'd toward Kenwith's towers.

185

Hubba replied, pride beaming from his eye,
‘On every side the dastard Saxons flee!
‘This isle is ours! nor doth one foe remain
‘To brave our onset. Now the fight is o'er.
‘Thou comest here to revel on rich spoils,
‘Not to contend with enemies, whose force
‘Merits thy valour. I have done the deed!
‘The honour mine!’—Ivar transported cried,
‘Thanks to the gods we worship! Thanks to him,
‘First of the heavenly throng, who from his halls
‘Descends when dangers threaten, and amid
‘Our army stands. But let us know thy deeds!
‘What hast thou done? and where the Saxon king,
‘Alfred, that stubborn foe?’ When Hubba thus:

‘Our native mountains, or Finmarkian plains,
‘Never such valour witness'd, as this land.
‘The feats of former wars, a semblance faint
‘Of these my matchless deeds; I have gone forth
‘Throughout the isle, scattering around me death,
‘And made my heart so conversant with blood
‘And fatal resolution, that till now,
‘Perils and strife, I never rightly priz'd.
‘This lovely land is ours! The toil is o'er!
‘And when the spoil is gathered, we are free
‘To form new plans, and subjugate new climes.
‘Now is our father's death aveng'd! This land
‘Curs'd with his blood, shall long the day bewail
‘That saw him perish. Dost thou, Ivar! ask,
‘Where Alfred is? would I could say in death!
‘Where is the fox, when the sun shews himself?—
‘Did I not name our father's death avenged?
‘Ivar! not yet. I have a captive here,
‘Whom to behold, will make thy bounding heart
‘Labour with ecstasy. Ella is mine!—
‘The base Northumbrian king who slew our sire!’

186

Ivar exclaim'd. ‘Ella! the Saxon king!
‘How came he thine? Lend me thy thunders, Thor!
‘Thy lightnings lend me! and inspire this heart
‘To find some curse, tenfold more horrible
‘Than man hath yet endured! Now, Hubba, name
‘Whence came the captive?’ Hubba thus replied:

‘Hear the glad tale! When to thy native shore
‘I saw thee sail, to rouse our countrymen
‘Against this isle; northward I sped, to seek
‘The man whom Danes most hate. Soon I beheld,
‘Ogbert; the fight began. Before our swords
‘He fell and all his host. Next Ella came,
‘Proud on his prancing steed, of victory sure,
‘And counting o'er his slaughter'd enemies;
‘Such was his confidence. I turn'd and cried,
‘Behold the murderer of your king! This day
‘We will perform a deed, of which the Scald,
‘Hereafter shall delight to sing, and tell
‘How Hubba, in his fury, met the man
‘Who slew his father; what he there perform'd,
‘Whilst vengeance flapt her wings; what spoil was won,
‘What banquets to the hungry wolves were given,
‘When, calling on our Odin and our Thor,
‘This fight began.—Long and severe the strife,
‘Till, by our arms o'erpower'd, the Saxons fled!
‘Death followed them! Our very swords were hot
‘With that day's slaughter! Ella was my prey!
‘With this strong arm I beat him to the ground!
‘I rais'd him up! This sword defended him—
‘To crown the day of triumph when we met!
‘Now thou art here, now shall our wrath be shewn.
‘Bring forth the captive Ella!’—

Ivar cried,
‘Thou worthy son of an exalted sire,
‘Thou art my brother! Now a flood of wrath

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‘We both will pour o'er Ella; he shall feel
‘The bitterness of death, yet cease to die
‘Till we revenge have had—complete, and full.
‘He shall be flay'd!’

Now with his clanking chains,
Downcast and pale, the wretched Ella comes!
He sees before him death, whilst the fierce Danes
Scoffing behold him. When the chieftain cried
To those around, ‘Seize the perfidious king!
‘Tear off his garb!’—Ella approach'd and said,
‘Hast thou no mercy?’ ‘Mercy!’ cried the chief,
‘Where was thy mercy, when immured in earth,
‘My father lay? How was thy pity shewn,
‘When, from thy dungeon, Regner sent his voice,
‘In solemn tones, calling on us his sons
‘To think of Ella, whilst upon his heart
‘Fierce serpents preyed? He died, and so shalt thou!
‘Seize him, and bind him to yon tree! There carve
‘Upon his naked back the eagle's form,
‘Whilst we gaze on exulting.’—To the tree
The wretched Ella now is bound! With joy,
Wielding their monstrous knives, two men advance,
And from the neck, with an unshrinking hand,
Downward, the long gash draw. They pause awhile;
Then, 'neath the shoulder, either side, extend
The murderous weapon, and with straining hand,
Rend the tough skin, till o'er each elbow, wide
The flaps are spread, and to the gazing eye
The red nerve quivers!—

Silent his fierce pain,
Ella had long endured, when Ivar cried,
‘Now let him die! Hubba, thy lance prepare!
‘Transfix his heart!’ Hubba his lance uprais'd,
And stepping forward, poised the weapon well,
Then, hurl'd it furious! Thro' the sufferer's heart
It forced its way, and each of all around

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Rais'd the loud shout as Ella groan'd and died.
When Hubba thus: ‘One task alone remains;
‘Alfred, our greater foe, to seize and serve
‘Like yonder Ella, whilst the ravens round,
‘Snuffing their prey, sail slow, and croak for blood.’

While gazing o'er the scene, Hubba exclaim'd
‘What noise is that?—Yon man!—whence came he? Say,
‘Stranger! thy business!’ When the man drew near,
A mariner, and cried, ‘The day is lost!
‘Ruin approaches fast! The fleet! the fleet!’
‘What mean'st thou?’ Ivar cried: ‘Mortal declare!
‘Or death reward thee!’ ‘Stay thy hand,’ the man
Cries trembling, ‘This my tale: The fleet is lost!
‘Burnt! Vanish'd! Not a plank where once it lay
‘Now may be seen!’—

NOt more amaz'd is he,
Who meets his death-wound from some hidden cause,
Than Ivar and the chiefs that round him throng'd.
‘Burnt! did'st thou say?’ Th'indignant warrior cried;
‘Whence came the fire? The gods are on our part,
‘And where the Saxons? Name it not again!
‘Nay own thyself a lair, or this sword
‘Wars with thy life!’—

The mariner replied,
‘'Twas false! Now check thy wrath.’ Ivar exclaim'd,
‘Tell me the truth! Play with the lion's paw,
‘But fear thy Prince!’—‘If then declare I may,’
Answer'd the mariner, ‘By this good sword,
‘My words were true! The fleet indeed is burnt!
‘The very clouds of heaven, caught the fierce glow!
‘Methinks I see it yet.’

A sudden fear,
A dark anticipation, indistinct,
Now fill'd the Danes. Their very natures changed
To momentary languor and so still'd

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Their fiery wrath, that each appear'd to each,
Spell-bound and half forgetful of himself.—
So the fierce bears, that unmolested range
The snowy arctic, whilst, amid the plains,
Or mountains wild, they gave their hideous yells,
Breaking the sleep of Nature, that half seems
To rise from her eternal slumbers, white,
With fearful expectations and strange dreams!
Till, wand'ring through the ice, or forest dark,
Sudden they meet the pit-fall, and, for once,
Forget their brumal appetites, and crouch
Peaceful beside some brother of the wood.

Cried Ivar, whilst his labouring breath heaved hard,
‘Where are the women? Are they massacred?’
‘All! all!’ the man replied.—‘Vengeance afresh!’
Exclaim'd the chieftain. ‘Seize your swords! Prepare
‘For fiery wrath, and hate unquenchable!’
Through all the Danish ranks one sound was heard—
‘Blood! Blood!’ whilst Hubba turn'd—foaming with ire
And hurl'd at Ella's corse another lance.—
Rous'd from the transient silence, Hubba cried,
‘Rejoice, oh, brother! this is as the brave
‘Might truly wish! What led our footsteps here?
‘Not to defend a fleet, but, conquer crowns!
‘And we will conquer. Will, did I declare?
‘Conquer'd we have! Our vanquish'd enemies,
‘Flee ever, whilst their boasted king, grown wise,
‘Unfriended hides 'mid cave and precipice.’—
Ivar replied, ‘This news is ominous!
‘And what thou say'st of crowns and victories
‘Comes coldly to mine ear. Yet, we are Danes,
‘Who obstacles may meet, but cannot fear.’
‘I tell thee,’ Hubba cried, ‘This isle is ours,—
‘Conquer'd. No foe remains, and Alfred's self
‘Quick ruin shall o'ertake! I augur well

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‘This deed is his.’

Now to the tower they pass,
When Hubba thus: ‘Guthrum! what thoughts are thine?’
The chieftain answer'd. ‘Light as are the winds
‘I heed these tidings, yet, in human ways,
‘Strange accidents turn out, and wide the bounds
‘Of possibility. This wasted fleet
‘Might some time hence have serv'd our cause! Oh, no!
‘I wrong'd my better sense:—all aid is vain
‘But that which centres in ourselves—in Danes!
‘The blow falls heaviest which despair brings down!’
‘Rash! false adviser! didst thou say despair?
‘What word is that? We know it not,’ exclaim'd
Hubba, enraged. ‘Shall we whose mailed hearts
‘Fear never enter'd, for a moment name—
‘The thing despair?’—

Guthrum indignant cried,
‘How speak'st thou, chief! I, Hubba! of despair
‘Talk, and indulge weak fears for thee and me!
‘Young prince, thou know'st me not! Did I thus feel,
‘When, with thy father Regner, I pursued
‘The fierce Biarmian! Never did I fear
‘Serpent or giant, or the evil hour
‘When cowards tremble. Know! I fear not thee!’

‘Thy sword!’ cried Hubba. Now be death thy fate,
‘Or mine!’ Him Guthrum answer'd not, but forth,
Dared to the fight, and as they forward rush'd,
Ivar exclaim'd, ‘Spirits of hell, avaunt!
‘What means this strife? O, Danes, restrain your wrath!
‘I grieve for this your rashness! Where is now,
‘Hubba! thy wisdom? Guthrum! thy control?’
Each warrior, still remain'd; their massy shields,
Rais'd, and their swords suspended in the air;
When Ivar thus spake on.—
‘Guthrum, forbear!

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‘Check thy mad ire! Raise not, vindictive thus,
‘Thy arm for slaughter, when before thee stands
‘Denmark's proud prince! And Hubba, stay thy sword!
‘Think who endures thy wrath! Thy father's friend!
‘The guardian of our fortunes, and the man
‘Whom Regner thought of, at his death, and cried,
‘He shall avenge my fall!’ Truly he spake,
‘He has avenged it! View him as he is,
‘Rash, yet endued with truth, and heaven's best gifts,
‘Fidelity and courage.’

‘Guthrum's sword,
Dropp'd, and he cried, ‘The conflict now is o'er!
‘Hubba, thy hand! We know ourselves too well,
‘Courage to doubt, for thou art brave, and I,
‘I trust, not less so. Let us save our wrath—
‘The foe demands it!’—Hubba sheath'd his sword,
And with a smile repress'd, that seemed to hide
The lurking purpose, answer'd, ‘True, thy words.
‘They do indeed demand it, but, to find,
‘There is the stratagem. They flee our shades,
‘And by their secret and night-brooding plans
‘Make all our threat'nings vain.’ Hubba again,
After a moment's pause.—

‘This recent loss
‘We need not heed, but, that it seems to shew
‘Our foes, tho' weak, unconquer'd, and resolved
‘To work in darkness. Danes can never fear!
‘But, to my mind, tho' of success secure,
‘One deed seems needful! we must deprecate
‘Heaven's anger, and a victim's blood must flow.
‘Speak I not well, O, Ivar?’ He replied.
‘Thou dost. Some blood must flow, of human kind;
‘Gods will receive none else, but whose, this hour
‘Need not determine. I would further speak.
‘Hubba, our brother,—ere the fight begin,
‘And Alfred fall before us, nine long days

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‘With sacrifice, must we invoke our Gods—
‘T' insure success; then for the hour of wrath!’
When, turning, thus he spake. ‘Guthrum, 'tis meet
‘To send some spies, to learn how now we stand,
‘And where our enemies, what force they have;
‘That when the hours of merriment are o'er
‘Our swords may rise to vengeance.’ Guthrum heard
And forth withdrew.

The sounds his footseps made
Yet might be heard, when Hubba thus bespake.
‘Death on that Dane! The birds of deepest hell
‘Gorge on his heart! He rais'd his sword 'gainst mine!
‘Yes, Ivar! thou did'st see the sight! Thine eye
‘Witness'd thy brother's shame! and Hubba lives,
‘Injured, yet unrevenged! Why did my arm
‘Spare him? Beneath my feet, why lay he not
‘Mantled in gore?’ Wrought up to maddening rage,
And fierce as mountain torrent, he, again.
‘Ivar! thou see'st my sword; but if once more
‘This hand should shew it thee, and not o'erspread
‘With Guthrum's blood, then may I never meet
‘My murder'd father!’—Having said, he rush'd
Full toward the door, when Ivar, following, seized,
And thus exclaim'd;—‘Withhold the fatal deed!
‘Stay thy rash hand! Surrounded as thou art
‘By death and danger, would'st thou lift thy sword
‘'Gainst Guthrum?—that illustrious chief, whose name
‘Shines in our brightest annals? Hubba, know!
‘This wrath of thine so blinds thee, that thou view'st
‘The colour and complexion of his mind
‘Whom Denmark honors, in mistaken hues;—
‘As, mid the sunshine, sable birds look white.
‘Restrain thy raging spirit!’

‘When I cease,
Cried Hubba, ‘To forget this hour, inscribed
‘With wrongs indelible, all Vallhall, hear!

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‘May I forget myself! Thou saw'st his sword!
‘And yet he lives! Denmark's triumphant prince
‘Stood and beheld a mortal raise his arm,
‘Yet slew him not! But brief the wrong. Away!
‘Tempt not my wrath! Withhold thy iron grasp
‘And give me passage, or, before this sword,
‘E'en thou shalt fall! He dared my wrath! Stand by!
‘Parley anon!’—‘E'en now,’ cried Ivar, ‘stop!
‘Thou shalt not pass! but, hear me! Stay thine ire,
‘And listen, for before thee stands a pit,
‘Thou little know'st how deep! Are we not all
‘Surrounded by the Saxons? Would'st thou now—
‘At such an hour, survey thyself alone,
‘And not remember, that, on hostile soil
‘We sojourn, whilst an enemy around
‘Longs for our discord—waiting to devour
‘Both thee and me? Be wise and know thyself!
‘And if thou must, with blood, wipe out this stain,
‘Fancied, not real, stay till we have ground
‘Alfred to dust;—then, like our chiefs of old,
‘The heroes of our song,—rage, fight, and die!’

‘Thy words are wise,’ cried Hubba. ‘We will first
‘The daring Alfred vanquish, then shall burst—
‘The purpose that lies here. The grand account
‘Shall be in after times. When Guthrum thinks
‘All in oblivion, then will I exclaim
‘War! war! eternal! Yet may I display
‘Something of that deep vengeance, even now,
‘That swells my heart.—He hath a Saxon Slave—
‘A female captive, fair as Gimer's child!—
‘Talk'd we not, Ivar! of some sacrifice
‘T' appease the Gods?—But, Duty calls us hence!
‘Hereafter, we will speak more confident.’

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BOOK XIII.

ARGUMENT.

Alfred projects a visit to the Danish camp, in the character of a Harper— His visit to a Woodman.

Upon his couch Alfred had stretch'd himself,
Sleepless, tho' seeking sleep; by coming scenes
Fill'd with perplexity. Before the dawn
His castle he forsook, and roam'd alone
Through the deep wood, unseeing and unseen,
Save that amid the forest's thickest shades
He cast his eye, and, wondering, Sigbert saw;
That lonely and most melancholy man!
Walking sedate, on whom the dews of heaven
Stood thick, and told his nightly wanderings far.
Still through the wood, the king in silence moved,
Contemplating himself, tho' near his home,
A stranger to its comforts, then again
Pondering on all the wrongs, deep and untold,
His subjects felt; for whom, at opening morn,
And through the day, and at the hour of night,
He loved to cherish plans, so great, that minds,
Sordid and grovelling, might with one consent

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Wrathful, have called them, phantasies and dreams,
And, with convenient words and obstacles,
Talk'd learnedly. Yet Alfred prized such thoughts,
And from his earliest youth had sought t'enlarge
The bounds of human intellect, and prove
What joys the world might know, if those who ruled,
Lived for their subjects.
Now, uncertainty,
Mists and thick clouds, upon the future hung!
He fear'd the crimson dawn would never burst
That brought the hour, when he might consummate
All that his heart had cherish'd. 'Mid the strife,
T' augment the tumult of his breast, again
Alswitha's form, through his distracted mind,
Rush'd, dress'd in terrors. ‘Where is she,’ he cried,
‘And what her wrongs, unfriended, far away!’
When, near his path, he saw a woodbine fair,
Exhaling fragrancy, that, intertwined,
Circled a deadly night-shade, then look'd down
Upon the pois'nous plant on which it lean'd,
Pure and immaculate. He stopp'd! He gazed!
Silent awhile, then cried, ‘Thou beauteous flower!
‘Thou art Alswitha, or an emblem true
‘Of her I love; for as thou gently lean'st
‘Upon yon venom'd plant, and yet remain'st
‘Spotless and dignified, Alswitha thus
‘Upon the Danes shall rest, a little space,
‘Conscious of her high worth, and looking down
‘Untainted on her foes. This is indeed
‘Heaven's work to calm my mind.’
A mighty plan
Now struck the king, attended with dismays
And dangers infinite, yet such as gave
To him no terrors. Hastening to the fort,
With earnest brow, thus to his chiefs he spake.—

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‘Friends! who with me have borne all ills, endured
‘Perils and strife, there is a vent'rous act,
‘A bold achievement, which, to crown our toil,
‘Some round me must perform. Regard your prince.
‘Hubba and Ivar, with that other man,
‘Guthrum, my most peculiar foe! are now
‘Gather'd near Kenwith, forming future plans
‘To desolate our country. Well we know
‘When stratagems and schemes are used, the like
‘Should counteract them, and the antidote
‘Be as the bane. I would advise this deed:
‘Instant some Saxon to go forth and learn,
‘Amid the thickest Danes, e'en in their camp,
‘How stands the enemy; their force how great;
‘Their next designs; whether the wasted fleet
‘Hath stay'd their anger, or their savage wrath
‘Rous'd into fiercer vengeance. Service this,
‘Which none may dare perform, save in some guise
‘Familiar to the eye, of humbler sort.—
‘What think ye?’—
Each replied. ‘Most wise! the thought
‘Well was conceived.’—Alfred thus answer made;
‘If one must go to meet the Danes, and learn,
‘By many wiles, their state, clad in some guise
‘That bars suspicion; learning when they mean
‘Next to assault us; where their weakness lies;
‘With other knowledge, needful to be known,
‘Yet only learnt among them, who around,
‘So proper as your king?’
Ere he had ceased,
Each chieftain's countenance the impress bore
Of joy's gay smile, for each had hoped himself
That favour'd man; but when they heard the words,
‘So proper as your king?’ they look'd abash'd,
Confounded, as the man who travels long

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O'er some parch'd desert, heartless, destitute,
Sighing for shelter, when, 'mid harrowing fears,
Far on his way, he spies the distant vale,
Water'd and fill'd with plenty, but, when fast
He speeds to meet it, finds to his sore cost,
The fordless river, wide, and stretch'd between.—
Each chief to Oddune look'd, waiting his words:
Who thus began.
‘Thy pardon, prince! I ask,
‘And if my earnest words to thee seem harsh,
‘Again I claim forgiveness, but, my heart,
‘Thou must not question. Monarch, stay the deed!
‘Tear from thine eye the film that covers it,
‘And view the precipice, which to thee seems
‘Smooth and secure. At this most trying hour
‘It is a subject's honor, to declare,
‘With firm, yet duteous words, one rash resolve,
‘One error, one false step, may sink us now
‘In ruin irretrievable, and bring
‘Destruction on us all!’—Alfred exclaim'd,
‘Good Oddune! whence these unexpected fears?’
The chief replied, ‘It is no common cause,
‘And when I think what thou hast done to save
‘Thy ravaged country, what thine head hath borne,
‘Thy heart endured, thy gallantry perform'd,
‘To screen from Denmark's rage this hapless land,
‘And cheer thy fainting subjects; when I cast
‘A backward glance, and think of days, when hope
‘Seem'd as it ne'er had been, whilst every arm
‘Hung nerveless, even these, and so had hung,
‘But for thy words, thy constancy; then think,
‘Of this design, so pregnant with dismay
‘To thee and us, so hostile to the cause
‘Of Britain, tottering now 'tween life and death,
‘I should partake of something less or more

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‘Than human kind, if, hearing these thy words,
‘I did not start, and with my spirit strive
‘To stay thy desp'rate purpose.’ Thus the king
‘Oddune, thy zeal doth but convince me more
‘That thou art one whom men so earnest seek,
‘So seldom find—a friend! that in thy heart
‘Thou lov'st thy country and would'st serve thy king:
‘But 'tis not honesty which always sees
‘The secret bounds, where rashness shews itself,
‘And courage ends! What tho' thy heart be pure,
‘Thy wisdom undisputed, yet thou know'st,
‘Thyself too well, to think the heavenly light,—
‘Infallible, resides within thy breast.
‘Tho' to thy weigh'd and fix'd opinions
‘Deference be due, yet in this certain point
‘With thee I differ, for to me it seems
‘Conduct most wise to act as I have said.’
Like one who on the wide sea cast away,
And in his little boat who long has toil'd,
Till, weary, he reclines, then calls to mind
The object of his toil, and strives again;
So Oddune felt, and to the king replied.
‘I can declare of wisdom, as I ought,
‘It dwelleth not with me; and I have found
‘This heart too fallible to trust its thoughts
‘With more than common confidence, yet hours,
‘And certain seasons sometimes will be found
‘When the full blaze of truth so strikes the soul,
‘And hides all doubt, that minds of modesty
‘Forget their characters, and half assume
‘The prophet's tone and dignity; as such
‘Seem I to speak: for never did I feel
‘A more fix'd certainty in human ways,

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‘Than when I say; If thou dost deck thyself
‘In art and stratagem; if thou dost leave
‘This thy retreat, and wander far away,
‘Hoping to hide the countenance, that tells
‘Of unfeign'd majesty, dare venture near
‘That enemy, the Dane, and, fondly trust
‘Good will attend it, 'tis that trust I fear
‘That bodes destruction, for a certain voice,
‘Tells me that thence, thou never shalt return!’—
Unmoved by opposition, thus the king.
‘Oddune, brave chief! thou may'st as well conspire
‘To stay yon sun, or, to the man, call out,
‘Falling from some high precipice, ‘return!’
‘And think that he will heed thee, as attempt
‘To stop my course!’
Oddune, low bending, cried,
‘Once more, Oh, hear me; once, I ask no more!
‘I know that thou wilt pardon me, Oh, king,
‘Nor doubt the motive which to these my words
‘Gives such new energy. To serve the cause
‘We fight for, and promote thy subjects' weal,
‘In this design, doubtless hath govern'd thee;
‘This is most clear. But may not all the good
‘Thou hop'st to gain, some one, on easier terms
‘Secure for Britain? May not one of us—
‘Nay, even I, go forth to calculate
‘On all I see and hear—bringing thee word
‘Most faithfully? If wise to thee it seem
‘Thus to assume another's character,
‘And wander 'mid the enemy, unknown,
‘The bold adventure doth so suit my mind,
‘And mode of thought, that I would earnestly
‘This one fresh proof of confidence implore!
‘Spurn not my earnest prayer! If in th' attempt
‘Oddune should fall, hundreds around their king
‘Would better serve him, but if thou should'st die!

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‘If Britain's vengeful foe should lay thee low!
‘There is an end of hope! O, hear me, prince!
‘I must not, cannot be denied!’
Like one—
A blushing maid, who when she hears the name
Dear to her heart, appears to hear it not,
And rather than repeat her true-love's name,
Would wander far about. So Alfred seem'd,
Till calling up his courage, thus he spake:
‘Oddune, one motive I had vow'd to keep
‘Concealed from every heart; but these thy words
‘So probe my spirit, and on what I say
‘Such absence of all meaning cast, that I,
‘To satisfy myself that I am one
‘Who hath some meaning, must declare the truth.
‘Is there not one amid the Danish camp,
‘Think'st thou, most dear?’ Instant in other light,
Oddune the once mysterious subject saw.
Alfred continued. ‘I must seek the spot,
‘Where she abides, and fain would I persuade
‘This heart, that of the bold experiment
‘Some good may follow, haply, rapturous thought!
‘Alswitha I may rescue; I may mark,
‘Where to direct the terrors of our spear!’
Oddune, oppress'd with grief, beheld how vain
The power of language to oppose the will
Fix'd and determin'd, and objection more
Forbore to urge. When thus he spake: ‘What name,
‘What character would'st thou assume, to keep,
‘Far off, suspicion? for, as well thou know'st,
‘Should Danes suspect thee, tho' their Mother Earth
‘Sent from her deepest cave a warning voice
‘To save thee from perdition, thou would'st die!’
‘This do I know,’ cried Alfred, ‘but, in vain

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‘The thought assails me. I am bent, and now
‘Prudence must govern what it might not teach,
‘What character would I assume, dost ask?
‘The Harper! for my fingers well can sweep
‘Its bold, or gentlest strings.’ The chief replied,
‘If thou indeed art fixed, no better name
‘May'st thou assume, for music has a charm
‘Melting all hearts. But then thy dress!—A thought
‘Darts through my mind. As yester-eve I roam'd
‘Far through this wood, near me I spied a hut,
‘Green as the leaves that shaded it, and half
‘Screen'd by the boughs. When first I saw its shape,
‘It seem'd to me that nothing likelier look'd
‘To simple cottage; and, as thus I thought,
‘My doubts were realized, whilst near at hand
‘There stood a man. I saw him, and would fain
‘Have enter'd on discourse.—Would'st thou desire
‘To hear my further tale?’ Alfred replied—
‘Speak on.’ When Oddune spake.
The man I saw,
‘He was an aged woodman, apt to dwell,
‘Haply too much, on tales of other times,
‘Fond of his brook, his forest, and his home,
‘Yet, not obtrusive, whilst his words declar'd
‘The thoughtful rustic. Hoary were his locks,
‘And flowing, and the language of his eye
‘So mild, that it was plain his wants were few,
‘And that his spirit with the world had borne
‘Small intercourse. But what will please thee most,
‘I judg'd him wise enough—to look beyond
‘This scene of shadows, and to build his hopes
‘Like wisdom's sons,—on treasures in the skies—
‘Miss'd by so many Sages.—When he first
‘Glimps'd my approach, his fears were roused. He sped
‘Fast to his cot, and, to intimidate,
‘In valiant guise display'd the hostile front.

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‘'Twill make thee smile, when I declare my tale.
‘He stood against the door-post, and upraised,
‘Weak in his trembling hand, a rusty sword,
‘And seem'd to bid defiance; then I saw,
‘Within the hut, a woman, like himself,
‘Laden with years, and she too had a staff,
‘Which from the ground she raised, as she would aid
‘Her bolder husband. Instantly I stretch'd
‘This hand to greet them: first the old man frown'd,
‘Then, on the earth his doughty weapon cast,
‘And forward came to give me the true grasp
‘Of friendly welcome. There, to my surprise,
‘Beside his chimney hearth I saw a harp;
‘That which thou needest. If thou yet resolve
‘To act the minstrel's part, we there will haste
‘And the old man, haply, if grace thou find,
‘Will lend thee this his harp.’ The king replied,
‘Good tidings these, which augur well I judge
‘Let us depart.’ Now both together seek
‘The distant woodman.
After patient toil,
They reach the door and enter. O'er the fire,
That gave its cheerful blaze, the aged pair
Sat musing, and, 'mid many a lengthen'd pause,
Made grave remark, often in idleness,
To soothe or to beguile the lingering day,
Perchance of season fair, of lowering sky,
Spring backward, or the fruits of autumn drench'd
By rains untimely. Thus the hours pass'd on,
With simple converse, such as innocence
And rest might furnish. On his board there lay
Pages of that best book vouchsafed to man;
From their originals—transferred by him
Now entering in disguise, the glimpse of which
Yielded a zest munificent of joy,
Above all price!

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As now his glimmering eye
The old man raised, to learn who touch'd his latch,
He saw the chief, who on the former day
Had enter'd, and beside him, one, unknown.
‘Welcome to this low cot!’ he joyful cried,
And up to Oddune came full courteously,
And grasp'd his hand; then, turning to the king,
Welcom'd him o'er and o'er, as tho' the words,
Oft told, new sense convey'd and better shew'd
The master's hospitality. The king
Thus, with mild accent, his discourse began.
‘Thou hast a tranquil dwelling in this wood,
‘Far from a noisy world. If well I deem,
‘Content dwells with thee. Am I right old man?’
‘Aye, very right,’ he answered ‘I have thrived
‘Long in this glen, and every day I live
‘Makes me more cheerful.’
Alfred thus pursued,
‘Thy health is good.’—‘Truly a healthier man’
The woodman thus replied, ‘lives not to share
‘Heaven's bounty. When a boy my father cried,
‘Hear what my father told me,—‘Rise betimes,
‘Let thy first thoughts ascend to heavenly things,
‘Be frugal, fear not work, and never drink
‘Aught but this brook.’ ‘Twas there when he was young,
‘And still beside my cottage, on it runs,
‘I know not whence, nor where, nor of it heed,
‘So that it serve my purpose. There it is,
‘And purer water never quench'd the thirst
‘Of some poor trav'ller, toil-worn, when the eve
‘Closed on a sultry day. These words I heard—
‘When young, a careless urchin, who, in truth,
‘All things alike forgot, save food and sport,
‘Yet how I cannot tell, these passing words
`Hung on my fancy.’—

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‘Husband!’ cried the dame,
‘These strangers brave, heed not the tale of thine
‘So often told! What is the brook to them?’
Cried Alfred, ‘Mother stay! we do indeed
‘Regard thy husband's story. Speak thou on!
‘We like the simple language of the heart.’
The woodman answer'd. ‘Well if I may speak,
‘They struck my fancy, and from that good hour,
‘Down e'en to this, I often think of them,
‘For I have found the words so true, that now,
‘Were my son living, I should say the same
‘When death approach'd.’—‘Dost thou a son deplore?’
The king thus answer made. ‘What caus'd his death?’
The old man wiped his eye and said, ‘I thought
‘Never again the story to have told;
‘But as I like thy countenance, and seem
‘Free in discourse, why thou shalt have the tale.
(When from her seat the aged woman rose
And pass'd the door.)
‘A hopeful son was mine!
‘He never paid the bad man`s penalty!
‘Nor stopp'd the flying criminal all pale:
‘I lov'd him, he was dutiful and good.
‘This was the cause that made him leave his home.
‘To the far distant church he once had gone,
‘'Twas on a Sunday, and he went to hear
‘The preaching, and exchange some bows and darts
‘For clothes then needed. When, as night came on,
‘He reach'd our home. I never saw a face
‘So changed, an eye so wild, so fix'd a look
‘Of something that within seem'd hard to say.
‘His mother cried; (the aged woman there
‘Sitting so still on yonder stone) she cried,
‘What ails thee, son! speak, for I fear me much
‘Harm hath pursued thee!’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘no harm;

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‘But there I trow, is harm enough abroad.
‘Have ye not heard the news?’ ‘No,’ said we both.
‘When thus he answer made.
‘I fear for you,
‘My parents! for o'er Saxon ground there roam
‘Bands of fierce men, so fierce, that had one told,
‘A stranger this my tale, ye straight would cry,
‘It cannot be!’ In truth 'tis hard to think
‘That such men live! You late beheld me go
‘To the far Church, with my well-temper'd bows,
‘To barter, but, most piteous was the sight!
‘No church was there! it was a ruin'd pile!
‘And 'tween the walls, yet standing, there arose
‘Columns of smoke. I wist not what it meant;
‘But doubting that some accident had thus
‘Destroy'd the well known structure, I look'd round,
‘Cautious, then thro' the darken'd archway pass'd,
‘Fill'd with distrust obscure. Awhile I paused!
‘Whether to enter further, or return
‘Back with my burden. As I pondered thus,
‘Silent, and listening to the rushing noise
‘Of smoke and cracking wood: I heard a groan,
‘Slow drawn! more thoughtful I appear'd. Again,
‘The same heart-rending groan! it was a sound
‘That made my very blood—curdle, my limbs
‘Quake as thou see'st them now from memory.’
‘These were his words. My son then farther spake.’
‘With cautious step, and trembling, I advanced,
‘And saw a monk, pale as the ashen bark,
‘Yet smear'd with blood. He rais'd his languid eyes
‘And turn'd them on me; when he feebly said,
‘If friend thou art, one favour do I ask,
‘Bring hither yonder stone, and at my head
‘Hurl it in haste, for agony supreme
‘Preys on me!’ Nearer to the spot I drew,
‘And, looking at the man, knew well his face;

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‘'Twas father Burnulf! that good priest, who oft
‘Had told us of our duties to high heaven,
‘And fellow man; whom often we have heard,
‘Like one who brought glad tidings, in the church,
‘Then fall'n, in which he lay.—I rais'd his head;
‘He knew me, and thus spake.’ ‘What is it thou?
‘Ah! never wilt thou listen more, good youth!
‘To aged Burnulf! At his hour of death,
‘Thou comest! Fetch you stone, and for the past,
‘Shew me this kindness!’ ‘Never,’ cried my boy!
‘Support thyself with what thou oft hast said,
‘Me would support in death! and tell me straight
‘What means this overthrow?’
The priest replied,
‘I will strive hard to say, and to suppress
‘Pain's influence. Thou speakest right, young man!
‘Faith should bestow her solace. Now my tongue,
‘Tho' parch'd and grown unwieldy, shall declare
‘This woeful change, but I must tell it brief,
‘My breath is short. This ruin is the Danes,
‘From some far-distant land, a wolfish race,
‘Fierce and unfeeling, scorning God and man,
‘Have landed here, and Alfred our brave king,
‘In vain resists them. They are terrible
‘As ocean when he roareth, and like him
‘Delight in blood. They here surrounded us,—
‘As late at Croyland, bent on waste and spoil,
‘And having forced the doors, they, scattering death,
‘Rush'd in. Thou view'st the ruin, and around
‘Lie my dead brethren. Plunder still their aim,
‘No pity in their heart, the Danes pass'd on.
‘Warring with mortal wounds, as thou may'st see,
‘I still surviv'd, and many, like me, felt,
‘Life wavering, and with groans we fill'd the air:
‘But for these many hours, no groans but mine
‘Have sounded, and they too will cease, tho' soon,

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‘Not soon enough!—
‘My dying words are these—
‘Go arm thyself! Fight manfully! Find out
‘Thy monarch's standard! for, in such a cause
‘'Twere villainy to man, and insult vile
‘To heaven above, idly to stand and gaze!
‘Hence, from this scene of ruin, and as once
‘I bade thee seek with all men peace and love;
‘I now command thee with a prophet's voice.
‘Consume our foes! For whilst the Saxon arm
‘Fails to destroy them, piteous is the state
‘For all who live!’—
‘The good man's voice grew faint,
‘And now with harder labourings, distant far,
‘One from the other, he essay'd to breathe,
‘But, difficult, when back he stretch'd himself,
‘And calmly died.—So hither, cried my son,
‘I haste to tell my purpose! Thou art old!
(Looking at me, who speechless stood) he said,
‘And well may'st plead excuse from martial toil;
‘But if my arm should fail at such an hour,
‘To wield the sword, and in my country's cause,
‘Fight manfully; if I should shun my king,
‘And in this forest live inglorious
‘When ruin and the enemy stalk round—
‘I should not well deserve to be thy son.’
‘I need not tell you, strangers! what my thoughts
‘At this recital, and if long I paused
‘Whether to bid my brave son go or stay.
‘That night he left us! These were his last words.
‘I go, my honour'd parents! to discharge
‘Duty's high call, but once again, I trust
‘To see your faces glad, and round our board
‘Talk of past perils.’ ‘Then he left our home!’

‘And hast thou never heard,’ the king replied,

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‘Of this thy son?’ ‘No, answer'd the old man,
‘Had he been living, we should long ere this
‘Have seen his face, for he was kind at heart,
‘All that a sire could wish; so good was he,
‘If heaven had prosper'd him with this world's wealth,
‘No likelier man had rear'd monastic pile,
‘With heart munificent. Oh! I may say
‘For many a month I ne'er retired to rest
‘But in my dreams I saw him; yet that time
‘Now is gone by, and I am pleas'd to think,
‘Tho' dead, he perish'd fighting for his king.
‘Forgive these tears!’ Alfred replied, ‘old man!
‘Thou had'st not well deserved so good a son,
‘If thou could'st think, unmov'd, upon his death.’

‘He was a hopeful son,’ the woodman cried;
‘Duteous and kind, from early youth the same,—
‘Like the fair apple-tree, when spring draws near,
‘His buds were blossoms. Few of woman born
‘Have left this earth, better prepared to pass
‘Death's scrutiny.’

‘He was a noble son!’
The king replied, ‘aye, master, he was good,’
The woodman said. ‘But I shall see him yet!
‘There is a better world. Altho' alone,
‘And far from human-kind, we love to think
‘Upon that last and best inheritance.
‘Not boastful, know, O, stranger! I am rich;
‘Endued with affluence of the highest kind.
‘I have some portions, written full and clear,
‘Of God's Good Word—in mine own proper tongue,
‘Brought from the distant speech, by our good king,—
‘So learned, and so brave!—Heaven prosper him!
‘These pages are my joy!—At close of day,
‘At morn, and with the sun high over head:
‘I ponder on the prospects it unfolds;
‘For there I learn of an eternal state!

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‘And of a Saviour!—happy they, thrice told,
‘Who boast the whole of what I own a part.
‘Bless'd with the prospect of that heritage,
‘So certain and so near! each night and morn
‘We laud our Maker; feeling in our hearts
‘The fervent gratitude; for here our eyes
‘Beheld earth's changes: night preceding morn,
‘And morn the night, in long succession; spring,
‘And all the seasons, in an endless course,
‘Moving around us, bidding us arise
‘And praise the Highest, who from nothing call'd
‘This wondrous frame! And pleasant is the thought
‘Of many a word once heard in that fair church,
‘Built by our Alfred, whom all hearts adore;
‘And where my mind was raised to those good things,
‘An Advocate!—a world of blessedness!
‘When to be heard again! Ah, tell me when!’

‘Your's is true wisdom,’ cried the king, ‘which first
‘Descended from above, and still directs
‘Our hopes, our better prospects to the skies.
‘This knowledge will remain, whilst all beside
‘The whirlwind, death, like chaff, shall bear away.
‘I honor thee, old man! Soon do I trust,
‘That that good church, and many kindred piles,
‘Will bless this land, where, others, like thyself,
‘May hear of a Redeemer, the one hope
‘To cheer benighted man. But father, say!
‘How cam'st thou in this place? These words of thine
‘Speak not a woodman's mind.’
He thus replied.
‘I am a woodman; here my father dwelt,
‘And here have I; and if my words bespeak
‘Other than woodman's mind, the gift I owe—
‘To parents, long removed from earth to heaven:
‘But, the especial honour, to one name—

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‘My mother,—would I pay! She taught me first
‘To bend my knee!—to lisp my Saviour's praise!
‘To fix my best affections on that world—
‘Where happiness is found without alloy!
‘My mother! O, my mother! may I reach
‘That bless'd assemblage of the ransom'd ones,
‘Where thou art found—never to part again!—
‘And I may say, the seed first sown by her,
‘On whom I linger longest in my dreams!
‘Was nourish'd, water'd to maturity,
‘Chief by a Hermit, on the forest's verge,
‘Who to great Rome hath gone on pilgrimage;
‘Tho' tied to earth, allied to saints above!
‘And many a tear, the country round—will shed
‘When he is dead and gone!—From dwelling thus
‘In one long quietness, our minds have learn'd
‘True wisdom, by believing happiness,
‘Confined to no one spot of earth, may thrive
‘When smil'd on—by the God whom we adore,
‘E'en in our humble cottage. Here our days
‘Pass on unruffled, and, till death draw near,
‘Here be our resting-place.’
When, in new tone,
The woodman thus again. ‘Pardon my words!
‘I never roam to learn what tidings strange
‘Earth teems with, but a lingering wish to know
‘How runs the world—on some great scale,
‘And interest large, makes me inquire of you—
‘What news abroad? now doubly anxious grown,
‘Since the sad tidings borne us by our son.
‘What are these foes, and whence do they proceed?—
‘Scattering such horrors o'er our happy land?’
Alfred replied, ‘Alas, thou good old man!
‘To tell thee of the state of human things
‘Would leave thy spirit, not as now it is,

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‘Peaceful and calm. Thy race is almost run,
‘And fit it is, that thou should'st never more
‘Meddle with earthly ways. Here rest awhile,
‘Most happy in thine ignorance.—Old man,
‘I claim one favour. Lend me yonder harp,
‘Hanging beside thy hearth. I will again
‘Return it with warm thanks.’—The woodman cried,
‘Stranger 'tis thine! I give it with good will;
‘But I must say to thee—preserve it safe;
‘It was my son's! He many an hour hath sat
‘Upon yon verdant bank, and, as the sun
‘Slowly declined, so cheerily hath play'd,
‘With midnight songsters, making the far wood
‘Ring with his melody, that I had hoped
‘This one memorial of more happy days
‘Long to have kept; but in thy countenance
‘There is so much of what my son once was,
‘That I must give it thee!’
‘Thank thee old man;’
‘Alfred replied. ‘This harp I well will keep,
‘And prize it truly; ever when beheld
‘Thinking of thee. One kindness more I crave,
‘Pardon my prayer. It is an honest cause
‘For which I ask the favour. I am bound
‘To look the character I do not bear,
‘Many to serve. Hast thou no humble garb,
‘Awhile to lend me?’—‘Yea’ the woodman cried;
‘My son's shalt thou possess. Accept the boon.
‘The modest dress will honour him who wears it.
‘I give it with my blessing on thy head.’
‘The king replied. ‘Thank thee, good cottager!
‘My garb, till my return, I leave with thee,
‘And this my sword. Erelong, I fain would hope,
‘Again to see thee.’
In his rustic dress,
Now duly clad, like the young forester,

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Alfred appears; when, gazing at the sire,
(Who pensive look'd, thinking, depress'd at heart,
How like his son, the wearer of that garb!)
‘Tell me,’ cried Alfred in his kindliest tone,
‘What is the care that shadows most thy brow;—
‘For sorrow in some form will show itself,
‘The unvarying lot of frail humanity.’
The woodman answer'd, ‘burdens I have known,
‘Some hard, and long-continued, but, at length,
‘Like all the round of earth's calamities,
‘Aye, and its pleasures too, they died away.
‘E'en let them go. To compensate their loss,
‘Mine is the peaceful conscience,—the sweet joy
‘Religion yields—that softener of the heart,
‘That balm and pledge of an inheritance,
‘Erelong to crown my hopes. But if one pang
‘Still lingers in my breast,—from this it springs;
‘The sight of want, and hard calamity,
‘With power so feeble, to arrest, remove,
‘Or mitigate the evil. Selwood's shades,
‘Thick peopled, in their spacious bounds, contain—
‘Many who, like myself, secluded dwell—
‘These woods the world to them! who oft endure—
‘Privations, hardships;—bitterly deplored—
‘By one who fain would aid them. Mine, a heart
‘(If self-deception lead me not astray)
‘Which would luxuriate in the aim divine—
‘To lessen suff'ring,—ignorance dark, illume,
‘And virtue cherish,—but thus circumscribed
‘By poverty,—that dares not look abroad!—
‘Save when soft pity, prudence will defy,
‘And then from pittance, pittance may be given:
‘So that with pangs, known only to the Highest,
‘Reluctant I retire, beholding those—
‘More privileg'd—applauded, envied not,

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‘Who, in their wealth abounding, can devise
‘The kind and liberal thing. Heaven's will be done!
‘My treasure is—a word,—a sigh—a tear.’
‘Alfred (his spirit touch'd) thus answer made.
‘I will accept this harp, this rustic dress,
‘Memorials sacred!—If in man be truth,
‘And heaven should spare from the infuriate Danes,
‘Thou shalt for these receive beyond their worth.
‘Woodman! I would, but dare not utter more.
Hand me thine harp!—The monarch swept the chords.
Oh, charity! while fame, with lightning car,
Flashes brief splendor o'er the hero's grave,
Thou sitt'st upon thy rock, amid the wave,
Calm as the silver moon, and evening star,
That o'er the billows cast their image far,
Like them unmoved by storms that round thee rave.
Ah! from thine eye I mark the tear descend!
Thou thinkest of the foes that man dismay;
Upon the crowd who have no home or friend,
Upon the orphan—worn by want away,—
The lonely widow—lingering out her day,
And tho' too poor to succour, thou dost send
The look benign, that oft has care beguiled—
Soothing in silence sorrow's drooping child.
Whilst in his wicker chair, with heart entranced,
The woodman listen'd, every note awaked
Sweet recollections, calling up the thought
Of days, long pass'd, when, with that harp, his son
Beguiled the evening hour, by pouring forth
Amid the calm consoling quiet round,
Songs to His praise,—the bounteous Lord of All!
Half loath to interrupt, Alfred thus spake.
‘My time is short. I now must bid adieu.

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‘Receive my thanks. Thy words, to mem'ry dear,
‘Not soon will be forgotten. Fare thee well!’—
The woodman grasp'd his hand. No words he spake.
After a pause, by silence sanctified,
Alfred re-pass'd the threshold.
At the stone,
At which the mother soothed her sorrowing mind,
She heard the harp!—so long neglected, sounds
That made her rise her head, in wonderment!'
She listens, doubtful! ‘Can it be?’ she cried.
‘They are the same sweet notes!’ She seized her staff
And hastened toward her dwelling.—
As the king
Came from the door, clad in the well-known dress,
Bearing the harp, ‘My son! my son!’ she cried.
‘My long-lost son!’ and eager clasp'd him round.
No kindred greet—no answering grasp was there!
Her recollection came! Her hand relaxed!—
She look'd upon the king, and pale exclaim'd,
‘That face is not my son's! God prosper thee
‘For this delusion!’—Thro' her cottage door,
Feebly she pass'd.
Now grasping Oddune's hand,
Alfred, in silence gave the parting look—
Well-understood; when, with a spirit firm,
He to explore the Danish camp, set off,
Clothed in his new attire, and on his back
Bearing the harp: yet could he not conceal—
What nature told. His was no common look.—
To him who in the face the soul could read,
There was an aspect, dignified, yet mild,
That told the monarch; and tho' half obscured
By poverty's plain garb, yet what appear'd,—
The truth reveal'd.—As doth the broken bow,
Shining in heaven's wide vault, when some dark cloud,
Dividing, glides between, which, to the eye,

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Yields but a partial glory.
Toward the Danes
Oddune beheld him pass! when, to himself,
Sorrowing he cried. ‘No more shall I behold
‘Thy face, oh king! Destruction thou hast sought,
‘And thou wilt find it! yet, thy fame shall reach
‘The distant time! For thee the enraptured bard
‘Shall strike the harp, and tell posterity
‘Of Alfred's worth, who, in these years forlorn,
‘When darkness reign'd, when superstition scowl'd,
‘Rose like a star miraculous, and spread
‘O'er earth, a light, which when this age hath pass'd,
‘Nay, age on age, down to the farthest time,
‘Shall still be visible!’
He watch'd the king,
'Till in the mellowed distance he was lost.
And when he thought of all the secret snares,
The dangers and dismays that throng'd his path.—
His sorrow bore resemblance to the sire
Who, many a long year to the son beloved,
Has told of virtue and her charms, and mark'd
Upon his cheek, the glow of kindling worth;
Then, at the hour of separation, sees
His son go forth into an evil world,
Where quick-sands spread, and where the whirlpool deep
Lurks to o'erwhelm the innocent.
He sigh'd,
And to the distant castle urged his way.

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BOOK XIV.

ARGUMENT.

Alfred's visit to the Danish camp.

Cautious and slow the royal harper moved,
Onward toward Kenwith's castle. One so used
To feel the hard earth's pillow, dreaded not
The midnight hour, advancing. He beheld,
Clear from the hill-top, where he stood, the sun,
In his effulgence, bathing Cambria's land,
(The intervening sea one mass of fire!)
Whose mountain peaks, precipitous, were clothed
With a magnificence unspeakable,
That awed the spirit, and o'er heaven diffused
A splendour—too intense for mortal sight!
One little cloud, dark, ominous, remote,
Comes sailing onward, but it vanishes
Before a scene so charged with brilliancy.
Alfred awhile entranced, stood motionless;
When, to beguile the solitary hour,
He seized the harp. He could not choose but sing.

If hour there be, when pleasure fills the breast,
As nature, robed in beauty, sleeps profound;
When woods and streams, in fairy vision round,
Reflect the peaceful splendors of the west,—

217

That hour is this!—In pomp austerer drest,
Now Severn kindles thro' his ample bound,
And Cambria's lordly hills in glory lie,
O'er-canopied by clouds of gorgeous dye;
While sea-birds sport amid the sapphire wave,—
Rolling the line eternal to the strand.—
Ah! there, a solitary vessel brave
Glides glowing on, by fostering zephyrs fanned.
Our Empress Isle, profuse of pearl and gem,
Here wears her proud and matchless diadem.

Emblem of human things. What change is there!
The clouds are gathering blackness! Night comes on!
The sun, the hill-top, and the concave wide
Munificent in glory, all is fled!
Darkness still deepens! Thro' the rayless sky
The winds arise, precursor of the storm!
It comes!—the hurricane, in terrors dress'd!
Ah! there the vessel brave, so late, in pride
Gliding triumphant o'er the sportive wave,
Conflicting with the billows, now ascends!—
Again explores the watery vale below!—
Braving the angry surge—rocks, perils round!
She labours hard! The lightnings dart their fires
Successive, follow'd by intenser night—
With thunders, loud, careering thro' the sky!
Would she may bear the beatings of the storm!
Alfred awhile, the sight and sound endured.
He hears—with the unutterable pang,
The seaman's voice—borne fitful on the blast!
Ah! vain their cry! no mortal man can save!
In meditation lost, he seized his harp,
And pours his notes of pity on the gale.

Severn! thy billows lash the rocky shore
Heard terrible, thro' midnight reigning round!
The lightnings flash, the winds imperious sound!
While thunders, fierce, from nature's awful store,

218

Traverse wide heaven in loud and lengthen'd roar,
Till crash on crash, convulsive shakes the ground!
Voices faint mingle with the troubled sky!—
It is the ship-men's voice, who aid require!
In pity to the suffering seaman's cry,
Clouds! check your fury! Tempests! stay your ire!—
That fervid blast of elemental fire!
Ah! there the vessel sinks!—no succour nigh!
The winds are hush'd!—the thunders cease to rave!
And all is still—but the dark rolling wave!

Long, and in loneliness, the beating storm—
Alfred withstood, then, pillow'd on his harp,
His heart to heaven uplifted, he, on earth,
Stretches his weary limbs—sleep far away,
And waits the morn, with all its unknown cares.

Now, in the orient, streaks of grey appear.
The king beheld, and, with a heart devout,
Upon the green-sward kneeling—pour'd the prayer—
To heaven's High Ruler; when, his spirit felt
Calm solace, and toward Kenwith's lofty towers.
Fearless he pass'd.—The trying hour is come!
He sees the castle!—Denmark's hordes around!
Whilst on their numbers gazing, a cold chill
Creeps thro' his frame!—‘These feelings,’ cried the king
‘Nature must own, they spring not from this heart.’

Yet Alfred felt, while gazing at the Danes,
Like youth, who, on a distant voyage bent,
Leaves friends and parents, trav'lling, stout at heart,
Who never yet the ocean wide has seen;
And when at first he spies, from some high hill
The wat'ry world beneath,—clear, motionless,
Stretching in long expanse of meadow green,
He shivers, serious grown, and scarce believes
That plain, so vast, faint blending with the sky
Can be old ocean!—'till at length is seen—

219

The light skiff sailing, and the breakers' play.
Ah! then he owns, and wonders, and half thinks,
His roving check'd, how wiser far, to rest
Calm in his in-land dwelling, 'till, at length,
Familiar grown with the terrific sight,
His heart returns, and all his perils flee.
Thus Alfred felt. Whilst in the vale beneath
He spied the Danes, unnumber'd, in array
Of direful aspect; he half look'd behind,
Thinking of safe retreat in Selwood's wilds;
Till the first feeling master'd, firm of soul,
He, from the rock of adamant, his mind!
Gazed on unterrified.,

As thus he stood,
He heard a noise, and, looking round, beholds
A hostile band of Danes—approaching fast!
When from his back the king his harp prepared,
And struck the merry note.—Near him they draw,
When Alfred ceas'd his tune, and bent profound,
His cap presenting for some recompense.—
Aloud, the Danish leader cried,—‘Young man!
‘But for that instrument, thou hadst, ere this,
‘Grappled with death. Who art thou? What thy name?
‘Speak, or this sword shall with thy heart's blood play!’

Alfred replied, ‘I am a wandering man.
‘Honest, tho' poor, and used with this good harp
‘To play, as late ye heard me. Would you more,
‘Of music hear?’ ‘Aye, play!’ exclaimed the Dane.
The king then touch'd his harp with such sweet notes
Of tenderest minstrelsy, that the warm tear
Within his eye, each iron-hearted Dane
Felt start. One cried, ‘'Tis well! Now play again.’
When Alfred with a bolder finger swept
The sounding string, and roused the martial soul
In all who heard, making their wild eyes glare,—

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Their limbs, in frantic attitude dance round,
Till, fearful for himself and harp, he stopp'd.
When a ferocious Dane enraged exclaim'd,
Raising his sword,

‘Thou art a Saxon man!
‘Unused are we to let such pass unharm'd,
‘And doubtful now I stand, whether to spare,
‘Or with this sword consume thee.’ Once again,
Alfred his harp uplifted, and began
A mild and soul-subduing song, of one,
A shepherd youth, who lov'd a shepherdess,
‘Mid winter's snows, fated one grave to find.

‘Sweet are thy notes, young minstrel, cried the Dane,
‘But thou art still a Saxon!’ As the king—
To pour the song, again upraised his harp,
The haughty Dane exclaim'd,—‘Withhold thy hand!
‘I scorn thy melody! Say whence thou cam'st,
‘And instant, as thou valuest life, declare,
‘If aught thou know'st of Alfred, or what path
‘Oddune his Chief pursued.’—

When, thus the king:
‘I am a simple harper, and I love
‘My harp so well, so little do I heed
‘The bustling world and all the strifes of men,
‘That, wandering unconcern'd, I know no care,
‘But to preserve my harp, and sit at ease.’

‘Speak! or this sword!’ exclaim'd the angry Dane.
‘Know'st thou of Alfred?—of his place and state?’
When, wild of look, again the king replied;—
‘In wandering o'er this land, I sometimes hear
‘Of him you ask for. Is he not our king?’
‘A simple fellow,’ cried a Dane. Forbear!
‘Let us depart. From him we nought can learn,
‘And, 'tis most manifest, can nothing fear.’

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When on they march'd.

Alfred beheld them go,
And felt like one, a northern mariner,
Who, sailing near that vortex, far renown'd
Through all the Arctic, finds, half wild with dread,
His vent'rous bark, check'd in her bold career,
And moving toward the fatal gulf, that roars
Loud in his hearing, whilst no gales arise—
To check th'inevitable fate, and fast,
Fast, and more fast, the vessel moves to death!
When, rushing thro' the clouds, the wind is heard!
And soon it fills the sails, and while his eye
Gazed on destruction, bears him safe away.

A secret dread now came upon the king,
He saw one peril o'er, and tho' he strove
To dissipate all fear, he could but view,
That morning, as a presage of worse ills,
Approaching fast. Contemplating he stood,
And to himself in serious mood thus spake:
‘This hour my life is spared, from unlook'd cause,—
‘Sudden deception! May it not succeed
‘In season yet to come? Once Israel's king
‘Found safety by assumption such as this,
‘And why not I? This garb I have not worn,
‘And a reluctant feeling wars within;
‘Yet when my country calls for sacrifice,
‘Shall I deny her? Heaven vouchsafe his aid!
‘This my resolve. Hence meet I undismay'd,
‘All perils and all circumstance!’—He now
Draws near the foe, and when he saw their tents,
And knew that he was mark'd by Danes, he cried,
‘Danger before me stands, but death behind.’

He pass'd the centinel, who saw his harp,
And gave him passage. Through the ranks he sped,

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Like one who business sought. Now bolder grown,
He on his harp play'd cheerily, when soon,
Full many a Dane, around the minstrel stands,
And listen'd joyous, when, one cried aloud,
‘Is not this man a Saxon? Dreads he not
‘The Danish camp?’ Another thus replied;
‘A Saxon truly, but a man who cares,
‘For neither Dane nor Saxon; thee or me.
‘So he may eat and live.’ His cheerful song
Now Alfred ceased, and as the custom was,
Like humble suppliant, of the listeners round
Ask'd slender pittance.

‘What would'st thou receive?’
Once pleasantly inquired; ‘We have our swords,
‘Our bucklers, and good darts, which thee might pierce,
‘When at some distance, but, (dissatisfied)
‘If more thou seek, play on!’ Th' obedient king
Striving to win their smiles by courtesy,
Heard, and his harp to other cadence strung;
Then sought for recompence. The Dane exclaim'd,
‘Thou scorner of our gods, and Denmark's foe,
‘I have half mind to send thee to the realms
‘Where Hela reigns.’ When grasping the king's harp,
He would have dash'd it down, but Alfred cried,
‘Take not a poor man's bread! his only store,
‘With which he cheats his sorrows. Yield that harp,
‘Useless to thee, to me most dear.’ The Dane
As Alfred spake, to banter with his smiles,
Awhile forebore, and when the king had ceased,
He raised again his arm.—That instant pass'd
Guthrum, the Danish chieftain. Near he came,
And viewing well the instrument, inquired
Who own'd it, and the cause of that sad voice,
Which struck his ear.—Alfred beheld the chief,
And drawing nigh, replied, whilst bending low,
‘It is thy servant's! Pity me, my lord!

223

‘A stranger, and to me restore yon harp.’
‘Who art thou?’ cried the Dane, ‘and wherefore here?’

‘I am a simple man,’ the king replied,
‘Who loves sweet minstrelsy; and oft at eve,
‘In lonely wanderings, by the slow brook's side,
‘I pass my time; and whilst my harp is heard,
‘Birds on their wings move slow, or perch around
‘On bush, or tree, to catch one passing note,
‘With which to charm the ear of lonely man,
‘List'ning so earnest, that he half forgets
‘The woes that made him lonely.’ Fearing, now,
His speech too luminous for wilder'd man,
Then he pursued. ‘Oft as the stars are up
‘And I can hear the night-birds whistling loud,
‘I touch my harp to solemn music, sounds
‘That give the air a stillness. I have seen,
‘High in the heavens, the moon suspend her course
‘To listen to my strains, whilst the proud trees,
‘So lofty over head, have hush'd their noise,
‘And only to the loud gale bent themselves
‘When I have ceased. There is my gentle harp.
‘And if I ne'er should gain it, I must roam,
‘Mourning, this land about; or, in a bark,
‘Sail up and down the ocean, calling loud
‘On my lost friend; or, roused to fiercer wrath,
‘When'er the stars of night—shoot their red balls,
‘Fly after them, and e'er their flight hath ceased,
‘Seize, and direct their unextinguished course
‘To him who robb'd me.’—Guthrum cried, ‘Poor man!
‘A wand'ring lunatic, that here hath stray'd
‘Unconscious. Instant yield the harp, oh Dane!
‘For tho' we war on Saxons, we will spare
‘Whom gods have warred on.’ Alfred took the harp,
And bending to the chief, with thankful heart,
Pursued his onward way.

224

With cautious eye
He marked the Danes, their number, and their state;
Proud in their force, of victory confident,
Incautious grown, and scorning their weak foe.
Now of his queen he thought, and that her ear
Might catch some sound, some desultory note,
He touch'd the harp, and thus, disconsolate,
Sang as he play'd. ‘Oh, thou my soul's desire,
‘Where'er thou art, come forth, and let me see,
‘Thy long-lost countenance.’

The men who stray'd
With the wild harper, heard, and thus exclaim'd:
‘He calleth now the moon, but he shall call
‘For many an hour, ere from her distant course
‘She answer him.’ Again he struck the harp,
Veiling his song in words of mystery.
‘Life of my life, and idol of my heart,
‘Come forth and see thy minstrel! Sick and sad,
‘He wanders through the sea, and earth, and air,
‘To meet thy glance, beloved! Look around,
‘And ease his pain, who never joy hath felt
‘Since thou didst leave him. From the clouds above
‘Appear, bless'd spirit! from yon purple cloud,
‘Behold me faithful still, nor let me more
‘Wander through earth, estranged from happiness,

Now thro' the gate-way he essay'd to pass,
When one, resisting, cried, ‘Stranger, thy name?’
‘My name,’ replied the king, ‘is with the moon,
‘And sun, and stars. Upon the rainbow bright,
‘Laughing I stride, and when the night draws near,
‘Upon the beach I roam, to pick the shells,
‘Or on the star-fish read my name, and sing
‘The merry song.’

One drawing near exclaim'd,
‘A wand'ring lunatic, whom Guthrum's self

225

‘Bade us respect.’ This said, he pass'd the gate,
Harping and chaunting cheerily, whilst crowds
Fast followed him, lauding his sprightly airs.
Again he spake. ‘Oh show thy lovely face!
‘Charmer come forth, and bless me with the sight
‘So long desired. Upon yon silver cloud
‘Let me behold thee, so shall fervent joy
‘Bound at my heart, and I will laugh aloud,
‘And sing, as now I sing, my cares away.’

While the king pour'd his melancholy strain,
A damsel, Guthrum's daughter, earnest cries,
‘Harper, haste hither.’ Alfred heard a voice,
And looking round, beheld her. At the words,
Ceasing his song, he leaves th' admiring crowd,
Foll'wing his guide.—It was the castle hall
Whereto they went. ‘Harper! sing forth,’ she cried,
‘To soothe the sorrows of yon mourner's heart.
‘Nursing her cares, she sits beside the fire
‘From morning e'en till night.’ Alfred look'd round,—
He saw Alswitha!—By the hearth she sat,
And at the fire intensely gazing, saw,
Or seem'd to see, semblance of friend beloved,
Nor of the harper knew, nor who, around,
Cared any thing, so she might sit and gaze
In idle contemplation.—

Alfred play'd—
The song which they had sung in happier days:
She knew the tune! when casting a quick glance
Upon the Harper, trembling, she exclaim'd—
‘What man art thou?’ When, fixing his clear eye
Full at her, he pronounced no word. She saw!
She knew the king! and, shudd'ring, turn'd away,
Whilst her big heart throbb'd loud. The damsel saw
(Though kind and faithful to her sorrowing friend)
The sudden change of countenance both shew'd,

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The terror, the surprise; and, as she look'd
Around the hall, grown darker, from the night
Approaching slow, and saw the pale blue fire,
The shadowy world of beings rose; she seem'd
Half conscious of some intellectual strife;
And dim conjectures so o'erpower'd her mind
With forms and shapes ideal, that she stood,
Trembling, 'till grown suspicious of herself,
The place, and all around her, from the hall
She fled precipitate.

Most like the youth,
Who through the church-yard roams at dead of night,
And when he to the middle path draws nigh,
Determines not to fear, yet fears the more
For all his resolutions; 'till at length
Aerial phantoms dance before his eyes;
When, to imagined fears resign'd, he seeks
Safety in flight, and faster for his speed
Thinks fiends pursuing.—So the damsel rush'd
Out from the hall, and cried to those she saw,
‘What man is this whom ye have hither brought?
‘My heart doth quake.’ The waiting band replied,
‘It is a Saxon harper, wandering here
‘In his mad fits of lunacy. No harm
‘Hath he achieved?’ ‘No harm,’ the damsel said,
‘But I do fear again to enter there,
‘Go ye and bring him forth. But, mark me well,
‘The woman is my friend. Molest her not.’
The Danes rush in, and there the minstrel spy,
Kneeling before the woman: him they bore
From out the hall. Alswitha saw the sight,
And trembled as her death-call she had heard.

Like famished birds around their prey, the Danes
Again encircle Alfred, crying loud,
A song, O, harper!’ Said the weary King,

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‘This evening spare me; on the coming morn
‘Your will, be mine; now must I rest myself.’
Yet vain had been his pleadings, had not sounds,
Imperious, call'd them to their nightly tents.
Now, left with midnight, Alfred stretch'd himself,
Heart-sick, and weary, on the chilling ground:
And when the tempest of his mind seem'd hush'd,
And sleep advancing, on the midnight gale,
Shouts of loud mirth were heard, and revelry.
When Alfred thus look'd up to Heaven, and spake:

‘Parent and Guardian of all mortal things!
‘The seraphim and worm thou view'st alike!—
‘Thou seest me, Oh, Father! Thou behold'st
‘All living things! Thy power it was which screen'd
‘Isaac from death. Thine arm hath oft appear'd
‘For Patriarch and Prophet, men who placed
‘Their confidence in Thee! Almighty Sire!
‘Screen me in this dark hour!’. Mid hopes and fears,
Again on earth the King reclined his head,
And, sleepless lingered till the morning light.

228

BOOK XV.

ARGUMENT.

Alfred's visit to the Danish camp.—Scene, the Castle. Present, Ivar and Hubba, Guthrum enters.

‘HUBBA, restrain thy wrath!’ Ivar exclaim'd,
‘Nor thus indulge insatiate thirst of blood.
‘Thy words are frantic! Thou dost let revenge
‘All other thoughts absorb. Ere yet too late,
‘And ruin close what madness first began,
‘Curb thy proud spirit!’ Hubba thus replied.
‘Tho' older and entitled to receive
‘Respect from me, thy brother, yet this hour
‘Laughs at all duties. Let the man revolve
‘On niceties of right and wrong, who lolls
‘On languor's pillow, and hath never felt
‘The wrongs I feel. Is Hubba not a man?
‘A Prince? and owns he not a character,
‘Freeborn and prizing courage more than life?
‘Rememb'rest thou thy father? how he scorn'd
‘The dastard's spirit? what he bore to gain
‘The hero's name? and with what flood-like wrath
‘Whelm'd each presumptuous foe? Shall I, his son,
‘Of him forgetful, see another's sword
‘Hang over me, and let the greedy hour
‘Of vengeance sleep?’

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‘Yes!’ Ivar answered ‘Sleep!
‘Forever sleep! My mind misgives itself!
‘I see this kindling spirit, and suspect
‘All is not right. Thou tell'st me that this isle
‘Stoops to me; that the vanquished Saxons flee
‘On every side: yet, Hubba! I would learn,
‘Why, conquering, unresisted, we should find,
‘Soon as I reach'd this isle,—Denmark's proud fleet
‘Assail'd, and burnt!—To my unquiet mind,
‘It ill forebodeth; and I deem our state,
‘Spite of thy words, not safe. We have a foe,
‘Wary, and with mysterious plottings fill'd;
‘Therefore more dreaded. Dost thou never hope
‘To reach thy native country, and receive
‘Some favour'd fair, the fruit of all thy toil?
‘Check then thy wrath! It is a dragon fierce,
‘That will o'ercome thee, if thou yet disdain
‘These warning words.—‘I see most manifest
‘We ne'er shall crown our conquests with this isle,
‘If discord visit us. Ours must be zeal,
‘United zeal, and to one point alone
‘Our aims all turn'd—the death of him we dread,—
‘Alfred! our one unconquer'd foe! the man
‘Who keeps our swords at bay, and while unseen
‘Laughs us to scorn; yet o'er his head now hangs
‘Certain destruction. Hubba, mark my words.
‘If we indulge dissensions, and divide
‘That spirit which alone can win the land,
‘How stand we then?—dishearten'd, and the prey
‘Of foes implacable. But I would hope,
‘Thy mind too brave to pore on selfish wrongs,
‘Heedless of these our people. Should we fail—
‘Our duty to perform, in private broils
‘Forget the common cause, what will await
‘Thy father's warriors? and, as brave a host
‘As ever hurl'd the lance!’

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Hubba replied,
‘Thy words I hear, and when I Guthrum meet,
‘My deeds shall answer thee. The time is past!
‘Why stays he? Never long'd I more to try
‘My might in battle, than I now desire
‘To measure swords with Guthrum.’—What that noise?’
Ivar exclaim'd, uprising, ‘to mine ear,
‘Melodious music.’ One drew near and said,
‘A Saxon harper, crazed, who here doth roam.’

‘A harper! and a Saxon! Bid him in!’
Cried Ivar. In the hall then Alfred came!
He stood before the Danes, who sternly eyed
The bending minstrel, when the chieftain cried,
‘Saxon! how cam'st thou here? What antidote
‘Hast thou against our swords?’ The king replied,

‘When the black raven caws, and in the air
‘Witches and wand'ring sprites their revels keep,
‘Loud laughing, with this instrument I raise
‘Celestial music. Heard'st thou yester eve
‘The stars, and stately moon, rejoicing, swell
‘My earthly chorus?’ Wond'ring look'd the Danes,
Alfred continued. ‘Mid’ the ocean waves,
‘Where in his greatness, huge Behemoth swims,
‘Shaking the depths of ocean, I abide,
‘The solitary monarch of the flood.
‘Ah! now I trim the lamp, dim burning blue,
‘In lonely sepulchre. What form is that?
‘Unknown to earth. Behold it! There! A crane!
‘Nay, by my harp, it is a sorcerer's wand.
‘The time! what is it! Ah! what art thou there?
‘Sweet innocent, a child! Nay, spare his tears!
‘Come thou with me!’

When thro' the door, the king—
Essay'd to pass, anxious to leave the tent,

231

With his imagin'd guest, but Hubba cried,
‘Withhold!’ and, turning, spake. ‘This frantic man,
‘Whence came he? His strange looks, and words so wild,
‘Might check our doubts, but that I oft have found,
‘Reputed fools, wiser than some who charge
‘The fool with folly. Saxon! say, thy name,
‘And if thou know'st of Alfred.’—Cried the king:
‘What is my name? What is the sea-surf call'd
‘At midnight? And who stops to count the sands
‘When the waves roar? See'st thou yon louring cloud?
‘Hear'st thou the noise that through the elements
‘Bursts on, and makes the gazer's cheek turn pale—
‘The lightnings learn to pity? Up and down,
‘Up to the clouds, down to the ocean's bed,
‘Nightly I go, and when th' expanding waves
‘Make bare the sea-rocks' leaves, I tear them off
‘And round my harp, bind them as now thou se'st.’

‘Where is thy king?’ aloud the chief exclaim'd.
‘Alfred, to touch some other chord within,
Terror or superstition, thus replied—
In graver accent, and with look austere.
‘Where is my king, did'st thou presume to ask?
‘Down deep in earth; e'en in her central caves!
‘Shall I my hand extend and bid him rise,
‘Fierce as the midnight wolf, to look around
‘On thee and me? Or shall I to the grave
‘Instant descend, or, to profounder depths,
‘Where oft I go, and with my potent word,
‘Arouse the earthquake?’—

Hubba cried, ‘Forbear!
‘Call not thy king!’ when, turning thus he said
Slowly to Ivar, ‘This mysterious man,
‘I like him not! Ask for no other words;
‘But let him leave our tent, and with him take
‘Our mildest accents.’ Ivar thus replied:

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‘Lose not thyself! Tho' evil spirits walk,
‘And teaze mankind with sore perplexities,
‘This is no spirit! By his uncouth words,
‘I see the wand'ring lunatic. His looks
‘Plainly tell this. But tho' he may not talk,
‘He well may play. Harper! some cheerful tune
‘To soothe the impetuous spirit!’—As the king
‘Uprais'd his harp, Guthrum threw wide the door
And enter'd in, vindictive. In his eye
He bore fierce wrath.

When with a tongue that hid
All deadly plans, Hubba the chief address'd.
‘Guthrum, we long have waited, and thy zeal,
‘So boasted of, had taught us to expect
‘More certain proofs; but I forgot myself!
‘I did not mean to question thy high spirit,
‘As well might I suspect this heart, that now
‘Beats with one purpose.—

Tho', when late we met,
‘Our words were rough, while we in idle talk
‘Question'd each other's courage, and had night
‘Handled our swords, yet 'twas a childish thing.
‘Guthrum, to tell the truth, thou well did'st speak!
‘And since thy boyish days, thou hast been known,
‘To shine far better in thy deeds than words.
‘Say I not right, old chief?’

Guthrum replied.
‘My plan is this. All others I respect,
‘But I have learn'd, most to respect myself;
‘And never to receive from lord or slave,
‘Charges, or light or heavy, but this sword
‘Hath weigh'd their truth. I am content to serve
‘Thee, my young prince, as I have wont to do,
‘With due allegiance; yet, there is within
‘This veteran breast, a heart that reverences
‘Its duties to another, and itself.

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‘I am thy friend again; receive my hand!’
‘Most willing,’ Hubba cried. ‘We both are friends,’
When, with a downcast look, yet cheerful voice,
He further spake, ‘We here are met, to name
‘What best may serve our cause. I need not tell
‘Thee, Guthrum! what the customs of our land,
‘Preceding battle, and how well it suits
‘Mortals to deprecate great Odin's frown,
‘Ere they commence the fight. To me it seems
‘Needful to sacrifice some victim: nay.
‘And that of human kind, thus, as beseems,
‘Pleasing the gods. What thinkest thou? oh chief!’

Guthrum replied, ‘Most wise! some blood should flow.’
‘If blood must flow,’ said Hubba, ‘thou would'st chuse,
‘Doubtless, a victim of such sort, that gods
‘Might smile beneficent, and in our cause
‘Take more than common interest. Speak I well?’
‘Truly,’ said Guthrum. Hubba thus exclaim'd:
With eye that darted the malignant fire.
‘If well I speak, then, by thy patriot zeal!
‘By all the ardour in the Danish cause
‘Thou oft hast boasted! By Valhalla's halls—
‘I claim thy captive!—Look not thus amazed!
‘But if sincerity thy breast hath sway'd,
‘Answer me, yes!’

‘No! by the gods above!’
Cried Guthrum. ‘She shall never bleed! My word,—
‘My oath is with her, and when Guthrum fails
‘His promise, then shall man renounce all faith
‘And Surtur's desolating reign draw near.’
Whilst filled with rage, Hubba with placid mien
Thus answer'd. ‘Guthrum, thou art wise and brave—
‘This much thy foes confess. Thou wilt ere long,
‘Repress thy warmth, and see most plain, how right
‘To sacrifice this captive, whom to save,

234

‘In such an honr, were folly. Mark me, friend,
‘It is a deed so right, that thy sage mind
‘Must yield, there is no choice.’

When Guthrum thus:
‘No choice! I tell thee, Hubba! tho' thy voice
‘Came with a god's solemnity, and Brag
‘Pleaded thy cause; I would regard it all,
‘As doth the king of birds the winds that roar
‘Around his giddy dwelling. Hear me, prince!
‘If one must bleed, as offering to our gods,
‘Let Ivar speak, and with a band of Danes,
‘Some chief shall search the country, and provide
‘Hundreds like her, to temporize with fate:
‘But by th' infernal powers, by this my sword,
‘By Midgar's war-delighting potentate—
‘By Odin's self! my captive shall not die.’

Guthrum's proud speech and purpose resolute
Added new force to Hubba's kindling ire.
He cried, ‘Thou cormorant of haughtiness!
‘Who gave thee grace before thy prince to stand
‘And say what shall be? Who endued thy words
‘To fix the bounds of fate, and of thyself
‘Give life and death? Thine oath—I spurn its power!
‘And as the sun high over head now shines,
‘So shall thy captive perish!’

With an eye
Steady as solar beam, thus Guthrum spake.
‘Thy wrath is great, but I will answer thee,
‘Calm, from my conscious right, not cowardice.—
‘Tho' nurs'd in wars, and mark'd with many a scar
‘From hostile sword: tho' by thy father's side
‘I, on the Lapland mountains, met the foe,
‘Where the white smoke-frosts rose, and ice-pil'd crags

‘Shone in their sumptuous dress, our only guide
‘The blasted fir, some solitary tree,

235

‘That here and there appear'd 'mid nature's grave.
‘Warning the foot of hardy traveller:
‘Tho' in these scenes, by Regner's side I fought
‘And nobly conquer'd; on the tall rock's brow,
‘Sending our feats down to posterity
‘In living glory, making snows my bed,
‘And ice my pillow, whilst our swords were dyed
‘In gallant blood, chieftains' and warriors' brave;
‘Yet thou disdainest all!—These deeds are o'er!—
‘When, at thy sire's untimely death, I stood
‘First in command, I look'd around and saw
‘His youthful boys, and to protect them, swore—
‘True fealty! Swore I then in vain? Thou know'st
‘This shield hath screen'd thee! This good arm hath sav'd
‘Thy infant head, 'mid perils numberless,
‘When all thy false friends fled. Since thou arriv'dst
‘In Britain, have I sheath'd my sword, and stood,
‘An idle gazer? Have I not display'd
‘Spirit untam'd, and in this tardy strife,
‘Stood forth in every hour, unterrified,
‘Where danger most appear'd! If this be true,
‘Such long-tried service might exalt itself,
‘Or look at least for something like a smile
‘From thee, young prince, of fair complacency!
‘But thou hast hightly deem'd these benefits,
‘And, with a soul unmanly, dared oppress
‘An aged friend. Injurious chieftain, hear!
‘Tho' old in warfare, still do I possess
‘A sinewy hand that yet can grasp the sword.
‘Hubba! I tell thee, till my head lie low,
‘Tho' Valhall's gods in long succession came
‘To ask this victim—she shall never bleed!’

‘Proud dotard!’ Hubba cried, ‘Take thy rash words!
‘I scorn them! As the savage bear pursues
‘The murd'rer of her young ones, so will I—

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‘Thy captive! and tho' death before me stood,
‘Press onward; such my hate of thee! But words
‘Suit not my purpose! This triumphant sword,
‘Shall deal her death-wound!’ As he to the door
Rush'd furious, Guthrum seiz'd, and thus exclaim'd,
‘Hubba! what word was that?’—Their swords are drawn!
When Ivar sprang between and cried, ‘Forbear!’
(Whilst at the murd'rous man the harper frown'd,
Unseen, and rais'd his harp, as he would strike,
Unconscious what he did.)

With wiser wrath,
Each warrior sheathes his sword, when Hubba cried:
‘Wrongs upon wrongs must I for ever bear?
‘Shall the young Hubba blush to own his sire?
‘Guthrum! thy blood or mine this foul offence
‘Alone shall heal! We will not thus with words
‘Fight always! But, enough, now Ivar, speak!
‘Thou art our proper leader! Now decide
‘'Tween Hubba, and that proudest of the proud,
‘Guthrum, thy brother's foe.’—When Ivar spake:
‘To me it is portentous of all ill,
‘Cut off from succour, and about to try
‘Our might with Alfred, to behold you thus
‘With broils disastrous, waste those thoughts, that zeal
‘The Saxons call for. Shall we by such deeds
‘Britain subdue, and to our homes return
‘Laden with honours? Hubba, thou art rash!
‘Nor Guthrum less so. Am I leader named
‘To learn my weakness, and behold your words
‘Guide me, who, child-like, need such foreign aid?
‘I am myself alone! I heed ye not—
‘Hubba, nor Guthrum!—Ere the fight begin,
‘'Tis meet some victim fall, and, right I deem,
‘Guthrum, thy captive!—Is there one beside,
‘A Saxon in our camp? Yea! There is one—
‘Yon crazy harper. Instant seize! His blood

237

‘Shall stay your mutual wrath!’ ‘Aye! Guthrum cried.
‘Let him be sacrificed!—Hubba exclaim'd,
‘This mean inglorious harping mendicant!—
‘Nay! but thy captive suffers! I will have
‘No blood but her's She is the destin'd gift
‘From Danes to gods, and as thy brother lives,
‘So shall she die!’

Ivar replied ‘'Tis well!
‘Hubba, thou speakest right. Her blood shall flow!’
Guthrum then smote his breast and, looking up,
Heard Ivar say: ‘But stop! to shun myself,
‘That rashness which in you so ill I deem,
‘I will not now determine; when night comes,
‘Then in this tent meet all! and we will speak
‘Plain to this subject. As we then resolve,
‘So shall the deed take place, for if to death
‘We doom the captive—by our torches' light,
‘Forth will we lead her, and may gods receive
‘Th' appeasing blood!’

Hubba transported cried,
‘This is most brave, most brotherly, most wise!
‘Ivar, thou hast my thanks! yet one word more,
‘Favour'd I feel, but I would still require
‘An equal favour.—Let the captive stand,
‘Here in this tent, upon th' approaching eve,
‘While we debate, so shall we mark her look,
‘And feast our eyes upon her growing terrors!’

‘Monster, away!’ th' indignant Guthrum cried.
‘Shame of thy race! blot of thy father's fame!
‘Insult a woman? Make a captive stand—
‘One whom the wars have giv'n, and view her chains,
‘Preparing at the forge!—The molten steel,
‘Soon to become a dagger in her heart!
‘Is thy name Hubba?’—Foaming he replied,
With venom in his eye, of scorpion kind,

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‘I would consume thy spirit! Ivar, speak,
‘The power is thine—thou art the strength of Danes!
‘Say to yon man, who fain would grasp all rule,
‘And, as I soberly suspect, who now
‘E'en meditates our fall—say to yon man,
‘Thy captive shall be present!’—Ivar cried,
‘Thy captive shall be present! She shall hear
‘Whilst we decide.’

When, brooding as the cloud
That leads the storm on, Guthrum left the tent,
Whom Hubba follow'd; and as Alfred rose
Ivar beheld, and spake: ‘Mark, simple man!
‘Tho' thou dost talk so wild, yet with thy harp
‘Thou play'st most sweetly, and, lest words arise
‘That need thy soothing—be thou here anon!’
Which said, the harper, trembling, pass'd the door.

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BOOK XVI.

ARGUMENT.

Alfred's visit to the Danish camp, continued.—Present, Ivar, Hubba, Guthrum, the Harper.

‘Well met!’ cried Ivar. ‘Here we all appear,
‘But, where the captive? she whose fate hath raised
‘This bitter strife.’

He scarce had said, when, lo!
Alswitha enter'd trembling, led by her,—
Guthrum's fair daughter. With bewilder'd glance
Around she slowly look'd. Her heart beat hard!—
For there, disguised, stood Alfred. He beheld
And trembled; every joint relax'd; such doubts
Rush'd through him, that of all around, he seem'd
Dubious, if most partaking of the world
Ideal or material. In his wrath,
Hubba arose, and cried,

‘Ivar, our brother,
‘Behold the captive, Guthrum vainly strives
‘From death to screen; but, by the sword I wield,
‘Death shall o'ertake her, and the gods receive,
‘Before th' approaching morn, her destin'd blood.’

The gentle Zephyr, that upon the wave

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Disports himself, and o'er the rippling flood,
Delighted bears some vessel, freighted rich
With human excellence, feels not more grief
And cutting anguish, when, with potent word,
The Genius of the ocean, bids him haste
To other regions, and resign his charge
To the fierce North-wind, that with bellowing rage
Soon shall assault the bark, and in the waves
Ingulf the whole,—than Alfred felt, to think
He govern'd not, but one, a Dane, whose soul
Blood only charm'd.

Alswitha silent stood.
Feeling had left her, and her eye display'd
The vacancy of death. When Guthrum cried;
(Burden'd with wrath, that thus an utterance found:)
‘Hubba! more black thy heart than night o'ercast
‘With hideous tempests, when no moon appears,
‘And every star, fearful, withdraws. Thy soul
‘Feeds only on revenge, and thy dark mind
‘Ever displays, like Finmark's gloomy wastes,
‘All desolate, winds or the beating rain,—
‘Thou hast no sun within! Thy manly front
‘But pictures some fair forest's loftiest boughs,
‘Displaying health and verdure, whilst beneath,
‘Far out of sight, 'mid noxious vapours vile,
‘Lie desolation, mildew, waste, and death!
‘Tho' from its monstrous and atrocious kind,
‘Few might thy motive doubt, I know the cause
‘Which makes thee Guthrum's foe! which fills thy breast
‘With venom fierce, and of no earthly kind:
‘But thou shalt strive in vain! She shall not die
‘To glut thy vengeance! I have vow'd, have sworn,
‘Her to protect; this tongue hath pledged itself
‘With oaths so full and of such import deep,
‘That whilst this eye can see, this sword resist,
‘Yon Captive stands secure!’

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When Ivar spake.
‘Guthrum, I know thee not! Thy words and looks!
‘So change thy character, that I suspect
‘Some fiend of hell hath borrow'd this thy shape
‘With which to spout its fury. Know, oh man!
‘Ivar, not Guthrum, rules in Britain's Isle.
‘Thy haughty words befit not even thee,
‘Tho' old and in thy country's wars renown'd.
‘If for our common good, the gods demand
‘A victim of high blood,—where is there one,
‘Like her I see, so noble in her port
‘And form'd for sacrifice? Say, hast thou not,
‘Ofttimes declared, that, from her form and mien,
‘Her language and deportment, that thou knew'st
‘Thy Captive of no common origin?
‘These oft have been thy sayings! and to shew
‘Resentment for thy words, here do I swear,
‘By all the gods in Valhall—she shall die!’

Not paler look'd the Babylonian king,
Belshazzar, when upon the walls he saw
The finger guided by an arm unseen,
Then look'd Alswitha.—Guthrum thus replied:
‘With thee, oh chieftain! vain it were to strive:
‘Thou hast all power! yet do I feel my wrongs
‘Hard on me! Is it this for which my life
‘Hath borne the battle? Have I fought from youth,
‘Even to these grey hairs, to have at last
‘One little boon denied me, and receive
‘At this unlook'd for time my full reward?
‘One thing I yet may do! These hands have now
‘Warr'd long enough; and from this fatal hour,
‘Sheath'd is my sword! upon the Saxon foe
‘Never to light again! The strife is o'er!
‘Now take the victim! let her blood be shed!
‘Go forth and conquer in full confidence

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‘That gods approve the deed! One path is now
‘Left for old Guthrum, and I swear—to haste
‘Instant to Denmark.’

Hubba shouted, ‘Haste!
‘We heed thee not—thy threats or services!
‘We are a host ourselves!’—Ivar exclaim'd,
‘Lead forth the victim! Bring the sacred knife!
‘Prepare the bowl! and let her streaming blood
‘Flow to the midnight torch!’

Alswitha heard,
And at the chieftain's sentence, ‘Lead her forth,’
A gentle sleep her senses overcast:—
Low on the ground she sank: when Hubba sprang,
Grasping her arm resistless, and essay'd
To bear her from the tent, when Ivar cried,
‘Withhold! I have one question first to ask.
‘Guthrum, attend! Became yon captive thine
‘In lawful fight, or didst thou meet with her
‘When peaceful, and remote from wars and strife?’—
Guthrum faint hope received, and eager cried,
‘By all the gods we serve, illustrious chief!
‘Fighting, I found her not. No fruit of war
‘Was yonder captive. Her I overtook
‘At early morn, when pacing quietly
‘Her sober way.’

Ivar then knit his brow:
Conflicting thoughts seem'd labouring in his breast.
Awhile he ponder'd; when Alswitha rose,
And gazing slowly round, spake not, yet cast
Th' accusing look, unconscious, on the chief.
This look awoke his wrath, which but required
The pressure of a shadow, to burst forth
Untameable—Like that still pause in air,
When the dark elements are filled with mists
And pregnant clouds, 'till through the vaulted sky
The thunder rattles, when the world beneath,

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Half deluged, hears the dread contunder roar
That bursts heaven's flood-gates.—Thus the chieftain cried:
‘Woman! thy haughty mien but ill deserves
‘Compassion, yet, it wrings me to the heart,
‘What most I hate, I fear me, I must shew,’
When lifting up her eye, Alswitha spake:
‘Haughty, my lord! within this trembling breast
‘There is no haughtiness, and if thou shew
‘Compassion to my pleading innocence—’

Hubba exclaim'd, ‘Compassion! Hold thy peace!’
When turning to the chief, he thus began.
‘Ivar, my brother! would'st thou rescue thus
‘A worthless captive, and expose our heads—
‘Thy head and mine—nay, all around our tent,
‘To one o'erwhelming fate? Recall thy words!
‘Pronounce! and let me seize her and lead forth
‘To instant sacrifice.’—

Then such suspense
Hubba and Guthrum, and the harper felt,
And she, Alswitha, as that wretched crew,
On India's despot shore, when, parch'd with thirst,
And deep immured in dungeon horrible,—
Their very veins starting from out their flesh,
And, boiling, as the dark blood flow'd within;—
Then such suspense felt all around the chief,
As Albion's sons endured, when having sent
A second time, (night round them,) to inquire
If still he slept, the monster! on whose rest
Hung their last hope of being.

Ivar cried,
‘The fatal mandate glad would I pronounce,
‘But there is one objection that till now
‘Struck not my mind. I cannot as I would!
‘I have an unimaginable dread
‘Of powers invisible! Regard my words.—

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‘Ere to the Saxon land I urged my course,
‘As well befitted Dane, I first resolved
‘To seek the Sorc'ress. To the neighbouring shore,
‘Alone, I hasted, and upon the beach
‘Beheld a mariner; aloud I cried,
‘Launch out thy bark, and bear me to the spot
‘Where dwells the Oracle,’—

‘I cannot go,’
Slow he replied; ‘Behold the maddening surge;’
‘When strait I slew him. Having reach'd at length
‘The fatal sister, down immured in earth,
‘She knew the deed, and chid me with such frowns;
‘Call'd up such legions of infernal forms,
‘And so o'erpower'd my sight with unknown shapes,
‘Terrific, that I vow'd, grasping my sword,
‘When to this isle I came, never to shed
‘One drop of human blood, but what the wars
‘Gave me in lawful captives. This I swore;
‘And I so dread her frown, at the still hour
‘Of midnight, when all darkness is around,
‘That I the oath must keep! I have no choice!
‘That vow hath saved her. Guthrum, take thy slave!’

Quick as the panther leaps upon his prey,
Guthrum uprose and answer'd, ‘Chieftain, hail!
‘Ivar, I bid thee, hail! and now behold
‘Once more in me a friend.’—As look'd the fiend—
Hell's monarch, when the Saviour to him cried,
Turning in his full might and majesty,
‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’—Hubba look'd,
Fierce in his wrath, and muttering half-form'd words
Of direful import.

Guthrum him approach'd,
And thus bespake, ‘Good Hubba! I am glad,—
‘Wherefore should'st thou be sorrowful? Such wrath
‘As thou indulgest ill befits a prince,

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‘And such determin'd vengeance. Thou hast shewn,
‘Till now, respect for women, and the hate
‘Thou bearest one so gentle and so good,
‘Afflicts my spirit. I am old and grey,
‘But I remember once, my heart, like thine!
‘For as the withy throve where water was,
‘So I, 'mid strife; yet tho' I know myself,
‘That hour is past. I now with cooler mind
‘Can judge our state, and for the common cause
‘Make something like concession.—These my words.
‘When first about the fleet our swords were drawn,
‘Where was the cause of strife? for thee or me?
‘I fear'd not, thou the same; we both alike
‘Fear'd neither one the other: wherefore then
‘That passion and this agony of rage?
‘I am content to own thee still my friend,
‘If Hubba thus the same of Guthrum says,
‘This is no time for jarring! we must join—
‘Speak I not, Ivar, right? both hand and heart,
‘To meet these Saxons, and that first of men,
‘For courage, constancy, and deep designs—
‘Alfred, their king.’

Ivar exclaim'd, ‘Right well!
‘Brother, thy hand! Receive our father's friend!
‘E'en him, who in th' excess of vigilance,
‘Hath till this hour, when danger roamed abroad,
‘Slept less than Heimdal, guardian of heaven's way.
Hubba uprose, and with feign'd fellowship,
Clasp'd Guthrum's hand in silence, looking stern,
As tho' he brooded o'er revenge, not ripe,
Rankling within. When Ivar thus again.
‘To see you friends, once more, my spirit cheers.
‘When the full time is past of solemn rites,
‘Forth will we march to seek where hides the king,
‘The exiled Alfred, whom our swords shall meet,
‘Our wrath o'erwhelm! But now for merriment.

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‘Harper, thy song! and let our lighten'd hearts
‘Dance to the laughing instrument.’ The king
Trembling uprose, and, singing, struck the harp.

‘Danes, far renown'd o'er all the north, and known
‘To every wave of ocean—like the pine,
‘Torn from the mountain's base, that rides secure
‘Upon the foaming billow; hear my song!—
‘Friendship is dear to man, the hour of strife
‘Bitter as wormwood to the heart that feels
‘And prizes friendship. I to nobler themes
‘Now tune my harp: I sing celestial Love!
‘Where'er thou art, best friend of humankind,
‘There is all good, all harmony; the heart
‘That truly loves, a mail'd defence doth wear
‘That blunts all sorrow. Let each soul be true,
‘Of all that round me listen, to the vows
‘Preferred in happier times, and patient look
‘For future recompence. Such is the worth
‘Of heaven-descended Love, that nothing here,
‘E'en in the spacious world, hath magnitude
‘By which to tell its value! Pearls and crowns
‘Are fleeting shadows, but affection true,
‘Constant and spotless, scorning time and place,
‘Lives and for ever lives, for 'tis the gift—
‘First and most precious, heaven ordains to man.
‘The ocean, that with raving mounts on high,
‘And seems ordain'd through endless years to roll,
‘For ever troubled, soon shall stay his wrath.
‘Oh ye, whose hearts affection calls her own,
‘Heed not your sorrows! soon the storm shall cease,
‘Like ocean in his fury.’

Ivar cried:
‘Thy minstrelsy, so sweet, makes glad my heart.
‘Where learned'st thou thy song? Did'st ever tread
‘On distant Denmark, for it seems the same

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‘Which I in mournful mood to Freda spake
‘Ere I came hither.’ Hubba thus replied,
‘And I to Thoris.’ Wildly cried the king,
‘I ride upon the winds, or 'tween the waves,
‘And mid the howling storm, recline myself,
‘As all were quiet. Have ye never heard
‘'Mid forests deep the night-owl whoop to me;
‘Or, from your native mountains seen on high
‘The eagle sailing, whilst he heard afar,
‘Check'd in his course, my harp in solitude?’
‘Methinks I have,’ cried Hubba, tremblingly,
When slowly thus to Ivar he began.
‘This fearful and most questionable thing,
‘For whether man or not, I would not say,
‘Cheats me of reason. Ivar! bid him haste
‘From this our presence, for I half suspect
‘Nay, I could swear by his long eye-lash black,
‘'Tis Lok himself, that evil Deity
‘Whom gods and men abhor. He hath great power.
‘So we must treat him kindly.’

Ivar look'd
In dubious mood, 'twixt doubt and certainty,
And thus replied. ‘Hubba, I may not think
‘Yon harper, Lok? No, no! it cannot be!
‘Thy brain is wandering. He is what he seems,
‘A crazy harper, whom some sore mishap
‘Hath lighted on, and his distemper'd brain
‘Serv'd as we witness.’ Turning, thus the chief:
‘Thy harp, young harper, thou hast learn'd to touch,
‘With a bewitching tenderness; thy voice,
‘Form'd for thine instrument, hath to our minds
‘Call'd up sweet images, so clear and sweet,
‘That truly I could wish this warfare o'er,
‘That I might back to Denmark and exchange
‘The shadow for the substance: but, vain thoughts!
‘This is no time for love's soft witcheries.

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‘Now we are friends, let us with speed prepare
‘To meet the fight, for as the husbandman
‘Tills ere he reaps and houses, so must we
‘First sow the seed in war; Alfred first meet.
‘But yet before we part, one other song
‘Methinks might cheer us. Woman, take the harp!
‘And let us hear if thou hast learn'd to touch
‘Soft notes like him thy country-man.’

The Queen—
Receiving from her stranger lord, the harp,
Falt'ring thus spake.—‘Faint is my voice, and harsh,
‘And feebly do I touch the minstrel chord,
‘Yet will I sing thy praise, O, chieftain, thine—
‘Who gav'st me life, and at this hour command'st
‘My harp to speak. Sweet is the harshest song
‘That springs from gratitude, and I will strike
‘The harp, albeit discordant.—Know, my lord
‘One song alone is mine; 'tis of a maid
‘Who on the wide seas saw her lover go,
‘And, wand'ring on the beach, to every wind
‘That waved her tresses, sang my humble song.
‘If thou would'st hear it, speak, and I obey.’
He cried, ‘Play on!’ When, trembling, she began.

‘Beloved, go! go o'er the briny sea,
‘And angels guard thee! When thou liest down,
‘May sometimes my soft image hover near.—
‘Forget not her who still remembers thee!
‘Go youth, belov'd! go to thy distant home!
‘Or never more shall I behold thee! Go!
‘Before the billows swallow thee. The rocks—
‘In fatal ambush lie. Oh, think of me!
‘And if my life could screen thee from the storm,
‘Then were thy dangers o'er. Go, gentle youth!
‘Soul of my soul, and may the winds and waves
‘Pity my sorrows; may they guide thee back

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‘To meet me, oh, beloved! may they shew
‘Compassion for the tears I hourly shed.
‘But if the destinies, beloved youth!
‘Should keep thee from my bosom, if the wars
‘Or stormy main should stop thee—still believe
‘That in my dreams by night, my thoughts by day,
‘Thou art the sov'reign lord; no rival there.
‘How cam'st thou where thou art? Behold thy state,
‘Fly back, beloved! Dread thy mighty foes!
‘For death is near thee! Trust not thou to chance
‘Thy precious being! Instant, flee away!
‘But tho' thou long should'st lose me, thou shalt find
‘If e'er thou see me more, my love the same,
‘My heart still pure; and if, far off, I die,
‘Oh! weep for one who with her latest breath
‘Call'd on her true-love, and from heaven implored
‘Blessings on him and his.’

She ceas'd the song.
Ivar uprose, and said, ‘Now may we part.’
When to the tent there came a spy, return'd
From wanderings far. Him Ivar saw, and cried;
‘Say! hast thou heard of Alfred, or what force
‘Saxons now boast?’—

‘I know it all,’ he cried,
‘I have seen Alfred, and beheld the spot
‘Where now he is, where all the Saxons dwell;
‘I know their haunts, their numbers, their designs,
‘All! all is mine!’ With the spontaneous voice
‘Each chief replied, ‘Declare it! Tell thy tale,’—
When thus he spake, turning to Alfred nigh.—
‘What doth this harping man do here? I late
‘From yonder hill, beheld him on our camp,
‘Gazing with curious eye.’ Hubba exclaim'd,
‘Hold thy peace, Dane! Thy tale!’ He thus began:

‘We left you, mighty princes! to find out

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‘Where Oddune fled, and where the Saxon king—
‘Alfred, conceal'd himself. We thought it well,
‘Singly to journey. Thus, of all our band,
‘Each took a different route. By night I roam'd:
‘By day, my habitations were the woods.
‘Oft weary was my spirit. I have lain,
‘Upon the tall branch swinging, seeing naught
‘'Mid the thick leaves, and as the eve drew near,
‘Crept to the utmost verge to gaze around
‘For path-way, or the next o'er-shadowing wood
‘Myself to hide. Long were it now to say
‘My hourly perils, or how dull to stride
‘Some giant limb, and scarce a living thing,
‘Through the long hours, behold, save overhead,
‘The squirrel that at leisure rasp'd his nuts
‘And dropp'd them on me.'—

Cried th' indignant chief,
‘Withhold thy babblings! What are these to us?—
‘Stars! trees! and squirrels! Tell us of the king
‘Who plots our ruin, nor again provoke
‘Ivar's fierce wrath!’

‘Pardon me!’ cried the Dane;
(Knowing that death was mingled with that frown)
‘I would forget the rest, and speak alone
‘What thou requirest.—When the night arrived,
‘Descending from my hiding place, I sought
‘For cottage, or some solitary hind,
‘Whom I might question. Long I sought in vain;
‘When I o'ertook a man, and bade him tell
‘Where Alfred was.’ He cried, ‘I know not, Dane!
‘And if I did, think'st thou, that thou should'st hear?’
‘I answer'd not, but clave him to the ground.
‘Then, marching on, I saw a cottager,
‘And as he cast his eye, by the pale moon,
‘And glimps'd me, fast he sped; I follow'd hard,
‘When seeing him upraise his staff, my sword

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‘Gave to the thirsty earth the Saxon's blood.
‘Through a dark wood, now far I roam'd, so vast,
‘That like the sea, illimitable, round—
‘It seem'd to spread. When by a clear brook's side,
‘I saw another cottage. At the door
‘I knock'd; none answer'd me; I knock'd again;
‘When, wistless who it was, an old man came,
‘Asking my purpose. Close behind him stood
‘His aged wife: earnest they both look'd up,
‘And, undismay'd, inquired again the cause
‘That brought me hither. Thus I answer'd them:
‘Vain to oppose me! Instant say, old man!
‘Where Alfred is!’ This was his answer, ‘Friend,
‘I know not.’ ‘Nay, but, on thy life, old man!
‘Say where thy monarch! Fail not to declare.
‘Or death be thine! When holding up my sword,’
‘Stay!’ he exclaim'd. ‘I am an aged man,
‘And many a long year in this woody vale.
‘By the clear brook that babbles by my side,
‘Thro' summer and thro' winter, I have dwelt.’
‘But answer me! I spake. Where is thy king?’
‘Oh, stay thy hand!’ he cried, ‘I pray thee stay!
‘I cannot tell—I never harm have done—
‘Spare my grey hairs!’—

‘Vain is it thus to talk,
‘I answer'd, and that instant drove my sword,
‘Deep in his heart, when loud the woman cried,
‘Forbear!’ ‘I answer'd not, but with my sword
‘For ever closed her eyes. Truly I felt,
‘At the first thought of killing them, a dread—
‘A check, a slow recoiling of the mind;
‘But then the thought, that they were Saxons, rose,
‘And pity I had none.

‘Now, earnest still,
‘Far through the wood I wander'd, and again,
‘As was my custom, climb'd some lofty tree

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‘To meet the day: when, to my wond'ring eyes,
‘Appear'd a castle, 'mid the thickest wood,
‘And near, the Saxon army!—There they are!—
‘Upon the loftiest walls, whilst the morn lagg'd,
‘I saw a man, so active 'bove his peers,
‘And with command so regal, that I thought,
‘Nay, I aver, it was the Saxon king.
‘I still look'd round, and, as the morn advanced,
‘Beheld the castle clearer; when I fled,
‘Seeking thee here. By my good prince's grace
‘True is my story.’—

‘Bravely hast thou said,’
Cried Ivar. ‘Now the certain day draws near—
‘The hour of vengeance! Alfred, thou art there!
‘But, ere another moon, low in the dust
‘Thy head shall lie. Hubba, regard my words!
‘And Guthrum, mark me! When the hour hath pass'd
‘That bounds our revelry, and the full time
‘Appointed to our gods—five days from this—
‘Forth will we seek that forest, and consign
‘To black perdition—Alfred and his host.’

All shouted, ‘Speed the time!’ and forth withdrew.

253

BOOK XVII.

ARGUMENT.

Alfred on his return to Selwood Forest, meets Sigbert—Sends him to the cottage at Ethelney—Joins his troops—Marches to fight the Danes— Meets the enemy—Oddune dispatched to them with a summons—Preparation for Battle.

'TWAS midnight, when, the Danish conference o'er,
Each left the hall. Alfred his harp unstrung,
Moving in thoughtless attitude, then stood,
Earnest to catch one glance of her he loved,—
Led from the conference fierce. He saw her pass,
Arm link'd in arm, with her, the faithful friend,
Guthrum's mild daughter. On the ground she pored
Disconsolate. Alfred beheld, nor moved,—
Fill'd with distracting thoughts, till every ray
That lit her footsteps, faded. Now the thought
Leagued with despair, opprest him, for all hope
Vanish'd, that he might rescue her he lov'd.
From withering dreams arous'd, he now revolved
On perils that his own path throng'd. The wind
Howl'd thro' the air, and every blast that blew
Seem'd on his heart to strike, and bleaker make
The dreary scene around him. Doubts now rose—
Whether the lurking danger might not still

254

Arrest his footsteps. Gloom pervades his brow;
When, stout of heart, he hastening thro' the camp,
Drew near a centinel.—‘What step is that?’
With up-raised battle-axe, the warrior cried.
The king absorb'd with his wild phantasies,
Heeded him not, but looking at the clouds,
Muttering, approach'd.—The centinel exclaim'd,
‘By my good spear, the harper! Wherefore man!
‘Cam'st thou this way, whilst the winds roar so loud,
‘That every living thing, at such an hour,
‘Shelter methinks might seek?’ Alfred replied;
‘I feed the porpoise! Hark, her young ones cry!
‘I must away!’ When swiftly he pass'd on,
And as he pass'd, the Dane in pity cried,
‘Poor frantic man, safe be thy wanderings wild!’
When Alfred now the hostile camp had 'scaped,
Tho' joyful, he perceived a secret chill
Creep thro' him, for the stormy night was dark
And now (with danger o'er) his perils rose,
Appalling, with a force and vehemence,
Transcending the reality. His heart,—
(Roaming so late upon the verge of death)
He rais'd with gratitude, to Him, whose power—
All worlds controlling, o'er his servants oft,
As in this hour, casts his protecting shield.
Whilst musing thus, slow, from her watery bed,
With timid ray, the horned moon uprose,
And from her calming influence, seem'd to say
To all the elements' ‘Like me be still.’
The king her pale beams joyfully beheld,
And sped toward Selwood; doubting every sound,
The foe pursuing, whilst each branchless tree
Seem'd lurking Dane.
Now to the wood he came—
The wood where dwelt the well known cottager;

255

He who the harp had lent,—whose benediction
In solitude had cheer'd, and whom to see
Gave to his feet fresh buoyancy, and made
All perils past, seem light. Still on he sped,
And, in imagination, ere he reach'd
That tranquil and soul-soothing dwelling-place,
The hearty greet exchanges. There, his Garb
Late had he left, once more to be resumed.
And there, reluctant, but in confidence,
His sword the woodman's trusty hand received,
Now needed for new conflicts.—Journeying on,—
More pleasant each familiar sight appear'd.
The very trees look'd greener, and the birds,
With sweeter notes gave forth their minstrelsy.
The interview fast hastens, the delight,
When, after absence, friends rejoicing meet;
Sweeter for perils past. Eager of heart,
Alfred, the cold and intermediate spurns.
For sight he waits not. He already sees,
In fancy's revelations, clear and bright,
Old age, impatient, rising from his seat
To give the greeting—joyance in his eyes—
Four-fold augmented, by the harp's sweet sight,
The precious relic of a son no more!

The long-look'd hour is come! The cot he sees!
With ardent step he hastens to the door!
He knocks! assured that, at the second breath,
The latch will move, and gratulations loud
Welcome him back.—No voice—no sound is heard!
He louder knocks!—yet silence still prevails!
His heart misgives!—Slowly he opes the door.
He enters—looks around.—Sudden he starts!—
What cold and creeping dew-damp, o'er his brow,
Starts from each pore!—when, on the ground he sees—

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Dread spectacle!—the friendly woodman old—
Murder'd!—and by his side, a lifeless corpse—
His aged wife!

It was a withering sight!
Alfred stands motionless!—His breast heaved hard.
His eye a mist pervaded, when he cried,
(Glancing at that disastrous Dane, whose spoil
He heard recounted) ‘Monster! thou hast slain
‘A time-worn, and most unoffending pair!
‘God pardon thee!’ After a silence brief,
The king breath'd forth,—in accents slow and faint,
(Lest utterance, lawless feeling, should o'erpower)
‘He was a man, in worth and virtue's sight
‘Not vast in intellect, (so often proved,
‘A curse to its possessor!)—better far!—
‘Rich, sound in the interior. Warm within.
‘In this inhospitable world of ours—
‘Bless'd with a heart of kindliest sympathies.
‘I weep for thee, old man!—A sample rare
‘Of human nature in its choicest form—
‘Cleans'd, purified, by influence from on high!’
The king oppress'd with anguish, smites his breast,
And as a statue stands, absorbed in thought!—
The shuddering frame, the palpitating heart,
The trembling knee, tell of the strife he bore.

When thought had now return'd, and reason free,
Slow to himself, in tremulous tones he cried.
‘I will not leave you, miserable friends!
‘The decent earth shall cover you. These hands
‘Your grave shall delve,—under yon spreading tree,
‘Where you so oft have sat, and to high heaven,
‘Your orisons both night and morning paid,
‘All nature smiling!—emblem of the peace
‘That in your purged and righteous spirits reign'd!
‘You, half I envy. From this barren world,
‘This congregated mass of wretchedness!

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‘Where worth, like some exotic and rare plant,
‘Pining, endures the uncongenial soil,
‘And wrong and violence hold revelry!—
‘Call'd suddenly away!—not unprepared;—
‘A moment's pang exchanged for endless joy!’

Slow gazing round, a welcome spade he spied.
He seizes it, and now beneath the tree,
The grave is form'd. The sufferers slow he bears
To their last resting-place, and earth to earth—
Commits them, in no idle pomp of woe,
But with the unbought tear, and leaves them there,
In faith, in silence, and in sanctity!—
For precious is the spot where virtue sleeps.
Now, duties solemn rouse him from his trance.
His vest he seeks, his sword. With curious eye,
Now here, now there, he searches; long in vain.
Ah! there they are!—in that sequester'd nook;
Up where the dry herbs hang, placed carefully.
Once more the melancholy glance he casts—
O'er the sad scene!—where cheerfulness so late
Reign'd paramount, and hospitality—
Welcom'd the stranger. Now the wicker chairs
Stand empty, (where the aged pair once sat,
Contentment round, and read, with thankful hearts,
From their few precious pages, of that book
Which told of an hereafter,) now no more
To greet their owners!—Cold the hearth-stone lies!—
The ashes scatter'd, and the half-burnt boughs
Resting, and still to rest in quietness—
Tipp'd with their heads of grey! Once more he sigh'd,
Sad at his heart, then slowly pass'd the door.
While hast'ning toward his followers, Alfred sees

258

Far thro' the trees—that melancholy man—
Sigbert, with solemn step, the woods among,
Restless as wandering Jew Sigbert perceived
Alfred, and rush'd to meet him. Thus he cried,
‘My long-lost prince! my master! have I found
‘Thee, Alfred! oh my king? Thy fearful frown
‘At any other moment I might shun,
‘Yet now I heed it not, to see again
‘My long-lost lord.’—Alfred remember'd well
His former anger, but, the sudden joy
From certainty that he was yet a king,
So fill'd his mind, that he forgot the past,
And, wistless what he said, cried, ‘Peace be thine!’
Sigbert then spake: ‘My master, pardon me!
‘And with my weakness bear a little space,
‘That I may tell my grief. To name the pain
‘This breast hath felt, since thou didst bid me go
‘An outcast and a murd'rer, I would fain
‘But cannot. Oh, my king, this heart is sad!
‘I, from a guilty conscience have endured
‘Anguish so terrible and past the power
‘Of words to tell, that how a heart should bear
‘A load so vast, I knew not till this hour.
‘Pardon me, monarch!’—
Thus the king replied:
‘Sigbert, remember, I am man, not God!
‘He must the deed forgive!’—When Sigbert thus:
‘Most truly! and, by wrestling fervently,
‘His ear hath heard my prayer; and I have faith
‘Thro' Him who is the sinner's Advocate,
‘That pardon'd in the Almighty's eye I stand.
‘Do thou forgive me!’—
Alfred mildly cried,
‘I chid thee but to teach how harder far
‘To bear Heaven's chiding. Now thy mind is chang'd,
‘And thou dost see how mutable the man

259

‘Who on himself doth rest, when the hour comes
‘Of sore temptation. I am yet thy friend.’
The drowning man who spies approaching aid,
Feels not more joy than Sigbert. Thus he cried:
‘Monarch, my heart is thine! but to my words
‘Thou must not look for recompence. Declare,
‘Oh king! how I may shew my gratitude,
‘And if I shew it not, trust not in man!
‘His vow is vain.’—Alfred replied: ‘My time
‘Important duties claim, but I will stay,
‘Albeit unwise, one moment to bestow
‘A passing word, with meek austerity.
‘Ask of the world's great Author, to subdue
‘All evil in thy heart, but chiefly, wrath—
‘The source of ills unnumber'd, which, around,
‘Spreads direful burdens—making hell of earth,
‘And fiends of men. Sigbert! remember thou—
‘This shadowy world, this transient state of being,
‘But ill deserves of man, the sacrifice
‘Anger demands. What is there here on earth
‘Deserving passion? what below the sky
‘Worthy a creature's wrath? Few are our days,
‘And all our little evils, sent to cleanse
‘Minds wayward, and our faculties, from dross,
‘Debasing, and unworthy that high name—
‘The sons of God. Precious to Heaven is he,
‘Who sees, in mortal things, their real worth,
‘And looks beyond them! Here on earth we sow,
‘After, we reap the fruit. The race is here,
‘The prize hereafter. Here the ocean raves,
‘There is our haven. And that man shall find,
‘Who thro' this howling wilderness preserves
‘Spotless his mind, and in a tainted world
‘Holds converse with his Maker; sees how great

260

‘The worth of holiness, and truly knows
‘How to respect himself, and to preserve
‘God's temple pure, still trusting in His name,
‘Our only righteousness! that man shall find
‘Life's evils fleeting, and his mind prepared
‘For the fruition, full, unspeakable,
‘God hath reserved above.—
‘Be these thy thoughts,
‘Oh Sigbert! and when wrath o'ertakes thee, wrongs
‘Stop thee to hear their tale; gird up thy mind,
‘And like the sojourner, whose home is Heaven,
‘Small things endure unruffled. Thou hast slain
‘A pleading man!—Albeit an enemy,
‘Yet still a man. I would forget the deed,
‘For in thy countenance, methinks I see
‘Contrition; that—to God! and for thy kind
‘And many services, I hold thee dear.’
Sibert essay'd to speak.—Alfred again:
‘As once I told thee, now I tell the same—
‘Thou shalt not war! Profession thou hast made
‘Of holiness and of devoted heart
‘To holy ways—flee then th' avenging sword!
‘If wars must come—if human blood must flow—
‘Let those who never bore the prophet's name
‘Stand forth and combat! but the God we serve,
‘In most peculiar way, his ministers
‘Requires to dwell in peace.’—Sigbert replied;
‘As the tall hill catches the sun's last beam,
‘When all beside is twilight, so may I,
‘When death draws near, oh king, remember thee,
‘And these thy words! My heart indeed is fill'd
‘With lasting gratitude. Thy mild rebuke,
‘On this my mind, flashes conviction's light,
‘And for thy precepts, I am nearer heaven.’

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Alfred thus spoke: ‘Sigbert! my words attend.
‘Haste thou to Ethelney—that humble cot
‘Where late thou saw'st me; there abides my son
‘Whom thou discover'dst on the bleak down wide,
‘And thither broughtest. There direct thy course,
‘And guard him with such constancy of care
‘As I would fain bestow. One moment more,
‘I must address thee. Now are these my steps
‘Verging toward that decisive hour, when sword
‘Must clash with sword, and every Saxon strive
‘For life and liberty, with each delight
‘Man values. Doubtful the event! Thy king
‘May not survive it! I have one request—
‘Sigbert, preserve my child! If I should fall,
‘Keep him secure! and, if in after times,
‘Saxons should think of me, and heav'n have crown'd
‘Their brave endeavours; lead him to their camp!
‘Say to th' assembled armies, view the child
‘Whose sire was Alfred! Own him as your prince!
‘A better fortune shall support his arms,
‘And he shall do what Alfred would have done!’
Cried Sigbert, ‘Oh my king! thou must not die.
‘I had almost with impious zeal declared
‘Thou shalt not die! Thou art our earthly trust!—
‘Might I, unblam'd, disturb the sanctity
‘Of thy repose, and ask one question more,—
‘What of our gracious queen?’ At Sigbert's words,
Alfred his forehead clasp'd, a sudden chill
Rush'd thro' his frame, when, feebly he replied,
‘Name it no more! I must not answer thee!
‘Angels of God, defend her! me preserve,
‘Father Almighty!—Sigbert! I am now
‘Bound to the castle, and these moments few
‘Ill can I spare. Depart thou on thy way!’
When Sigbert cried, ‘Farewell!’ and both retired.

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As thro' the intertwin'd and darken'd path
Alfred proceeded, mid' a thicket near
He spied a wolf! His eyes were visible,
While yet his form was hid;—glaring with wrath!
And as the king uprais'd his sword, the beast
Disclosed his fang, and with a horrid snarl
Darted to meet his prey. The monarch stood
Unmoved! The wolf look'd up, yet fear'd to leap!
Foam issued from his jaw! a stream of light
From either orb appear'd, and every hair,
Bristling, declared his fury. Brief the pause!
He springs voracious. Alfred stretch'd his arm,
And, with a sudden aim, seized his huge throat,
And whilst the monster coil'd, gasping for breath,
Deep in his heart, plunged the impetuous sword.
While Alfred roam'd, disguised, and fearlessly,
Thro' all the camp, where death and danger reign'd,
To Selwood's shades, full many a patriot chief,
And gallant band,—Wessex' stout-hearted sons,
Sped resolute, presenting to the eye—
A host, by zeal inspired, that promise gave—
With strength resistless, by one effort grand—
To meet, and to instruct the haughty Dane,
How terrible a people—roused to arms.
Now to the castle walls the king draws near,
The Saxons see, and rush to meet their prince;
Wild with excess of joy! When Alfred cried:—
(Exulting to behold so vast a host)
‘Friends! warriors! hope of Britons yet unborn!
‘I read in every countenance the joy
‘My presence yields you. Viewing, as I do,
‘You, patriot hosts! You, Saxons! crowding round
‘Your country's banner, and the prince, who lives
‘To do you good, my heart intenser love
‘Feels for you, than it ever yet hath felt.

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‘You are my children! I, your father am!
‘Important are the scenes by me beheld,
‘Since last we met. I, 'mid the Danish camp,
‘Have wander'd unmolested, on my back
‘A harp I bore; I have survey'd their force,
‘Obtain'd their plans, and now again am here
‘To tell you my designs. The hour is come!
‘Prepare for battle! In the Danish camp,
‘I stood and heard a spy instruct his chief,
‘He knew our haunts! He knew the very spot,
‘Selwood he named, where all our forces lay,
‘With me, your monarch. In their savage rites
‘Five days they vow'd to spend. If we advance
‘Fast to the combat, these our swords may bear
‘Destruction unawares. Yet, ere the fight,
‘Regard your monarch.—At this solemn hour
‘When all we have hangs on the quivering beam,
‘When Denmark's demons hover round, and Time
‘Prepares his hand to write the record dread,
‘Alfred is vanquish'd, or, the rapturous truth
‘Saxons have triumph'd, and the Danes been taught—
‘Lesson severe; how irresistible
‘The swords of freemen, when, with arms like ours—
‘They bravely strive for all that life holds dear.
‘Firm in our native strength, we, foreign aid,
‘Well may despise. With scorn may we behold—
‘Our base betrayers. Think, O, valorous men!
‘Where now is Mercia?—Where Northumbria's host?
‘Where the stout men of Kent? so free to vow!
‘So backward to perform! And, at this hour,
‘Where are the Anglians?—Men of words, not deeds!
‘These promised us, with all their wonted pledge
‘Of base hypocrisy, to swell our ranks
‘With countless heroes:—where do they appear?
‘I see them not! yet, Oh, transporting thought!
‘I see a nobler sight. I see my friends!—

264

‘Wessex' brave sons, my subjects, now resolved
‘To vindicate their rights, to meet the foe,
‘And shine resplendent in the rolls of fame.
‘With joy transporting, now do I behold,
‘The British lion roused, shaking his mane
‘In fierce defiance! Let the traitors flee!
‘We need them not! we fear no giant foes,—
‘Pigmies to courage! In our native strength,
‘We, like a forest to the howling blast,
‘Will laugh at their asaaults, and whilst we march
‘To give, or to receive the final blow,
‘Our trust, our song shall be,—‘God, and our rights!’
‘Wessex, erelong, shall face the haughty Dane!’
Amid th' exultant shout, all hearts alike,
With sword and dart, panted to meet the foe!—
Chiding old Time, so tardily evolved—
That stay'd the fight. They trusted in one field,
Conspicuous, sacred;—one illustrious field!
To furnish for th' historic annalist
Feats, grand and marvellous, such, that their sons,
Glowing with pride, and hanging on the tale—
Where valour swept the foe-men from their land,
Might cry exultant, while the big heart heaved,
‘These were my ancestors!’
Eve hastens now.
Down in the west, with gorgeous clouds array'd,
The orb of day, majestic, slow retires,
O'ercanopied by the effulgence wide,—
Burd'ning the concave; cloud high-heap'd on cloud,
Sapphire and gold, still changing momently,
Yet lovelier for the change!—Now heaven resigns
Her fast-retiring splendors. Gathering clouds
Purple and grey, still deep'ning, fill the air,
Till o'er the earth, and all th' ethereal depths,
Darkness, unbroken, spreads her ebon pall.

265

Revolving on the scenes, unfolding near,
Alfred tho' sleepless, seeks his lonely couch.
A stillness mark'd the air, like that dread pause
That o'er the Carribean, oft precedes
Th' impetuous hurricane. Now night has waned.
With serious brow, the king, revolving, sees,—
Far into future times;—remembering well
Its charter, and complexion will depend
Upon the coming strife. With Saxon might,—
Aroused to rage and terrible resolve,
He dares to hope for triumph, yet, a voice
Whispers within,—‘Uncertainty is stamp'd
‘On all things here,—and if thy arms should fail!
‘Then what a surge of terrors will o'erwhelm
‘Britain and Saxons!’—Conflict reigns within;
Till fancy, busier for the silence, roams,
Constraint disdaining, o'er the wide expanse—
Wrapping the future.—Dreary scenes arise!
Others sustain the drooping spirit, clad
In rain-bow hues,—each, fleeting as the sun-beams
That on the ruffled fountain sportive play.
Leading such bands, with hearts so resolute,
He might not doubt the issue, but the process!—
There lies the stress. Gazing with anxious brow,
He feels the burden of uncertainty,
Till, with the good man's last resort, he cries,—
‘Ye shadows of the night that haunt my soul—
‘In other breasts seek refuge! From this hour,
‘Mine be the tranquil confidence.—He reigns!
‘Sov'reign supreme!—the Lord Omnipotent!
‘And in His arm I trust.’—A calm prevails,
When, gently, sleep his weary eye-lids closed
And pleasant were the visions of the night.
Impatient of the morn, before the dawn—
Gave her first kindling blush, the king arose,

266

When wondering he beheld his gallant troops—
E'en then, the dews of night upon their helm,
Marshall'd in fair array. ‘At such a time,
‘I would not be the latest,’ he exclaim'd:
‘I bid you hail!’—He further strove to speak,
But, 'mid the shouts, no more his voice was heard
Than is the pine's upon the mountain top,
When with the blast it swings, to some remote,
And gazing traveller. The tumult ceased:
When thus the king.
‘Brave subjects, hope is ours!
‘The strife is near! We haste to meet the foe!
‘Deeds, and not words, become this solemn hour!’
Their swords they draw, impatient of the fight,—
Where one must sink in death, Saxon or Dane!
After long toil, with looks of secret joy,
Or bitter,—like the hypocrite's in sleep—
As hopes or fears prevail'd, they mount a hill,
When every Saxon stopped,—sudden, like one—
Who meets a precipice, for, through the vale,
Before them, march'd the Danes! And they too stopp'd,
Half terrified at this unlook'd-for sight,
Saxons in arms!—Instant the Danes draw back,
(To a near hill, where a proud castle rose)
As tho' they fear'd the fight. The subterfuge
Alfred beheld, and check'd his troops, who sought
Boldly to follow.
Now they reach'd the hill—
The Danes, when both th' opposing armies stand
Wafting their mutual threats, like two huge mounts,
Neighbouring, around whose heads, the white mists sail,
And ever when th' aerial currents change,
From each to each, mov'd by fierce jealousy,
Their cloud artillery send. Alfred thus spake.
‘Subjects, behold the Danes! View yonder host,

267

‘And in them see the spoilers of your homes,
‘The murd'rers of your children and your sires,
‘The foes of peace, the wasters of the earth!
‘Now are your hearts your own!’ All clash their shields.
‘I will not bid my subjects bleed,’ he cried,
‘But of necessity. Oddune, approach!’
The chief drew near. Him Alfred thus address'd.
‘To me it seems expedient to dismiss
‘Some messenger, of bold and manly port,
‘To yonder Danes, bidding them leave this land.’
Oddune replied, ‘Let me that herald be!’
‘Go’ said the king, ‘thus to the Danes declare:
‘Ye wasting men, to Denmark's savage shore,
‘Swift as the eagle, flee, or by our swords
‘Soon shall ye fall, all fall! Say, wherefore come
‘To scourge our land, to waste this happy isle,
‘To wrong this people? whom your swords may slay,
‘But ne'er shall conquer—while yon sun remains,
‘Or earth endures. Alfred, our king, hath sent
‘Me to forewarn you. Instant on the ground
‘Cast ye your arms, and swear by all the gods
‘You worship, forth to leave this land, nor more
‘Track it with blood,—so Alfred will provide
‘Fit vessels, to convey you to your homes,—
‘Your wives, your children, (whom our king has spared
‘On yonder southern shore.)—Say, I am one
‘Who loves not strife, who never smote a foe
‘But with regret, pungent and keen, and now
‘Seek their departure, rather than their lives:
‘But if they scorn thee, tell them by the hand
‘That wields the thunder, by the power that stills
‘Old ocean when he raveth, I will meet
‘Ivar and Hubba on yon plain beneath,
‘And they shall learn the lesson, learnt but once!
‘What Saxons can perform, when, in their might,

268

‘Aroused to vengeance.’—Oddune thus replied,
‘Monarch, I thank thee! Trust my warmest zeal.
‘I speed to bear the summons to the Danes.’
Down the steep hill he strode, and o'er the plain.
The foe he now approach'd, waving the flag,—
Emblem of parley.—Danes around him crowd.
Thus they began. ‘Thy message!’ Oddune spake.
‘Where is your chief? Lead me to him. I bring
‘Words of high import.’—To the hall, at hand
Oddune they lead, where in vindictive talk
And loud upbraidings, all the Danish chiefs
Sit in close commune.
‘Ah! a Saxon here!’
Cried Ivar, as he enter'd. ‘Dost thou bring
‘Vows of thy monarch's fealty, or some bribe
‘To stay our wrath?’ ‘Neither!’ the chief replied.
‘Neither!’ said Ivar. ‘By thy stately port
‘Thou seem'st like one, who never yet has felt
‘The Danish sword, how heavy, when it falls,
‘By Danish arm impelled. Thy business? Say!
‘I wait to hear thee! If thou stop to gaze
‘A second time around, this sturdy lance
‘Shall pierce thy heart.’—Oddune unterrified
Thus answer'd, ‘Chieftain, if thou seek by frowns
‘To check my purpose, resolute, oh Dane,
‘Thou know'st me not! Mine is no coward's breast!
‘I bear a message from our gallant king,—
‘Alfred, his words are these.’
Hubba upraised
His ponderous spear, and had not Guthrum seized
And stay'd his purpose, prostrate on the ground
Oddune had lain. Him Ivar thus rebuked;
‘Thine anger check, good Hubba! let us know
‘This Saxon's words, and, tho' we after slay,
‘First hear his message.’—Hubba thus replied:

269

‘Now will I hear thee, cool; Saxon, proceed.’
Oddune prepar'd to speak, when Ivar cried,
‘Gaze not thus haughty! If thy message, man,
‘Be bold, as these thy looks, death shall hide both!’—
‘And that before a second breath thou draw.’
‘Talk to the hind of fear, I know it not!’
Oddune replied. ‘These are the words I bear:—
‘Ye wasting men, to Denmark's savage shore
‘Swift as the eagle, flee, or by our swords
‘Soon shall ye fall, all fall.’
Ivar exclaim'd,
‘I will repress my anger. By the words
‘And looks so terrible, a stranger's heart
‘Might think thee some unconquer'd warrior bold,
‘From Hyperborean climes, but we thy might
‘Too well can estimate, vain man! to fear
‘Thee or thy monarch. Alfred bids us flee!
‘Sweet words to lull old-aged credulity!
‘Or, by his sword, soon shall we fall! all fall!’
‘This is so wonderful, that, to my mind,
‘It is as tho' some running brook, with words,
‘Blustering and loud, should threaten with his waves
‘To inundate old ocean. What the next
‘Said thy good king?’—Oddune thus answer made.
‘He bade me bear this message, ‘Wherefore come—
‘To scourge our land—to waste this happy isle—
‘To wrong this people? whom your swords may slay,
‘But ne'er shall conquer, whilst yon sun remains,
‘Or earth endures. Alfred, our king, hath sent
‘Me to forewarn you. Instant on the ground
‘Cast ye your arms, and swear by all the gods
‘Ye worship, forth to leave this land, nor more
‘Track it with blood, so Alfred shall provide
‘Fit vessels to convey you to your homes.’

270

Hubba, with rage repress'd, thus answer made.
‘But shall the ships be strong and large? My words
‘May not be serious! Did thy monarch think
‘Danes, like the Assi, tremble at the beams
‘Spiders in sun-shine hurl? Lay down our arms!
‘What said he more?’—Oddune indignant cried’
‘This, said our Monarch. Tell them I am one
‘Who loves not strife, who never smote a foe
‘But with regret, pungent and keen, and now
‘Seek their departure rather than their lives.’
Said Hubba, ‘Kind! He pleadeth well the cause
‘Of one who fears the future!’ Ivar rose
And thus to Oddune spake.—
‘Presumptuous man!
‘Ivar disdains to jeer thee! I will now
‘Talk to thee serious. Has thy king ne'er heard
‘The laws we honour, and the gods we serve;
‘That he should thus upbraid the true-born Dane
‘With loving blood too fondly? Dost thou know
‘What Odin to the faithful warrior speaks
‘In dreams and darkness—mid the raging storm
‘When, roused from slumber Ocean lifts his head,
‘Warring with winds that lash him?—Take thy sword,
‘Go forth and war! Fear but the coward's name,
‘And tho' in many a prostrate victim's heart
‘Thy sword be bathed, go on to devastate!
‘Scorn mercy! hear the pleader's voice in vain!
‘And ever when thy heart, shrinks on itself,
‘And pity whispers—think thou of the joys
‘Valhalla boasts, where never mortal came
‘Who waded not through blood, who never met
‘The foe in battle, and inured his soul
‘To deathful enterprize?’ What halls hast thou?
‘What object so commanding? motive, what,
‘To spur thee on to action? or delights

271

‘Compared to those we hope for, when, 'mid gods,
‘We join the valiant, and from hostile skulls
‘With songs and rapture, quaff th' immortal mead?
‘These are our hopes, oh Saxon! these the views
‘That urge us on to glory. Now declare
‘What more thy monarch said! for I would hear,
‘Albeit it make me smile and frown, like one
‘Who sees his sire, toiling amid the waves,—
‘Now mounting high, now buried from his sight.’
Oddune replied, ‘These were my monarch's words,
‘If they disdain thee, tell them, by the hand
‘That wields the thunder, by the power that stills
‘Old ocean when he raveth, I will meet
‘Ivar and Hubba on yon plain, and prove
‘What Saxons can perform, when in their might
‘They strive for liberty.’ Ivar exclaim'd;
‘While rage inflames his heart! ‘Who stills the sea?
‘Who wields the thunder? Odin, god supreme,
‘The lord of battle! Is he not our friend?
‘Hath he not followed us from land to land,
‘From sea to sea, rousing to strifes and wars;
‘And granting, e'en in death, to every Dane
‘The eye that speaks of ecstasy, the heart
‘That leaps with rapture?’—
When with fiercer wrath
Hubba exclaim'd, ‘Tell thy devoted king—
‘Of every Saxon, not one man shall live,
‘By the next eve, to gaze upon the sun
‘And bless his beams, when the rough air blows chill.’
Guthrum uprose and cried, ‘Forgive these words!
‘Say not they all shall perish; but, each man
‘Who owns not us the conquerors of the isle,
‘And swears allegiance.’ Ivar cried, ‘Away!
‘Thy senseless words, Guthrum, confuse mine ear!
‘Speak not, but to inform yon daring prince

272

‘He wears his crown, by sufferance from the Danes.
‘Soon shall he perish, like that gallant youth
‘Tulba, my brother, who from death sends forth
‘Th' accusing groan, whilst loud our father calls
‘For war and vengeance. Tho' thy king approach'd,
‘And all his army, bending to the earth
‘With vows and oaths to call us their liege lords,
‘Yet would I scorn them, for, by Thor I swear,
‘They all shall perish!’
Hubba cried: ‘All! all!
‘Spare not a soul!’ To Oddune thus he spake:
‘For this imperious summons, and thy threats,
‘Proud Saxon! thou art doom'd to share the choice,
‘Valkyres shall teach thee! Thou shalt live to mourn
‘But not survive our anger. Thou art now—
‘Dead! for I view thee on the green grass stretch'd!
‘Prophetic visions dance before mine eye!
‘I see thy arms, beside thee! round are strew'd
‘Saxons unnumber'd, who like thee provoked
‘Our wrath and perish'd. Instant, flee away!
‘With second breath pollute not thou the air!
‘Or, know the penalty!’
He rais'd his spear,
When Oddune cried, ‘Withhold! if die I must,
‘Let me this hour enjoy. Hear me, oh Danes!
‘One word, and I depart.
‘This isle is ours
‘By long inheritance! We never roam
‘From shore to shore, from distant clime to clime,
‘To rob our fellows. Have we warr'd on you?
‘Have we alarm'd your coasts? disturb'd your homes?
‘Destroy'd your people? never, as ye know!
‘Scourgers of this our isle, I bid you heed!
‘Our voice is peace, but if you pant for war,
‘Relentless, greedy of all violence—
‘Saxons shall meet you! Vengeance shall arise,

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‘Dress'd in new terrors! seize her flaming brand,
‘And join the fury of this fight, with eyes
‘More fearful bright, than man hath yet beheld,
‘Or Frenzy started at, gazing at Heaven.
‘Prepare for combat! On the coming morn,
‘Our swords shall meet you! God, the living God!
‘Saxons confide in! Now I leave your tent.’
Ivar exclaim'd, O Saxon! didst thou ask,
‘The Danish wrong endured, the powerful cause
‘That urged us hither, bade us cross the seas?
‘Ask gasping Regner! ask our murder'd sire!
‘Ask the deep curses, and the fiery wrath
‘He breath'd at death, when to his country's gods
‘He look'd and cried, ‘To join your laughing halls,
‘Come I, bless'd spirits! Yet, on Saxon land
‘Let plagues alight! let Slaughter glut himself
‘With death and carnage.’ Now, thine own heart ask,
‘What Regner's sons might merit, if they fail'd
‘To waste this isle, and with their valiant arms,
‘Remorseless, scourge, thy hated race and thee!
‘Dear is revenge!’
Like one o'er embers bent,
Pond'ring on black designs, when, lo! the fire
That seem'd extinguish'd, gives a sudden blaze,
And shows the face, the wrinkled brow, the eye
That pored on vengeance and all deadly plans,
Conceal'd before, so Hubba's face appear'd
With such possession of infuriate rage
When Ivar named his father. Thus he cried:
‘By all the gods whose battles we have fought!
‘By all the hopes that cheer us! by the blood
‘Our father curs'd this isle with, when he groan'd
‘In Ella's dungeon, not one soul shall live
‘O'er the next day! Hundreds my sword will claim

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To stay its appetite! Its light shall gleam
‘New terrors on the dying! Hungry wolves
‘Shall hover round! The eagle from on high
‘Mark his near banquet, and with joyous scream
‘Stun death with horrors. To thy king at hand
‘These tidings bear! and let him for the fight
‘Hold his heart ready! for the coming morn,
‘When through the clouds the whizzing darts shall fly,
‘The buckler's thunder, and th' injured Danes
‘Shout 'mid the storm of vengeance! Now, depart!
‘Thy end is near!’
Oddune forbore to speak.
Self-confident, he left the Danes, and walk'd
Slow through the hostile ranks, and down the hill
And through the vale, and to the lofty spot
Where Alfred and his army pitch'd their tents.
The king beheld his coming, and advanced,
With mind presageful of no tidings good.
‘What are thy words?’ he said, ‘Uncertainty
‘Probes most my spirit.’
Oddune cried, ‘Oh king!
‘The Danes are hostile! On the approaching morn,
‘Saxons must dare the fight!’ Alfred exclaim'd:
‘Tho' seek I peace, yet fear I not to war!
‘Prepare for battle!’
Oddune and each chief,—
Heard, and to rouse the Saxon hosts retire.

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BOOK XVIII.

ARGUMENT.

The Saxons descend into the plain to meet the Danes.—Dissensions in the Danish camp.—Present Ivar, Hubba, Guthrum.—The battle of Eddington.

O'ER all the Saxon camp no man forgot
The conflict of the morrow. Thro' the night,
Sleep soothed them not, while martial images,—
The routed squadron, and the flying Dane—
Helmet, loud-sounding, and the clashing shield,
Ranged thro' their minds, and made the hour of rest
The scene of strife, a mimic battle-field!
Now morn appears. Impatient for the fight
The Saxon hosts await the conflict near—
Portentous!—in its copious streams, to shed
Blessings on Albion to remotest times,
Or—curses limitless!
At length the sun
Rose in his richest splendors.—Alfred thus
Cheer'd on his veteran warriors, crowding round—
‘Brave men! the hope of Britain, and her pride!
‘On yonder hill, behold that enemy
‘Whose wasting swords have left you now to boast
‘Nought but your courage. That alone remains,—

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‘The fix'd, imperishable gift of Heaven!
‘Base is the heart that in a wanton cause
‘Raises this weapon, but, to save our lives,
‘To guard from ruin all that man holds dear,
‘Sanctions the deed! Who, 'mid this list'ning throng,
‘That mourns not, (by yon wasters,) home destroy'd,
‘Friends massacred, or wife, or children, slain?
‘Long have the louring clouds our prospect dimm'd,
‘And Heaven seem'd adverse; doubtless to correct
‘Some public vice, some confidence, in aught
‘Save Him who made us; but, the mists retire!
‘The dawn of hope is come! the sun is risen!
‘And we are now to combat. Yonder host
‘Have dar'd the Lord Almighty! Yonder host
‘Our God have dared defy, and now, His arm
‘Rises to vengeance. In the Lord of Hosts
‘We trust, our father's God; and in the hour,
‘Fast coming, He will be our friend. Arise!
‘Go forth to conquer! for this day shall Heaven
‘Fight on our side.—‘Think, brave and gallant men!
‘What cause is yours. You, for your freedom, rights,
‘Your native homes, your faithful friends, the race
‘Who call you father, and the wife beloved,
‘Now lift the spear, and brandish pitiless
‘These slaughter-weapons. What, in life, can man
‘Seek, after slav'ry? What can charm the heart
‘Of prostrate slave? Yet e'en this wretched state
‘You are denied, for yonder Danes have sworn,
‘Full confident of victory, to spare,
‘When this day's strife is o'er, not one who lives,
‘Subject or Monarch.
Saxons! do I now
‘Declare of dangers you yourselves may feel
‘To fire your spirits? Well I know your hearts
‘Far nobler, than, at time like this, to pore
‘O'er selfish ills; you cast your ardent eyes

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‘To days far distant! You with bitterness
‘Think of your future race, your sons unborn,
‘The generations, who, if we succeed
‘Against this raging foe, from us will date
‘Their every blessing, and in after times,
‘When you are low and silent, look to Heaven,
‘And pray, its fairest garlands you may bind,
‘Its highest seats reward you. They shall sit,
‘Beneath the fig-tree and the clustering vine,
‘Contented, and look back on you, brave men!
‘Who fought, perchance who bled, to buy for them
‘Their every joy. The flower of Christendom,
‘Martel, that gallant chief! who nobly met
‘The conquering Saracen, and six long days
‘Fought, sword to sword; a conflict fitly named,
‘Man's batttle, rescuing earth from thraldom vile,
‘Scarce drew his sword in more stupendous cause
‘Than Saxons at this moment. Let us strive—
‘In one bold effort, worthy of our name,
‘Our foes to vanquish. Should you, patriots brave!
‘(Some round me now, with courage on their brow,)
‘Fall for the land you love, the God you serve,
‘E'en welcome death. Start not at name so dread;
‘For death will come, and many a gallant man,
‘Now round me, prove ere long a breathless corse!
‘Myself may fall! the tongue that speaks, this heart
‘That throbs for action, soon upon the ground,
‘Expos'd, and still, may lie. Sigh not at this,
‘But rather let our hearts, both yours and mine,
‘Exultant leap, and thank the God of Heaven,
‘That in his sight deserving we appear
‘To fight our country's battles, and receive
‘The tear of gratitude from those behind.
‘Smile then at death! fear only to depart,
‘Unconscious of discharging as you ought
‘Your trying duties, which perform'd, let pain,

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‘Let anguish seize us—let soul-harrowing pangs
‘Rage their brief moment, the tempestuous scene
‘Soon will be o'er, and then awaits us all
‘Pleasures on earth, or blessedness in heaven.
‘Now, down the hill, advance to meet the foe!’
Tumult within the Danish camp prevails!
Ivar, upon th' opposing hill beholds,
Eager for war, the Saxons! High in air
Their banners wave! and far as eye may reach
Ranks crowd on ranks, when thus in wrath he cried.—
‘Hubba! away. Thy counsels I disdain!
‘Thou hast deceived me! Where was yonder host,
‘When in thy pride thou vaunted'st, and didst call
‘This isle our own, by conquest nobly won?
‘Whence then is yonder host?—shouting aloud
‘Frantic defiance! Where their vanquish'd Prince?
‘A wand'rer, as thou told'st me in the woods,
‘And caves, and mountains; now, too late, perceived,
‘Hatching revenge. ‘How hast thou spent thy time?
‘Where slept thy valour, whilst the Saxon King,
‘In secret plann'd his vengeance?’
Like the Bull
Goaded to madness, yet with bars confin'd,
Hubba appear'd, 'till Ivar ceas'd; he then
Cried vaunting: ‘To thy native shores, again!
‘I heed thee not! I need not thy support?
‘Vain mortal, flee! and Guthrum, let him flee!
‘Flee all! myself shall meet the Saxons! this—
‘This arm shall meet them, and the gods record
‘Hubba's proud conquest! I such force will shew
‘As when the Ocean lays his monstrous hand
‘On some great continent. Or winter's kind—
‘Dark Frost, upon the whirlwind, when he rides—
‘Triumphant, and with potent word, arrests,
‘While in 'mid course, plunging o'er hideous rocks,

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‘The thundering cataract. What are my deeds,
‘Ask'st thou? Oh Ivar? Let the Cambrian shore
‘Answer thy question! Let the wasted towns,
‘Britain beholds, her villages destroy'd,
‘Her cots consum'd, her sons and daughters slain:
‘These are the deeds of Hubba, ere thou cam'st
‘A tame spectator to look on, and now,
‘Danger awaits thee, shrinkest at thy heart;
‘Unworthy of thy father and thy race.’
Ivar indignant cried, ‘Spirit abhorr'd!
‘Take back thy rage! Reserve it to withstand
‘The adder's venom, checking kind with kind.
‘Scourge of my fortunes! Have I not the right,
‘The leader of the Danes, the elder far,
‘To ask thy ways, and, if I deem it well,
‘Check thee for evils, such as I behold
‘Thy inexperienced rashness hath brought down?
‘I know I have! And if thou question it,
‘This sword shall teach thine error!’
‘Death be thine!’
Cried Hubba; and, his sword upraising, aim'd
The fatal blow, that on the chieftain's shield
Woke thunders, and as Ivar rais'd his sword,
That never fell but death attended it,
Guthrum his huge arm seized and cried, ‘Forbear!
‘Chieftains, forbear! Distracting fears are mine!
‘Is this your vaunted zeal? Danes, stay your wrath!
‘Mark yonder Saxons! see their shining ranks!
‘Hear their loud shouts! their mad defiance, hear!
‘And from destruction save the Danish host!’
Ivar and Hubba paused. Both sheathed their swords.
When Ivar thus exclaim'd to Guthrum near:
‘Chieftain, depart! Prepare the ranks, and swift,
‘If thou behold the Saxons! from yon hill,

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‘In proud array, descending to the plain,
‘Approach and warn us!’ Guthrum leaves the tent;
When Ivar to his brother thus again.
‘Hubba, regard my words! Thy confidence
‘Hath sprung a trap so fatal, that to burst
‘Its fangs of iron, well might puzzle now
‘Valfthrudinis' self. For this I Britain left!
‘For this I sought my native land, and roused
‘(Breathing revenge,) fresh bands to follow me;
‘Called up each dormant passion, made them feel
‘Unquenchable desires, to spoil the race
‘That slew our father, now at length to see
‘The Saxon king, whom we so oft have driven
‘Before our might, unconquer'd, and about
‘With yon innumerable host, to dare
‘Our highest valour. Not that I perceive,
‘Fear at my heart. This breast must learn from thee
‘What fear means, if it sought to know, for gods
‘Fear not the giants, less than I the foe.
‘With such resistless forces as we boast,—
‘Spirits inured to conquest, I might march
‘Thro' earth triumphant, yet, that thou may'st see,
‘In after times, what best may serve our cause,
‘Ivar's experience hear.—Inferior ills,
‘Leisure may combat, but to those alone,
‘The mightiest, every chief, whom wisdom guides,
‘At first directs his efforts, and subdues
‘The cubless Bear, loud howling, ere he seek
‘The timid Ermine, since I left this isle,
‘Thee the sole leader, why didst thou forget,
‘Britain that Bear, and on the Cambrian Ermine
‘Waste thy best strength? Behold the bitter fruit!
‘I knew not better than thyself, the force—
‘The living-spring resources of his mind,
The Saxon king; the valour he hath shewn,

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‘The unconquerable firmness of his breast,
‘Who in his youthful days, our ablest chiefs
‘Laugh'd at, and worsted, making even Danes
‘For a brief season, now to terminate,
‘Behold their equal. Why didst thou pursue
‘So mean a foe, ere on our mother earth
‘Lay Alfred? See him on yon hill! Again
‘I ask thee, with imperious tone, how came
‘Oddune, that haughty foe, from Kenwith's walls
‘To baffle thee, surrounding, and escape,
‘When to that special point, our confidence
‘Rested on thee?’
Hubba thus answer'd, ‘Man!
‘I scorn to call thee brother! Thou art one,
‘A stranger, whom I hate with most deep hate!
‘Instant the battle ceases, we will meet,
‘Death on our swords, destruction in our eyes!—
‘One to the earth shall fall—Hubba, or thou!
‘When next thou sleepest, in thy dreams beware,
‘Lest thy dead father, breathing streams of fire,
‘Draw near thy tent, and Ivar's dastard soul
‘Hurl to th' infernal worlds! Didst thou inquire,
‘Proud mortal, why I rang'd the Cambrian hills
‘Heedless of Alfred? Know! I thought it right!
‘What would'st thou more? Upon the Saxon soil,
‘No hostile army stood—no foe appear'd!
‘'Mid woods and hills they wander'd; whom our swords
‘Spared but to fall on this more glorious day.
‘And didst thou too inquire why Oddune fled!
‘'Twas whilst I to the gods the victim blood,
‘Pour'd, as our fathers taught. The Saxons saw
‘And fled at midnight.
‘Now let Hubba ask
‘Of lordly Ivar. Why didst thou refuse
‘To slay the Saxon Captive? Why didst thou
‘When Hubba claim'd her blood, tell thy weak tale

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‘Of former terrors, and oppose the vow
‘Gods heard me make? Soon shall her life appease
‘My vengeance, and the instant yonder foes
‘Have slept in death, tho' Odin from his clouds,
‘With thund'ring voice, implored my wrath to cease,
‘Yet would I answer, scornful, and thus swear,
‘Upon the coming morn her blood shall flow!
‘Ivar! thou blam'st my caution, and would'st fain
‘Make prudence thine alone: how was it proved,
‘When, having reach'd this shore, thou left'st thy fleet,
‘Unguarded, soon to blaze through heaven's wide vault
‘Thy matchless folly? When the hour arrives
‘That to the assembled worlds, shall tell, who best,
‘The warrior's part has acted, who has slain,
‘Most foes, and to the applauding gods, can shew
‘The greater host of skulls obtain'd in fight;
‘Then shall be seen whose sword, or mine, or thine,
‘Best serv'd the cause we fight for, and deserved
‘The noblest draughts of heaven's immortal mead.’
He ceased. When Ivar, calm, thus answer'd him.

‘Some crimes there are, and injuries so vast
‘And 'bove all recompense, that to repay—
‘In words, were, with a straw, to smite the man
‘Who aim'd at murder. I will answer thee,
‘Not Hubba! now, not like thyself, with words,
‘But, like a Danish hero.—One must die!
‘Ivar or Hubba! yet will we subdue,
‘First, yonder Saxons, then the time for us.
‘Soon as these wars are o'er—these Saxons slain—
‘Their king laid low; then will we shew our race
‘Whom most to honour! By our father's gods,
‘Here do I swear, to end this day's offence
‘Alone with blood!’

Cried Hubba, ‘Nobly said!
‘The same I swear! Ivar, thy life or mine!’

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As then he look'd to heaven, pausing with wrath,
And meditating some vindictive curse,
Guthrum return'd and cried, ‘The hour is come!
‘The Saxon army marcheth! Fly we fast!
‘Alfred is near!’

The chieftains clash'd their shields,
Frantic for war; when Hubba cried, ‘Withhold!
Before the battle rages, let us first
Our gods propitiate. The battle axe
Will fall the heavier. Conflict to begin
Before we supplicate!—I would as soon
‘My father's bones dishonor.’ Having said,
(His buckler cast upon the earth,) he knelt.
Him Ivar follow'd, when the chief began.

‘Odin! the waster god! immortal sire!
‘Father of slaughter! roaring deity!
‘Who bearest on thy flaming wings, thro' earth,
‘Thick desolation! who from Valhall's halls
‘Callest the slain to join thee; vengeful king
‘Thou who alone canst rouse the heart afresh,
‘When bucklers clash, and uproar terrible
‘Rages in battle, heed thy servant's prayer!
‘Give to the Danish sword yon Saxon's blood!
‘Yon impious race, whose gods are not our gods,
‘Whose altars shew no victims, whose delight
‘Thou dost not share, nor Freya, nor great Thor,
‘Ruler of thunders! therefore let them die!
‘Inspire our hearts with wrath, our swords with might,
‘That shall to Nephlehem's regions bear them all!

He ceased, when both the brother Danes uprose,
And rushing like the war-horse to the fray,
Drew near their troops,—that silent stood, whose hearts
Boil'd with black hate and wrath unquenchable.
Soon as they saw their leaders, demon shouts
Sounded through all the air, and savage yells

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Like of the lion's whelp, when pinch'd by hunger
‘He makes the forests roar,’ Ivar exclaim'd,—
Casting his eye upon the raven flag
That waved beside him, ‘Lo! it flaps its wings!
‘Subjects, rejoice! the raven flaps his wings!
‘Triumph is ours!’ Again the loud shout rang,
When Ivar thus:
‘Behold in yonder host
‘That enemy whom we so oft have fought,
‘So oft have vanquish'd, and who now shall meet
‘His final overthrow. Ye fearless hosts,
‘Ye vet'rans, whom my valiant father led
‘Through all the north, driving each foe, like chaff
‘Before the whirlwind, yet, to crown our toil,
‘One task remains. There are the Saxons! there
‘Our only foe, whom meet, and Britain yields!
‘Weak are their bucklers! weak their puny arms;
‘Their hearts are weak! Before our conquering sword,
‘Each Saxon's head must stoop, yet one request
‘Make I, Oh Danes! Their monarch, leave to me,
‘Touch not one hair of Alfred! Let this sword
‘Contend with his, and by th' immortal gods,
‘My might shall lay him low.’
Now through the air,
He rais'd his monstrous arm, that like the limb
Of some huge oak, appear'd, the forest's pride,
Slow waving to the fury of the blast.
Again he spake. ‘One word, and then for war.
‘When to the plain beneath I lead you down
‘It is enough to know that ye are Danes,
‘T' ensure our triumph, yet, let victory
‘Glut not your rage! nor stay the work of death
‘'Till all are slain! 'till in one common flood
‘Each Saxon with their king, has drench'd the ground.
‘Behold the hostile ranks! They court the fight!

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‘Shall we be backward? Danes, behold your prey.’
Swift down the hill they rush, and in the plain
Meet the bold Saxon! Lo! the fight begins!
The battle rages! sword with sword hath met!
And hark the terrors of the sounding shield—
That, like two sheets of ice, meet, and thro' Heaven
Send their loud dissonance and horrid crash!
The snowy beard of some Norwegian crag,
High in the elements, which feels the blast
Shake its grey lock, and, to the subject earth,
At length rolls headlong, spreading, as it rolls,
One wide destruction, well displays the course
Of Alfred's sword, as through the Danish ranks
It breaks its way, strewing the plain with death;
Whilst Ivar, roused to madness, singly seeks
The Saxon king, scorning the mortal force
That dares oppose him. Like the mountain brook,
Choak'd with the summer weed, that, with the storm,
Swoln into fury, urges on its way
Bursting all barriers.
See! The chieftains meet!
Alfred and Ivar! Blow for blow is given!
Death-doing work is there! God aid the just!

286

BOOK XIX.

ARGUMENT.

The Danes defeated—Guthrum retreats to a neighbouring castle—Death of Ivar and Hubba—Burial of the slain—Oddune sent to demand Guthrum's surrender.

‘SPARE! Spare the vanquish'd!’ Alfred cried. ‘Oh spare,
‘Subjects! the flying foe.’
The routed Danes
Swift from the fight escape!—the Saxons close
Press after them, tracking the ground with blood.
And such an overthrow no eye had seen!
Still on they sped, swift as the hurricane,
(Bearing reluctant, Guthrum from the fray)
Crushing each other, till the fort they gain,—
Adjoining, thro' whose gates they wildly rush
All trembling, as the solitary blade
On the wide desert when the tempest blows.
Up to the gate came Oddune! in his hand
He held a lance, all crimson, and when safe
He saw the Danes, the huge gates sudden closed;
Mists of uncertain form before his eyes
Awhile seem'd floating, and, amid the gust
Of momentary rage, he thought the walls
Parts of some monstrous and unflying foe,
At which he hurl'd his lance. When thus he cried,

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Turning to his near forces, ‘Guard the gates!
‘Now must I seek the king.’
Forth to the vale
Eager he speeds, and Alfred soon approach'd,
Who saw him not, intent on aiding those—
The wounded, who o'er all the plain were stretch'd,
Silent in agony, or, with a groan
Of numbing import, gazing stern on death.
When, looking up, Alfred beheld the chief!
He spake not, each the hand of fellowship
Gave, but in silence; when at length, the king:
‘Oddune, the song of praise! Let the heart speak
‘With voice articulate, for, less than this
‘Would wake loud accusations from the ground.
‘The fight is o'er! The vict'ry now is ours!
‘Behold the hostile standard! see the flag
‘Danes trusted in! but, through Almighty power,
‘With lion strength endued, this reeking hand
‘Grasp'd the proud raven, whilst the other beat—
‘Ivar to earth. Say, what the fate of Hubba?’
Oddune thus answer made. ‘In the past fight,
‘I saw a monstrous man, bulwark'd by slain,
‘Whose look was terror, and whose every blow
‘Gave death a victim. Many a Saxon brave
‘Lay low before him, when I knew the chief—
‘Hubba, and rush'd to war. The strife was hard!
‘This sword the foe discomfited. He fell,
‘And as 'mid gore he writhed, I sought again
‘The hotter strife.’
Alfred exclaim'd, ‘Brave man,
‘This deed became thee! Point the spot where lay
‘The hostile chief! If yet he live, this heart,
‘Forgetful of the past, will shew what wrongs
‘Saxons can bear and pardon.’

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As they now
Hubba explored among the field of blood,
Haggard their look, from the terrific sight
Of dead and dying, Oddune spake, ‘Oh, king!
‘Where is the brother, Ivar, that fierce man,
‘Whose frown yet awes my soul.’ Alfred replied,
‘Soon shalt thou see the chieftain. At this time,
‘It is enough, to tell thee he is slain,
‘To say—we measured swords. And Guthrum, where?’
When in a softer tone, and tremulous,
Alfred enquired,—‘Where is that other name—
‘Dear to my heart, Alswitha?’
Oddune cried,
‘This sword pursued the Dane up yonder hill
‘To the near fort. Thou se'st it! Thither sped
‘Guthrum, and a few foll'wers, breathless, wild,
‘Doubting if 'live or dead. I saw the gates,
‘Before the Saxons reach'd, loud-grating close.
‘Round are thy troops, and doubtless there abides—
‘Our honour'd queen.’
Alfred replied, ‘Heaven grant—
‘Oddune, thy words no fable.’
Now they reach,
Silent, where Hubba stretch'd his monstrous frame,
Death near him, thick as the autumnal leaves
Where never wind approaches. Dread the sight!
Wounded and prostrate lies the mighty chief!—
Tho' living, writhing in his agony!—
His look still terrible!—Alfred drew near,
(Oddune beside) The Dane now raised himself,
Unwieldly grown, and with the eye of fire
Met Alfred's sight undaunted—Suddenly
Tumult mysterious tortures Hubba's heart!
He look'd upon the king, and gnash'd his teeth!
Convuls'd, then utter'd with infuriate rage,—
‘I know thy visage! Thou the Harper art!

289

‘Spy in our camp! Oh, for the lightning's power
That I might blast thee!’
Alfred thus replied.
‘Dane! we are friends. This day hath seen our wrath
‘Vanish! All help attend thee! Thou may'st learn,
‘Yet, ere thou die, the Saxon character—
‘In combat, pitiless, in vict'ry, mild.
‘Receive our aid!’ When, instant, Hubba look'd,
Stern as when Winter darts his arrowy flakes
On some lone trav'ller, casting his dark eye
Upon the king, on Oddune, him whose sword
Th' unconquer'd now had conquer'd. Then he gazed
On many a breathless corse; yet not a word
Deign'd he to speak, he heaved no groan, he mark'd,
Unmoved, the circling spoil; when, with a frown
More terrible, he grasp'd a dagger near,
And plung'd it to his heart. Thus Hubba died!
Awhile they stood and wonder'd, when the King
Cried, ‘Other scenes await us! Oddune now,
‘Assist the wounded! be the hour improved
‘With all humanity, and let not one—
‘Not e'en a Dane, from Saxon hand receive
‘Requiting wrong.’
Oddune, his monarch's words
Heard, and departed; whilst the king himself
Sped through the fallen ranks, upheld the faint,
Relieved the dying, succour'd those who bled,
And to new deeds of kindness prompted each
Of all around.
One man there was, a Dane,
Who, tho' his limbs were mangled, laughing lay;
And as the king advanced, near to the spot,
He saw the foe was aged, and prepared
Solace to yield, when loud the Dane exclaim'd:
‘Obtruder on the bleeding warrior, hence!

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‘Or if thou stay'st, I ask thee with thy sword
‘To finish the good work; for, here to die,
‘Seek I most earnest. Jomsburg is my home,
‘And Palnatoka my death-dealing chief.
‘Fear! I disdain thee. Solace with thine aid
‘Some coward supplicant of Saxon race,
‘I spurn the boon. I for this glorious hour
‘That soon shall give me freedom, and bestow
‘Immortal honours, have sustain'd all ills—
‘Thro' many a clime endured the battle's brunt,
‘Fearing the coward's death. I fear'd in vain.
‘I feel the searching pangs, that tell me, soon
‘The strife will cease! I hear the God of War!
‘I see him now! He beckons me! His hand,
‘Prize of the brave, holds out the frothy mead!
‘Hail, Valhall!’ when he heav'd his labouring breath,
And laugh'd, and died!
Alfred beheld the sight,
Pondering awhile with sad and downcast brow:
A sigh escap'd, and in his heart he cried,
‘Oh Lord, thy kingdom come!’
After long toil.
When each had known all succour and all care;
And Mercy, with the full meal satisfied,
Turn'd from the feast; Alfred aloud exclaim'd,
‘Saxons approach!’ To hear their monarch's words,
Obedient, all draw near, list'ning so still,
As when some spacious grove, silence o'er takes,
And every tree and leaf exalts itself,
And, looking to the Father of the skies,
Worships in silence. Alfred thus began:
‘Brave Saxons! with what joy I meet you all—
‘What ecstasy, past language, now to say,
‘The fight is o'er!—The day is won! This hour—

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‘Britain is saved! Where is the haughty Dane?
‘Where are the men whose impious tongues pronounced
‘Our certain fates, and on the morn, defied,
‘The God our fathers honour'd? Where are they,
‘Who with presumptuous pride, aloud proclaim'd
‘This day should be our last? Behold them there!
‘Strew'd o'er the plain! Where, Saxons! are the men,
‘Whom late you dreaded? whose vindictive swords
‘We oft have met in combat—heard aghast,
‘The scream we could not succour, and beheld,
‘The flaming brand our dwellings light upon,
‘And knew no middle choice, but death or flight?
‘Where are the men, who with infuriate wrath
‘Stalk'd through the land, and with their swords destroy'd
‘What fire and famine left us?—View them there!
‘Where are the men who on their reeking spears
‘Toss'd our mild infants, and the aged slew—
‘The fathers and the mothers of us all?
‘Behold them there! Silent and stretch'd in death!
‘This is a proud day for the Saxon name!
‘This is a fight that through succeeding years
‘Shall sound our praises, and from hosts unborn
‘Call forth the grateful song; We hence will teach
‘Our infant sons, while smiling on our knee,
‘To lisp with pride, the name, to Saxons dear,
‘Conjoin'd with which all pleasant thoughts arise.—
‘The name of Eddington!
‘Subjects, rejoice!
‘Our toils are o'er! This green and fertile land
‘Now may we till! Our homes made doubly dear
‘Shall greet their masters, and prosperity
‘Crown this our lovely isle!
As when some blast
Sweeps o'er the forest, and with thundering roar,
Sounds long and loud: whilst e'en the prostrate thorn,
With its faint voice augments the chorus wide,

292

Such was the voice of Saxons, with their shout—
‘God and our king!’ Thro' all the concave spread
The loud acclaim, whilst here and there, with pangs
Struggling, the wounded caught the gen'ral joy—
The maddening ecstasy, and feebly cried,
‘God and our king!’
After due course, again,
Alfred address'd them. ‘Saxons! to me, sweet
‘Your universal rapture, and the more,
‘For that you think of God, and own his hand.
‘Rejoice with trembling, lest, in being thus
‘From bondage rescued, and most galling chains,
‘Your hearts be harden'd, and ye look to Heaven,
‘Not with the thankful eye, adoring him;
‘But urged by pride, ascribing to yourselves
‘This triumph, which our God himself hath wrought,
‘We the weak instruments.—
‘I now would fain
‘Speak of our fallen brethren. Honour'd men,
‘In dust laid low, receive our grateful praise!
‘Tho' sunk in death, tho' from this glorious hour
‘This day of triumph taken; tho' denied
‘That earthly recompence, which now, ere long,
‘Your brethren, we shall taste; ages unborn
‘Shall shout your worth, and we will honour you.
‘Injured and noble spirits! If there live,
‘And that there does, we must not, cannot doubt,
‘A God of Justice, who of human ways
‘Takes cognizance, his piercing eye beholds
‘The virtuous men, 'mid trials such as yours,
‘And doubtless hath prepared peculiar seats,
‘For those who own his hand, implore his aid,
‘Toss'd in the turmoil of a strife like ours—
‘For those who in their country's cause may bleed.’
When the king ended, not as heretofore

293

Rose the loud plaudit. Theirs was feeling deep,
Too potent and o'erpow'ring for vain words.
At length th' intensity of suffering pass'd,
A calm and sober grief thro' all their hearts—
Stole, like the summer eve, when day retires
Gliding, by imperceptible degrees,
From light to twilight, darkening still, till round—
All nature sinks to quietness and night.
Breaking the pause, so sacred, Alfred thus.
‘This luxury of grief, we must repress.
‘Now Duty's voice is heard. The honours meet,
‘We must bestow upon our brethren slain.
‘Prepare their graves!—and on their hallow'd dust,
‘Let our tears fall.’—
None answer'd, but, with zeal,
The brave survivors,—sadness at their heart,
Needing no urgency, the deep dark graves,
Form for their fallen brethren, there to rest,
Till, like a scroll, the Heavens shall pass away.
Reflecting on war's dread vicissitudes,
Upon its sable woes, its racking cares,
Thus Alfred, with the burden'd heart opprest,
His plaintive accents pour'd in Oddune's ear,
‘Heart-searching thought! These tenants of the tomb,
‘Late, with the glow of health, no more shall see—
‘Day and the joyous sun; this busy earth,
‘And feel the warrior's zeal, the patriot's fire!
‘These generous impulses are known no more!—
‘In yon capacious chambers, down in earth,
‘Illustrious men, the pride of Wessex' land,
‘Cold, breathless lie! with all their trophies crown'd!
‘Yet, on the victor's field, the conqueror's car,
‘Sorrow must wait!—A mournful retinue
‘Follow the track of war!—And in this spot

294

‘Where prowess, valour, worth, promiscuous lie,
‘What anguish shall it waken! Pangs severe!
‘Fathers, in vain, shall sigh o'er sons beloved!
‘Mothers retire in silence! Sisters weep!
Wives, sorrowing, stand, bereaved and desolate!
‘Friends, smite their breast! While many a promised bride,
‘And maid, desponding, in the rolls of death
‘Shall read the name most precious, never more
‘To solace with the music of his voice,
‘And throw o'er life a halo! She recalls
‘Her lover's parting look—too plain, that spake—
‘I never more shall see thee!’—Kindred, friends,
‘The bitterness of grief to moderate,
‘Now fondly tell the virtues of the dead!
‘Ah! there they sit, the tear upon their cheek,
‘Circling the hearth, once cheerful, cheerless now!
‘Each soothing each, with fond solicitude,
‘And all requiring what so free they give!
‘Till the reviving thought,—calls up afresh—
‘Smiles, like the rain-drench'd flower, for memory tells,
‘They for their country fought, and, to redeem
‘Their land from thraldom, for their country fell!’
Roused from his musings by a distant crowd,
Alfred to Oddune spake. ‘What tumult that?—
‘Out on the farthest confines of the trench
‘Where, mournfully, the dead are now interred?
‘Whilst I, oppress'd with grief, awhile retire,
‘Search out the hidden cause, and bear me word.’
The chieftain hastens to the spot.—No noise
Mark'd the assemblage.—Oddune nearer draws.
He asks, he learns the truth!—Oh! misery!
The crowd are bearing to his last long home
The youth Montalto!—Oddune clasp'd his hand!
He spake not. The tumultuous sigh he gave!
A youth, the bier preceding, chants the Dirge,—
Hosts following, who in plaintive chorus join.

295

Brother! late our joy, no more
Earth shall see thee and admire!
Thou hast left our mortal shore!
Thou hast soar'd to regions higher!
The sighs that follow thee declare
What thy worth and virtues were!—

Cho.
Gentle spirit, good and true,
Here we bid our last adieu!

To thy lowly bed descend!
Blessings on thy memory rest!
Patriot stern, nd faithful friend!
Anguish heaves our every breast
That, while sun and stars remain
None shall view thy face again!—

Cho.
Gentle spirit, good and true,
Take, O, take our last adieu!

Thine were not affections cold!
Thou wast charter'd from above!
Form'd in nature's kindest mould,
But, to know thee, was to love!
The pang we feel! The tear we shed!
As we bear thee to the dead!—

Cho.
Gentle spirit, good and true,
Here receive our last adieu!

Thou hast shed thy final tear!
Brief the light that round thee shone!
Joys and sorows,—hope and fear,
All with thee is hush'd and gone!
Life!—an onward—rolling stream!
What a shadow! What a dream!

Cho.
Gentle spirit, good and true,
Must we breathe the last adieu?

Oh! what visions rise before!
Bliss!—where thou shalt share a part!
There are joys for evermore
That await the pure in heart!

296

Kindling with the hope divine,
Here our brother we resign!—

Cho.
Gentle spirit, good and true,
Now our long, our last adieu!

Oddune convulsive cried, ‘I'll join the train,
‘And weep in silence o'er his obsequies!’
The rites perform'd, the chaunter hastens near,
And with obeisance, Oddune, thus address'd.
‘Oh, chieftain! wretchedness supreme is mine!
‘My friend, my loved associate is no more!
‘We side by side late in the battle fought’—
‘Stop!’ Oddune cried. ‘Haste with me to the king.
‘Reserve thy mournful tale. Let Alfred learn,—
‘Touching his tender heart, whate'er thou know'st
‘Of poor Montalto.’
To the monarch, near,
Gazing on earth, both pass oppress'd. And now,
The royal presence reaching, Oddune thus,—
‘Montalto is no more!—This youth will speak.’
‘Grief checks his voice. The king, a chilling pang
Felt writhe his bosom, when he spake. ‘Say on.
‘What know'st thou of Montalto?’—Bending low,
The youthful stranger, faltering, thus began.
‘When all through Wessex' land, war call'd to arms,
‘To meet the wasting Danes, Montalto cried
‘Shall I be backward?—hear my monarch's voice,—
‘My country's lamentation, and, unmoved,
‘Behold the wide-spread ruin and dismay!
‘Shall I shrink back inglorious?—ease prefer—
‘The coward's base and ignominious ease—
‘To the illustrious path, by patriots trod?—
‘Shall I unnerve my arm, and thus encourage
‘Denmark to waste the land that gave me birth?
‘Forbid it Heaven! I rush at honour's call!

297

‘Farewell my song! Farewell my crook and pipe!
‘Farewell!—O, anguish to my bleeding heart!
‘Farewell Matilda!—To the wars I go,
‘And when returning with my laurels crown'd,
‘Joyous will be our meeting!—whilst I tell
‘Of conflict, and of triumph, when our hosts,
‘Led on by Alfred, whelm'd our foes in death!’
‘We fought together in the last hard fight;
‘And noble were his feats. A bolder man
‘The sword ne'er wielded. Many a Dane lay low
‘Before his val'rous arm, but, at the last
‘O, anguish to my spirit! at the last,
‘A foeman rais'd his massy battle-axe,—
‘It fell!—and on the ground Montalto lay,
‘Never to rise again!—Would that my head
‘Had met the deathful blow!—This sword, O king!
‘Th' assailant sent to death!’
The sigh prevails.
When, stifling sorrow, thus the king bespake.
‘This is a moving tale! I knew him not,
‘Yet had his virtues reach'd me. He will long
‘Awaken pity, not the least in me.
‘The grave that bears Montalto, richer spoil—
‘Holds not! and hallow'd be his memory!’
When turning to the youth, he thus began.
‘Whence art thou?’ Bending thus he answer gave.
‘Most noble king, thy condescension great.
‘I am a woodman's son, in Selwood's wilds.
‘There was I born, and there will be my home.
‘I left my father's, and my mother's cot
‘When to the wars thou first didst call thy friends;
I left them, left my harp,—the crystal brook
‘(Still its sweet music warbles in my ear!)
I left it all, and now the wars are o'er,
‘Back shall I haste rejoicing, and henceforth

298

‘Love, cherish parents, precious to my heart,
‘And never more to leave them!’—Alfred look'd—
Full sorrowful at Oddune! Oddune back
Return'd the searching glance! yet not a word
Spake either, when the chieftain, Oddune thus.
‘Whose was that simple dirge which late I heard?’
The blush declares what words forbear to tell.
When sad, the monarch thus the silence brake.
‘Brave youth, thou hast my favour. Now withdraw.
‘Thou shalt ere long be summon'd to our presence.’
Revolving, lost in wonderment, the tear
Still on his cheek, and sorrow at his heart,
Bending, the valiant woodman's son retires.
Alfred to Oddune spake. ‘Afflictions deep
‘Await that youth. I may alleviate,
‘But cure I cannot. Didst thou mark his eye?
‘He has a noble bearing. Well I judge,
‘A worthy son of that most worthy sire.’
Oddune replied, ‘Above the multitude
‘He had a soul commanding. Kindred minds,
‘By a mysterious sympathy unite,
‘And such we witness here. Song has a power,
‘Attractive, and Montalto, and this youth
‘(In heavenly lore, full clear, proficients both)
‘Soon felt the bonds of friendship.—I will bear
‘The tidings of his parents:—that the turf
‘Rests on their peaceful heads.—Strange fancies rise!
‘When to my castle hastening, in my train
‘This youth shall stand, and when the softener Time
‘Calms down Matilda's sorrow, and is dry,
‘The tear which falls for parents, call'd to heaven,
‘Haply the maid, whom, seeing, all admire,
‘May look propitious on Montalto's friend!
Alfred replied, ‘Such thoughts but ill accord

299

‘With circumstance like ours, yet, should it be,
‘Such worth and valour meeting, all will hail.
‘The dowry of a king shall be the maid's,
‘Nor shall the youth regret my countenance.
‘But, chieftain! other scenes demand our care.’
Now Alfred, with that friend, that valiant man—
Oddune, o'er all th' ensanguined plain, moved slow,
Musing on human glory. They beheld,
Pangs at their heart! the fruits of war and strife,
Their dread memorials crowding on their sight.
‘Screen me,’ cried Alfred! O, thou power Most High!
‘From the dark passions, fierce and deadly feuds,
‘Which quench the heavenly spark, and to a fiend
‘Transform thy likeness, imaged forth in man.
‘Is life so small a thing, so little worth
‘That we should with it sport in idleness,
‘And recklessly, for some imagin'd good,
‘Hazard our all! resign so rich a prize—
‘This state of being!—scorn the imperious voice
‘Of duty here,—the soothing promises
‘Of joys hereafter, and unbidden rush
‘Before Heaven's great tribunal!—Such do those
‘Who deal in blood; who on their couch of rest
‘Hatch murder, and war's dread vicissitude.
‘Not on the rude and giddy multitudes
‘Heap I these charges. On Ambition's head
‘The weight, the curse of blood rests mountain-like!
‘Ours is defence alone. We could look up,
‘Asking heaven's blessing, and in victory raise,
‘As we with grateful spirits now have done,
‘The warm, th' o'erflowing incense of the heart—
‘To Him who sits supreme, Great Lord of all!
‘Haste on the day, Sovereign Omnipotent!
‘When swords and spears the peaceful plough-shares form!

300

‘When wars through earth shall cease.—Thy kingdom come!
‘Virtue extend her empire o'er the world,
‘And man behold a brother's face in man!

‘Now royalty shines on me; now I sway
‘A nation's sceptre! Now I view around
‘Obedient thousands, and behold no foe
‘To check the secret purpose of my mind.—
‘May I discharge the duties of a crown!
‘Call Wisdom from her hiding-place: once more
‘Cherish the good, and bid Instruction's voice
‘Direct the rude, and train the ignorant.
‘Oh, Oddune! let the king who coldly thinks,
‘And feebly executes, regard with scorn
‘These soul-ennobling aims, and meanly creep
‘Thro' a long reign that loud demands the race
‘Of glory and true usefulness, yet I,
‘Nursing great thoughts of man, his future hopes,—
‘His destinies, when this brief life is o'er,
‘And of attainments now within his power,
‘Will prize the thought, that e'en a nation's rank,
‘The state she holds, her strength and eminence
‘In science fair, and all ennobling arts,
‘Rests ponderous on the man who wears a crown.
‘Not as the baseless visions of the night
‘Be these my thoughts, Oh! Searcher of all hearts!’

The King and Oddune now drew near the spot
Where, in the conflict death had busiest been.
There Ivar lay! Alfred beheld the chief!
Tho' breathless, he approach'd him with strange thoughts
Half doubting, lest his gory corse should rise In madder fury than before, and dart
Sudden destruction; for his hand yet grasp'd
The monstrous sword which at the king had struck,
And pierced his helm, e'en with the brazen shield
Scorning to stay. (Oh! cease thy creeping dread!

301

He never more will vex the earth, or Thee!)

Alfred to Oddune thus his speech pursued.
‘Here rests our foe, once fear'd, but now no more!
‘Here must our vengeance cease. This sight, I mourn:
‘For never, Oddune, will a christian man
‘Behold his fellow, sunk in abjectness;
‘Consign'd to darkness,—his distemper'd breast—
‘The seat of all the passions fierce and blind,
‘Hate genders; darkest child of hell, nor feel
‘Pangs at his heart press heavy. Let us now
‘Bestow funereal honors on these men—
‘Ivar and Hubba. Let us for the dead,
‘Here on this memorable spot, erect
‘The lofty barrow, that posterity
‘Often may visit where in quietness
‘Lie the fierce spoilers, Saxons once overthrew.’
To those around he spake. ‘Take this huge corse,
‘What once was Ivar! and that other chief,
‘Hubba, who 'mid yon deathful heap abides,
‘Tow'ring above his fellows: round them place
‘Their thousands slain, and o'er them heap the earth;
‘That coming generations may rejoice
‘At our proud triumph.—Ere the work begin,
‘Your king inquires.—Around him, stands there one
‘Who knows of Ethelney, that peaceful isle—
‘Where Thone meandering glides the woods among?’
The words scarce utter'd, voices earnest rose,—
Out mid the farthest ranks,—‘We know it well.’
When, hastening up, two comely youths appear.
The king survey'd them earnestly, then said,
‘Did not you stand beside me in the fight,
‘And do me service?’ ‘One, the elder, cried,
‘We did, oh king! When two fierce Danes press'd on,
‘And would have slain thee, whilst thou strovedst hard—

302

‘With Ivar, Denmarks chief, we rush'd between,
‘And after struggle fierce, protracted long,
‘Laid them both low. Content with serving thee,
‘We join'd the raging contest!’
Alfred cried,
‘Brave youths! tho' 'mid the fight engaged, mine eye
‘Glimps'd you beside me, and a certain sense,
‘Confus'd, of danger, struck my mind; unknown
‘Till these your words. Receive your Monarch's thanks!
‘Hereafter will I deal you due reward:
‘For never have I found true modesty
‘Not near allied to worth. But now declare,
‘What know you of the Isle of Ethelney?’
‘There were we born,’ they answer'd, ‘'tis our home:
‘We are a neat-herd's sons, Ceolric named,
‘Who there, with Acca our good mother, dwells.’
‘Ah! is it so?’ cried Alfred, ‘this indeed,
‘Comes to my heart, and you will shortly know—
‘Brave youths, my meaning. Haste to Ethelney
‘Acca, your mother warn, and your good sire,
‘Instant to leave their cot, and hither bring,
‘With wonted care, an infant child, so late,
‘Committed to them. Speed! and let the man,
‘Sigbert, who there abides, attend their course.’
Lost in astonishment! lowly they bow,
And with conjectures opposite and wild,
Haste to their lone abode.
‘Now,’ Alfred cried,
‘View the unburied Danes, and heap the pile,—
‘Commemorating.’ At their monarch's words,
They turned, and o'er the slain uppiled the earth,
Stripping its surface, 'till at length there stands,
A mountain by apparent magic rear'd.
Whilst thus engaged, Alfred to Oddune thus.

303

‘Tho' in my country's greater cause engaged,
‘And silent of Alswitha, now my heart,
‘Blameless may think of her. In yonder pile
‘Guthrum abides. I thirst to let him learn
‘How he is prized by one he little knows.
‘Bear this my signet!—his security,
‘Alike it shall ensure his life, his welfare.
‘Declare that Alfred honours him. His word,—
‘His oath is pass'd.—And, Oh, soul-stirring thought!
‘Haply Alswitha, in that hostile fort
‘Lingers in sad captivity. Her rank
‘Reveal not, but thine efforts best exert
‘To win her freedom, and conduct her here.
‘Faint hope is mine! Now speed thou on thy way.
‘Oddune, add this to all thy services,
‘And trust thy prince!’ The chieftain press'd his heart,
And hastes to bear the summons to the Dane.

BOOK XX.

ARGUMENT.

While Guthrum, in the Castle to which he had retired, is consulting with his troops, Oddune arrives; demands his submission to Alfred; is refused: claims Guthrum's captive; Alswitha receives her liberty; her interview with Alfred.

‘DEATH! Death!’ cried Guthrum, as he pass'd the gate
Of the near castle, with the wretched few
Who 'scaped the fight. ‘Death! death!’ the chieftain cried,
‘Why hast thou lagged so heavily? Why thus
‘Spared me for anguish, such as never man
‘Felt 'till this hour? Why 'mid our brethren slain
‘Lay not this head? Now, hither am I come
‘To taste the bitterness of death, yet lose
‘Its cheering joys. I curse you, coward legs!
‘You urged my flight! Give me yon axe. My hands
‘Shall punish you, oh traitors!’ Forth he grasp'd
‘A massy axe, and stood as he would strike—
When far he cast it. ‘Not for partial death,
‘Seek I,’ he cried, ‘but death complete and full.’

Turning to those around, he wrathful spake.
‘Why are ye here? oh Danes! Ye heartless throng!
‘Why fled you hither? Cowards! scorn of men!
‘Yet, why was I a coward? Why was I—

305

‘Borne onward to this place by recreant Danes?
‘Why shrank I from destruction, when I saw
‘This mortal overthrow? Now, chieftains, say—
‘In this concurrence of all direful things
‘How we may save our honour, all beside—
‘We must resign!—Our noble princes slain!
‘Our valiant army vanquish'd! Hope itself
‘Quench'd in the rayless night! Now freely speak!’

One answer'd thus, ‘Doom'd as we are to death,
‘We must resolve on some transcendent deed—
‘To sweeten death; and to the world display
‘Achievement worthy of our country's fame.—
‘Vengeance and rage remorseless! When night comes
‘Let us thro' yonder gate rush boldly forth,
‘And Alfred strive to slay, that only foe
‘Danes ever fear'd. Altho' our death be sure,
‘Yet shall this act, Death of his sting disarm.’

Guthrum exclaim'd; ‘Thou worthless counsellor!
‘Fly, or a speedier death shall light on thee!
‘As the last hour draws near, when we must quit
‘This state of war, would'st thou, at such a time,
‘Imbitter death, with this atrocious deed
‘Of cold unmanly murder? If we fight,
‘Let the broad day-light see us! Let us meet
‘The equal conflict, clashing sword with sword,
‘When the sun shines, and honest men can look,
‘Nor feel resentment.—All beyond is shame!
‘The midnight murd'rer spirits brave abhor!
‘Base Dane, away!

‘But to prescribe our path,
‘That now befits us. Warriors! ye who thus
‘Survive the fight, and stand around, with looks
‘All ghastly, from amazement yet alive,
‘Before I name my plans, and counsel you

306

‘How now to act, I will, with shame, declare
‘Why we are here, and why the prospect casts
‘Darkness before us; why we lost the day,
‘And now are left, wretched and hopeless men,
‘Whelm'd in disgrace.—It was our leaders' wrath!
‘Peace to their mem'ries! 'twas their rancorous strife!
‘Which at the hour of battle, made them feel
‘Hate, for each other, rather than the foe.—
‘Low lie they both! and of the Danish ranks,
‘Great in their numbers! greater in their might!
‘We only live! this little host, ordain'd
‘To suffer for their madness. Fruitless thus
‘To ponder on disasters, wiser far
‘To think how best to act.’

Debating now
With counsels opposite, the hours pass'd by,
When one the spot approach'd and spake, ‘Oh chief,
‘A Saxon claims to see thee!’ ‘Ope the gates!’
Guthrum exclaim'd. ‘Conduct him here! Our hearts
‘Well may sustain his taunts.’ Oddune drew near,
And to the indignant Dane his speech address'd.

‘I come, O, chief! from Alfred our good king,
‘Instant to claim submission. Mark my words.
‘Go forth, and on his mercy trust for life!
‘So haply you may live.’ To which the Dane:

‘Herald, we spurn thy words! Here are we safe,
‘A little moment. Never will we leave
‘These walls to die by Alfred, in some hour
‘Of scoffing merriment, or learn, too late,
‘Another Offa's treachery. Saxon! hence!
‘Talk not of mercy! I too long have lived,
‘And known the human heart too well, to think
‘Mercy can sojourn in a victor's breast—
‘Where wrongs like ours have roused his appetite.

307

‘If the robb'd she-wolf met thee in her course,
‘Say, would'st thou trust her mercy, or, confide
‘In thine own valour? Saxon, such will I!
‘Thy proffer we disdain! Vanquish'd we are,
‘Yet not subdued. Here will we perish all!
‘Fly swift and tell thy king our fix'd resolve.’

Oddune replied, ‘Oh Dane, in Alfred trust!
‘Nor of his spirit judge thou by thine own.
‘He lives to shew mankind some conduct, high,
‘Beyond the common rule, and long will prove
‘Posterity's bright model. Well I know,
‘Our monarch boasts a heart, the which to trust,
‘E'en thou may'st venture.’ ‘Never!’ cried the Dane,
‘Our oaths are pass'd, and like our gallant race,
‘Here will we stay!—defend this last retreat,
‘With courage of so bold and fierce a kind,
‘That even Alfred's self shall stand amazed,
‘And question his own sight. Now, Saxon, hear!

‘It may not suit thy mode of thought, to learn
‘What Dane hath done; and thou may'st listen to me,
‘And at an old man smile. But I must speak!

‘For three-score years hath Guthrum urged the fight,
‘Thro' kingdoms distant; oft with conquerors fierce,
‘With Frank and Saxon, and 'till this hard time
‘Never endured defeat! This trusty sword
‘Hath combated, 'till death itself denied
‘The further victim, Never have I slept
‘Beneath th' inglorious roof, nor drunk my mead,
‘In base seclusion! I have met the war
‘'Mid cliffs of ice, and mountains, white with frost,
‘Whilst we appear'd, 'mid the thick-falling flakes
‘And arrowy sleet, columns of stalking snow.
‘This heart hath dared all perils! I have oft

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‘Pillow'd my head upon the corse I slew
‘And heedless slept amid the war of winds!
‘Now doom'd to perish! Not in honour's cause,
‘Not in the well-fought battle, but e'en here!
‘Here in this place, the mean inglorious death
‘Of slaves and traitors! Yet, thy king inform,
‘Tho' die we must, brave will we die! This gate
‘The last of Danes shall guard, and raise in death
‘With desperate vehemence, his feeble arm
‘To stay the Saxon's entrance. Hence! and tell
‘All thou hast heard!’

The Saxon chief replied,
‘Prepare thine ear for tidings which will seem
‘Like some night vision. Know, courageous man,
‘Thy friend is Alfred! He commission'd me
‘To bear the greetings of kind amity.
‘These were his words.—‘I long to let him learn
‘How he is prized by one he little knows.
‘Bear this my signet, his security;
‘Alike it shall ensure his life, his welfare.’
‘I give it thee. Thus further Alfred spake.
‘Declare, I laud and honour him. My word—
‘My oath is pass'd.—A king's solicitude
‘Shall shape new forms of gratitude, to serve
‘Such worth as his.’

‘Cease!’ Guthrum cried, enraged,
‘Falsehood is thine! Thou art a treacherous man!
‘I scorn thy words! thy craft! thy subterfuge!
‘Didst thou believe, such idle words as thine
‘Could cheat old Guthrum? What can Alfred prize
‘This heart for? Plotting hourly for his fall?
‘Thou dost exceed thy part, base as it is!
‘Thy king is now devising some deep plan
‘To win me from this fastness, but in vain!
‘Here will I fight and perish. Hence! away!
‘Thy monarch and thyself alike I spurn!’

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Oddune replied, ‘Thy words will I deliver.
‘Chieftain, there is a man in Alfred's camp,
‘Brave like thyself, whose wife thy captive is.
‘He pines to see her. Wilt thou freedom grant?’

Guthrum replied. ‘I know for whom thou plead'st.
‘I prize, I love her, with such love alone
‘As the fond father feels.—My daughter, too,
‘Loved her!’ The old man ceased. he wept!
After a pause he cried.—‘Thou hast declared
‘An honest man, her husband, who, full well,
‘Knows how to prize her; she shall be releas'd.
‘Unknowing of this fatal day's defeat,
‘In yonder tent she sits, silent as night!
‘Take her, and forth depart!’

Oddune withdrew,
And now the tent had enter'd. Musing sad
He saw a woman; on the earth her eye
Intensely pored, heedless of coming foot.
Her cheek was pale! When Oddune clasp'd his hands,
And cried, ‘Rejoice!’

As one who in the dark
Sees, or believes he sees, some passing shape,
And, starting, looks aghast; so at these words
Alswitha rose, and with astonishment,
Half wild, exclaim'd, ‘What art thou?’ Oddune said,
‘I am indeed thy friend, and Alfred's friend!—
‘Oddune, well known.’

Not more astonished he
Who at the world's remotest point, should view
On some tall rock, in well-known characters,
His name, distinct and clear, than felt the queen
At these the chieftain's words. Doubting she cried,
‘Is it some baneful phantom, to involve
‘This heart in more inextricable grief?
‘Oh no! I know thee! Speak, or soon my mind

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‘Madness will seize?’ ‘Forbear thy doubts and fears!’
Oddune replied, (low bending to the ground.)
‘I now can only tell thee, thou art free!
‘And I am thy conductor. Hasten fast,
‘Or danger yet may follow!’

Up she rose.
A wild uncertainty hung o'er her brow;
Then, leaning on the mailed warrior's arm,
She pass'd the gate. When thus the queen exclaim'd:
‘Is Alfred safe?’ ‘He is!’ the chieftain cried;
‘Alfred is safe! and Britain now is free!’

‘Free!’ cried Alswitha, ‘What! Thou dreamest! Speak!’
Oddune replied, ‘Britain indeed is free!
‘Oh queen! behold'st thou yonder towering mound?
‘Beneath it lie the Danes! Thousands are there!
‘And 'mid the multitude, this day o'erthrown,
‘Ivar and Hubba!’

‘Tell me yet no more!’
Alswitha cried, ‘My brain is hot! Oh God,
‘Spare my weak intellect!’ Again she spake,
‘Where now is Alfred? Gallant chieftain, say;
‘And Guthrum, where? Is he amid the slain?
‘High heaven, I trust, hath spared that good old man!’
When Oddune; ‘He is spared! In that same castle
‘Whence thou art hast'ning, he abides, and vows
‘To perish there, rather than to receive,
‘Mercy from Alfred.’

‘Hath he learned my name?’
Inquired the queen. ‘If not, it may be well!’
‘No!’ answer'd Oddune. ‘Little knew the Dane,
‘Who was his captive. On th' opposing hill
‘Alfred awaits, with heart-devouring care,
‘To learn my message, and if yet thou liv'st
‘To crown his happiness.’ Alswitha cried,
‘This is felicity! But where my child?’

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Oddune distressful answer'd, ‘Of thy child,
‘Nothing I know, tho' doubtless he is safe.’
‘Oh no!’ replied the queen. ‘He is not safe,
‘Save in a better world.’

The sudden tear
Bedew'd her eye, and silent they pass on:
When calmly thus she spake. ‘I would not mourn
‘At Heaven's all-wise disposal; I have much
‘Calling for gratitude; myself preserved;
‘My better self in Alfred; and the hope
‘That quietness may bless his future reign.
‘Farewell, my child! Rebellious heart, be still!—
‘But are not these deceptions? Am I safe?
‘Is it no vain deceit of fairy land
‘Where all is happiness but, shadowy? Chief!
‘Let me behold thee! Truly thou dost look
‘Like faithful Oddune! art thou truly he?’
‘Truly,’ replied the chief! ‘And thou art now
‘Queen of this lovely Isle, and long I trust
‘Ordain'd to grace its throne.’ ‘But say!’ she cried,
‘How came these things, these changes wonderful?
‘Which make my very being seem a dream,
‘And all my past conceptions, words and deeds,
‘Partaking of some insubstantial form
‘And link'd with very nothing.’ Oddune forth,
Declared of Ethelney, of Selwood's shade,
Of Kenwith, of th' avenging flames that burnt
The hostile fleet. and of the Danish camp
Which Alfred visited.

‘Oh name it not!’
Cried the pale queen! ‘I saw thy monarch there,
‘The terror, the dismay, which thro' my frame,
‘Rush'd at that hour, fain would I blot from out
‘My burden'd mem'ry! As we journey on
‘Complete thy story!’ Oddune told the queen
‘Of the past fight.

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Each circumstance she heard,
Looking like one, who 'mid the charnel-house
At dead of night doth roam, for penance due,
Or, to relate to gaping auditors,
What shapes were seen, all white and terrible,
At the still hour, when fancy, unconfined,
Sees clearer for the darkness, and beholds,
Each soul-o'erwhelming spectacle, when ghosts
Have their night revels.

Thro' the vale they pass'd,
Communing thus, and now they see the tent
Where Alfred anxious waited. Oddune spake,
‘I would draw nigh the king, if seem thee fit,
‘And first address him, lest the sudden gust
‘Of rapture, half o'erpower his labouring mind.’
‘Depart!’ replied the queen. ‘I at the door
‘Will wait thy signal.’

Oddune reach'd the tent.
He enter'd. At his sight the king uprose,
Then, starting back, exclaim'd, ‘Oddune, no queen!
‘I fear to ask thee! yet, thou may'st proceed!
‘I think I can endure to hear thy tale!’
Oddune began. ‘First will I name, O king!
‘Of Guthrum. He disdains thy words, and swears
‘To perish in yon castle.’ Alfred cried,
‘What tidings of Alswitha? now declare!
‘Yet, stay awhile! I cannot bear it yet!—
‘Speak on!’ when Oddune thus:

‘I ask'd the Dane
‘Of one, his captive; claim'd her liberty.
‘Take her!’ the chieftain cried. ‘She yonder dwells!’
‘I found her! brought her safe! and now she waits,
‘Monarch, at thy tent door!’

Alswitha heard,
And instant enter'd! To the king she rush'd!
Alfred beheld her! In each other's arms,

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Speechless they stand! It was the moment full
Of holy feeling, when the spirit drinks—
Deep of the soul's full harmony, and spurns
The intermediate office of vain words.
When, after solemn pause, Alfred exclaim'd.
‘Belov'd Alswitha! God of heaven inspire,
‘This heart with everlasting gratitude!’
The queen essay'd to speak; she only wept!
Their tears are mingled; when, at length, the king,
‘But I must hear thy tale. Where hast thou been?
‘What further hast thou suffer'd? best beloved!
‘What ills endured, that I know nothing of?’
‘Alswitha check'd the tear that would have flow'd;
When thus she answered, dignified, yet mild,
Looking attention: ‘As I told thee once,
(Through the mysterious concords of the Harp.)
‘If e'er thou saw'st me living, thou should'st find,
‘My soul still pure! Before my gracious Lord,
‘Such do I stand! and thou art still the same,
‘Sole inmate, and sole idol of my heart.’

Alfred exclaim'd, leaning on her he loved,
‘Saints envy not, or they might think of me!
‘Now will I hear thee. Yet, awhile, forbear.
‘Distraction must not haunt me, while thy tale
‘Mellifluous flows. Important calls are mine.
‘Erelong, and I will listen and admire.’

Which said, the monarch with the chief retired.

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BOOK XXI.

ARGUMENT.

Alswitha relates the events which had happened to her since she separated from Alfred.

ALFRED and Oddune from the neighbouring camp,
Now had return'd. They hasten to the queen,
Impatient the suspended tale to hear.
With eye suffused, Alswitha thus began:

‘My lord! my husband! thou for whom my heart
‘Its keenest pangs hath felt, I need not say
‘What joy this hour affords me, from the change
‘High Heaven hath wrought. Oh Alfred! Oh my lord!
‘Great is God's mercy! He hath veil'd himself
‘But to shine forth more glorious; He hath frown'd,
‘And for a little moment hid his face,
‘To try the heart he loved, and purify
‘By ills and crosses;—Wisdom's ministers!

‘Thou askest me to name the varied scenes,
‘This heart hath known, since, 'mid the abbey walls,
‘We cried farewell. These scenes, had I the power,
‘Should with oblivion dwell, and every shade

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‘Of past remembrance die away, no more
‘To rouse my dormant soul. Yet thou hast ask'd,
‘And I will tell thee, tho' it cost me dear.

‘But three long days after thou bad'st adieu,
‘We from the abbey turrets spied the Danes,
‘Fierce coming on. A sight that fill'd our hearts
‘With dread forebodings, each, with terror pale.
‘At length they reach'd the walls! Their hideous yells
‘Rose like the wintry ravings on our ear!
‘Their torches flash'd! Their blows the ponderous gates
‘Answered with deaf'ning roar! Each look'd to God.
‘The abbot was a christian, good and true,
‘And when thou wentest, often talk'd of thee,
‘And prais'd thy words, and loved thy smiling boy;
‘And when he saw the wasting Danes draw nigh,
‘He trembled.’ ‘Hear,’ he cried, ‘that noise! The gates
‘Long may not stand! Haste! haste! he trembling cried!
‘(Turning to me) and fled—he knew not where;
‘I follow'd, tho' in that distracting hour,
‘Within my palsied heart there was no fear;
‘I did not think of thee; my babe forgot;
‘For with excess of feeling, feeling fled;
‘I seem'd a stone become! But from this dream
‘Fresh groans awaked me! for the doors were forced!
‘The wrathful Danes, throughout the place, spread death!

‘Now, could I hear the miserable cry,
‘Of mercy! mercy! In the abbot's face
‘I saw despair. He said, ‘Give me the child!’
‘Resolved to fly—not knowing how, or where!
‘The abbot answer'd, Woman, follow me!
‘Not certain, yet, is death!—but hark!—the noise!
‘The flames, they rage! when instant I beheld
‘Columns of smoke ascending up to heaven,
‘Now ceasing, rising now in vaster curls,

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‘Thro' which the fire in fitful fury burst,
‘Whilst higher still, amid night premature,
‘Sparks shone, with fearful lustre, that appear'd,
‘E'en in mid-day, a starry firmament.
‘We saw hope gone! I think the abbot said,
‘Oh God, thou yet art great! Vouchsafe thine aid!
‘Oh God, deliver us!’ Which having said,
‘He rush'd across the court—I follow'd him!
‘We reach'd the utmost wall. High heaven inspir'd,
‘Our limbs with strength miraculous; and soon
‘Its height we climb'd, 'mid smoke, and the loud cry
‘Of death around us. Down the abbot leap'd!
‘He had my child! I follow'd. Down I leap'd.
‘When to the earth I came, I look'd around
‘For child or guide, all was one waste of smoke!
‘Forward I urged my footsteps, but in vain:
‘Yet still I ran, fleet as the bounding roe,
‘For Hope still whisper'd ‘further was my child!’
‘Still on I sped.—I never saw him more!
‘My child he had!’ —A silence mark'd the air.
After a tremulous sigh, the queen again.
‘Distracting thought! my treasure he possess'd!
‘The Danish sword, that spares not infancy,—
‘More than the hoary head, hath sent to death
‘That good old man, and with him!’—silence reign'd!
The tears fell fast! (The king his speech restrain'd!
He fear'd to speak!)—Alswitha thus again.
‘Our child, Oh, Alfred! our delight is flown!
‘Adieu, sweet babe !—A long, a last adieu!’—
(The king prepared to speak, but check'd himself.)

Alswitha thus pursued.—‘Some trees I sought,
‘And from the thicket, cautious look'd around.
‘When o'er the plain the fierce wind swept along,
‘And for a moment made all clear, I saw—
‘Ruin behind me, one vast heap of fire!

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‘And tho' far distant, yet upon the gale,
‘Surly, that pass'd along, I could perceive
‘The voice of dying man, faint but most clear,
‘That made my feverish and tumultuous heart,
‘Throb audibly. I thus escaped myself.
‘Thankful I stood; but yet no child was near!

‘Oh, what the hopes and fears a mother feels!
‘Her offspring now, in all its innocence
‘And playful gaiety, delights the eye,
‘While in her bounding heart, spontaneous, rise
‘Sweet feelings; and she looks around and smiles,
‘O'erflowing with delight, as all she saw
‘Were one serene, immeasurable sea
‘Of living pleasure! She extends her eye,
‘Through distant times, and sees her child arise,
‘To fame, and worth, and honour, paying well
‘Parental care,—'till, in one fatal hour,
‘Death visits him, and night o'ercasts the scene!
‘Yet God is wise, nor would we rob our child
‘Of Heaven's felicities,—still wish him here
‘To combat, like ourselves, with toil and woe.
‘His haven, storms assail not, and ere long
‘Borne on fleet pinion, in a better world,
‘The weeping and the wept will meet again.
‘I would forget my child.—Sweet babe, adieu!

‘Whilst thus I stood, appearing, to myself,
‘Of Heaven and earth deserted, through my mind,
‘As tho' by power miraculous, I felt
‘A sudden and mysterious placidness,
‘That made me feel, like some unbodied spirit
‘When he looks down upon his earthly friends,
‘And marks their sorrow, yet, beholding, knows,
‘How vain their pity, and how better far
‘His change,—of Earth for Heaven: e'en thus I felt;

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‘And, tranquil, journey'd on, tho' wistless where,
‘For still I knew there was a God on high.
‘Now to the skirts of a dark wood I came.
‘'Twas night. Upon the ground I lay and slept.
‘Yes, on the ground, the heavens my canopy,
‘And a protecting Providence my trust.
‘Ere morn appear'd I rose, and travelled on,
‘Still vainly seeking thee, on whom my heart
‘Lean'd as its earthly stay. The days pass'd by,
‘And yet I wander'd. Food I oft obtain'd
‘From bush or bramble, but, the craving pang
‘Of nature now increas'd, and the sad thought
‘Seem'd cheering, that my earthly end drew near!
‘But then I thought of thee! I yet would live,
‘Cried I; ‘Almighty Father, spare my life!’

‘Surveying a near valley, I espied,
‘What once had been an abbey, mould'ring now:
‘The which I sought, and desolation deem'd
‘My best security from wandering Danes.
‘I enter'd. Dreary look'd the scene around!
‘The heavens were still, and I could only hear
‘The distant night-bird; such the solemn hush
‘All things invested. Now the moon appear'd.
‘As thus I shivering stood, methought I heard
‘Footstep approaching! when I saw a man—
‘The dark porch enter, slow, and pass the niche,
‘Close where I stood. I fled! he followed me,
‘Crying, Who art thou? when I thus replied:
‘Pity the wretched! Art thou one of us?
‘A Saxon?’ ‘Yea!’ the warrior cried, ‘I am!
‘A servant liege of Alfred our good king,
‘Who, God be prais'd! is safe.’ This gave a joy,
‘Such as no words may name. He then inquired,
‘Fervent and often, how I thither came;
‘And if, of Alfred's queen, I aught had heard,

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‘For that his king believed that she was dead,
‘Murder'd in Glastonbury. I replied,
‘(Wishing to hide my name, yet meet with thee)
‘Some rumour I had heard that yet she lived,
‘But that to thee alone, I more would say.
‘As now thy face we sought, if e'er I vow'd,
‘Earnest, to God, it was from that good hour.
‘If ere we met, in this bleak world of ours,
‘To part with life, rather than part with thee.’

Alfred exclaim'd, ‘And truly didst thou vow!
‘This is that hour of meeting! We are hence,
‘If Heaven approve, never to part till death.’
A smile of meaning, sent from heart to heart,
Was the Queen's answer. When again she spake.

‘Whilst thus I journey'd, fill'd with the high hope
‘Of seeing thee, on the wide plain, I spied
‘A roving band of Danes. They hasten'd near!
‘Seized was Alswitha! Now must I declare
‘Something of Guthrum; something of that Dane
‘Who made me thus a captive, and 'till now
‘In bondage held.

‘One lesson have I learn'd,
‘Since last I saw thee, Alfred! well to know—
‘That sometimes, 'mid th' unpromising, the eye
‘Fixes on one, who, from some innate cause,
‘Some secret principle, rises above
‘The virtues of his station. Hath not Heaven
‘This mystery appointed, to instruct
‘Contracted mortals, that within one spot,
‘All goodness cent'reth not? That different tribes,
‘Scatter'd, or East, or West, contains some good,
‘(For all the purposes of social life)
‘Some excellence,—virtues of rarest kind,
‘By little minds unthought of, who would fain

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‘Make for themselves alone, the good sun shine!
‘Guthrum the Dane, whose captive I became,
‘Was this surpassing man! Though nurs'd in wars,
‘And with the harden'd, nurtured, him I found
‘Firm to his oath? Inflexible as truth!
‘Just to his fancied duties!

‘In the camp,
‘Following her father, one, his daughter, dwelt;
‘Anxious, in all extremes her sire to serve;
‘And, wonder, Alfred; when to thee I tell,
‘How good she was, worthy of such a sire.
‘To her I owe full many comforts, hours,
‘Of something like contentment, for I talk'd
‘To her and Guthrum, of th' Eternal Power
‘That dwelt on high, who made the glorious sun—
‘This wond'rous world, and all created things,
‘And of that Sacrifice, the hope of man!

‘They listen'd to me, and they seem'd to love
‘The words I spake: but when I check'd his wrath,
‘And told, of that forgiveness God required
‘From man to man, he cried, ‘It cannot be!
Forgiveness didst thou say? Forgive a foe!
‘The injured pardon! 'Tis not in man's heart!
‘And never will I deem it possible
‘'Till for myself I see what thou hast said!
‘A christian taught to love and to forgive!
‘Pass over wrongs! and for the evil thing,
‘Return the good! Tell to credulity
‘This tale, I heed it not!’ Enough, to say,
‘I found his mind, fired with wild prejudice,
‘Yet true to that small ray of mental light,
‘Heaven hath vouchsafed.

‘At Kenwith's massy walls
‘We now arrived, where noble Oddune lay,
‘The man, whom, next to thee, Danes most abhorr'd.

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I mourn'd his fate.

‘There is a tale most sad!
‘To this my breast, the thought such terror brings,
‘And will in thine such tumult work, that I
‘Fain would forget it, for myself and thee:
‘Yet innocence fears nothing but the word
‘Whisper'd in secret! Hubba, that foul Dane!
‘Beheld Alswitha! More I cannot say;
‘But that to Guthrum, yonder foe, thou ow'st,
‘That, spotless, yea, that living here I stand.
‘My foe was Hubba, fierce, from that dread hour.
‘How for my blood he sought, full well thou know'st.’

The pallid cheek, the palpitating heart
Told Alfred's conflict. Thus the queen again.
‘Yes, thank that Dane, who yet survives the fight,
‘Guthrum, for he, with that high mind which shows
‘The soul's nobility, exclaim'd, ‘Oh chief!
‘This heart hath sworn, 'till death itself draw near,
‘Yon captive to protect, and, by this sword!
‘Safe shall she be.’—

‘It were a mournful task,
‘To name their boisterous strife. A part thou heard'st.
‘Often must thou have ponder'd on the thought,
‘Why chieftains, like the Danes, should thus forget
‘Their common cause, and in contentious broils
‘Spend their best hours. This is that secret, deep!
‘Hubba forgot all wrath, but wrath for one
‘Who ne'er offended him’ At such an hour,
‘Amid the hostile camp, (thy foes around,)
‘Thou mettest me, Oh Alfred! and to think,
‘The pangs that then I felt, but possible,
‘Me to o'ertake again, chiefly for thee,
‘Upon my poor distemper'd head would bring
‘Sudden distraction!

‘When thou fled'st the camp,

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‘Strange consternation seized the Danes! They ask'd,
‘Earnest for thee, the harper, and awhile
‘Thought thee to air dissolved, or sudden changed
‘To some, thy proper shape; for they believed
‘Thou wert some deity. When one drew near,
‘Saying, At dead of night, whilst the wind howl'd,
‘Thou passedst through the gate, to the near shore
‘To bathe in ocean. Hubba cried aloud
‘Truly that man was Lok, for he hath used
‘To change his form, and through the ocean waves
‘Dart rapid. From the moment him I saw,
‘I knew the God!’ With this belief they lost
‘Thoughts of pursuit, and for the coming fight
‘Made ready, vowing to their idols vile,
‘To offer thee, Oh Alfred! yea they swore,
‘The Saxon's reign was short; all dread and death,
‘For thee and thine, as was to-morrow's dawn,—
‘Certain. I deem'd it true! and felt within,
‘Cold as the heart where Hope's sun never shines.

`The Danes had vow'd in solemn rites, to spend
‘Nine days for their success; when Ivar cried,
‘Impatient of restraint, panting for war,
‘What tho' three days of unexpired mirth
‘Demand our stay, why should we waste our time?
‘Is not the Saxon king now gathering strength?
‘To-morrow we will hence depart! Our vows
‘Hereafter will we keep, this hour demands
‘Dependence on our own unconquer'd swords.’
Hubba exclaim'd, ‘Abhorrent thought! That deed,
‘Impious, forbear! yet, if thou wilt depart,
‘Shrink not from slaughter! glut thy sword with blood!
‘Nor let one Saxon live to tell the tale
‘Of that day's battle, when we next shall meet;
‘For, by the eternal gods, each man shall die!’
‘What force was thine, I knew not, and I fear'd,—

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‘A night of horrors, more intensely dark,
‘Than ever yet involved our native land,
‘Was gathering fast.

‘The Danes now eager march'd
‘Thee to o'ertake; and I too follow'd them,
‘With Guthrum's daughter, who, in all my cares,
‘A sister's interest bore. But more of this—
‘Hereafter. To you castle now we came,
‘When, feeling so o'erpower'd my harass'd mind
‘That I became insensible; my soul,
‘Of past existence lost all traces, sounds
‘Fell heedless on my ear, and to the world
‘Dead I became, How long entranced I sat,
‘I cannot answer, when, behind I heard
‘Some voice exclaim, ‘Rejoice!’ ‘I turn'd and saw
‘Brave Oddune! when, in frenzied state, I cried,
‘What man art thou?

‘The rest, thou knowest well.
‘That here I stand, Oh God, behold my heart!
‘And if it be not grateful, make it such!
‘Now would I speak of thee. For all thy cares,
‘Thy dangers and dismays, while yet I bore
‘Captivity, sorrow consumed my frame,
‘And I forgot myself with fears for thee.
‘But thou art safe! Henceforth shalt thou enjoy
‘Good days and many! I will strive to wean
‘Thy mind from past misfortunes! Joy shall now
‘Bless thee the more, and thou shalt find sincere—
‘Alswitha's love, my husband, and my lord!’

Alfred transported rose, and eager cried,
‘Soother of every care! Best gift of heaven!
‘Companion! Friend! Instructer! What so soft
‘As the mild tone that from affection springs—
‘So lovely, as the human eye, that beams
‘True tenderness? Favor'd of mortal kind,

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‘Who'er thou be, that in this world hast found
‘The heart of friendship, give to Heaven thy praise!
‘But if that friend, the nearest of all names,
‘A wife's should bear, think thyself bless'd indeed!
‘For thou hast found, 'mid this inclement world,
‘In all that touches the interior man,
‘A refuge from its storms, a nobler prize
‘Than crowns and diadems!’

Alswitha cried,
Whilst tears of joyance glisten'd in her eye,
‘Thou hast my gratitude! But, good my lord,
‘Pardon the word that might disturb thy mind,
‘With dreadful recollections. Whilst we stand,
‘And praise our Maker, for the aid vouchsafed
‘To us his servants, I would hope, no crime
‘Seems it to him, to cast one lingering thought
‘On those no more, and o'er their memory drop
‘Nature's fond tear. Oh Alfred! thou and I
‘Still must remember, with deep agony,
‘One loss! our child! that on that fatal day
‘Made us for ever wretched.’ O'er her face
She cast her hand in silence. When the king—
Rose, and thus spake. ‘Alswitha! I do fear
‘To tell thy happiness.’ The queen exclaim'd,
‘What words were those? Declare! Is my child safe?
‘Sport not with death!’

Alfred replied, ‘He is!
‘Thy child is safe!’ After a moment's pause,
Alswitha calmly said, ‘This can I bear!
‘Great sorrows, and great joys, alike are link'd
‘To dreaminess!’ The flood of feeling came!
Earnest she cried, ‘Is my child safe? Oh God!
‘Father of Heaven and earth, spare my weak head!
‘Drive me not crazy through the earth! Allay
‘This throbbing of my bosom! Didst thou say
‘My child was safe? Where is he? Bring him to me!

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‘Thou tent disclose him!’

Alfred cried, ‘Belov'd!
‘Oh stay thy anguish! Check the vehemence
‘Of these thy warm affections! Soon, full soon,
‘Thou shalt behold thy child! Thou shalt embrace,
‘Upon the coming day, thy darling boy!
‘He hastens from a lowly dwelling near.’

By transport overpowered, the queen awhile
Stood silent. When the king to Oddune spake.
‘This wondrous tale, Alswitha's, thou hast heard,
‘And doubtless didst anticipate the words
‘Which now I speak. Guthrum, the Danish chief,
‘Hence is my choicest friend! fix'd, permanent,
‘Stable as life. Haste to the castle; say,
‘He needs not dread thy monarch! With apt words,
‘Root out his many fears! and let him know,
‘If ever in man's heart fidelity
‘An entrance found, he may in Alfred trust;—
‘As steadfast as the earth he treads upon!
‘Now seek the chieftain.’

When, Alswitha thus.
‘Oddune! one favour mine. Inquire for her,—
‘Guthrum's fair daughter. This my heart doth yearn
‘To show the damsel kindness. If thou canst,
‘Oh! bear her to this bosom!’—Oddune heard,
And bending left the presence of the king.

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BOOK XXII.

ARGUMENT.

Oddune again visits Guthrum, and persuades him to submit to Alfred—He consents to see the king—Alfred receives him at first with assumed anger—Alswitha pleads for Guthrum, who is pardoned—Guthrum intreats to become a christian, and ascribes his conversion to Alswitha—He deplores the supposed death of his daughter—She presents herself to him—The Danish chief and his daughter depart to the castle—Oddune commended by Alswitha.

JOY at his heart, Oddune now seeks the Dane;
And as the castle hall he entered, stern,
Guthrum approach'd and cried, ‘Thou busy foe!
‘What seek'st thou now? May we not perish here,
‘Safe from thy visits, and at least enjoy
‘Peace in our final moments? Haste thou back!
‘I hate thy converse! 'Tis to me more foul
‘Than screams to drowsiness! Proud Saxon! Life,
‘We know its limits! and, that soon these eyes
‘Closed will be found! yet think not thou to gain
‘On easy terms this castle! We are Danes!
‘And till the hungry crows look down upon us,
‘And think us food for them, so thin and wan,
‘As on our walls we stand, hurling on you
‘The dart and jav'lin, never shall you tread
‘This one last spot triumphant.’

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Oddune cried,
‘I come not now with threats, but promises,
‘In patience, hear my words!’

The Dane exclaim'd,
‘I hear thee not! Would'st thou attempt to soothe
‘The bear with promises, when he beholds
‘The hunters round him? neither me beguile!
‘My path is plain! Death will anon be ours!
‘But 'till it come, we will aspire to live
‘Worthy of death.’

Oddune, more earnest cried,
‘I do not bring thee death, but rather life—
‘For thee and thine. These are the words I bear.
‘Submit to Alfred! On his mercy lean!
‘For he is one who harbours not revenge
‘And hate remorseless. Trust his clemency,
‘And thou shalt find thy apprehensions vain,
‘Thy every fear unfounded.’

Cried the Dane.
‘Thou see'st me thus thy prey, but do not add
‘Insult, where courage may not show itself!
‘Dost thou suspect of fear? I know it not!
‘And didst thou think this heart would mercy crave—
‘From this thy monarch? Never shall the sun
‘See Guthrum crouch before the victor's frown
‘And ask him pardon!’

Oddune spake, ‘Thy doubts,
‘Thy apprehensions, call them what thou wilt,
‘Are most unreal. Alfred boasts a heart
‘That never felt contempt for any man!
‘Approach our king, and he will grant thee life.’

The Dane replied, ‘Talk not of asking life!
‘Chieftain! its charms are pass'd. I spurn the boon!
‘My child is slain! my honour flown! and now
‘Wherefore should I, a Dane, desire to live?’

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Oddune replied, ‘Let not ideal mists
‘Before thee float; and prejudice, that great,
‘That mightier mist than all, quenching the mind!
‘Thou lovest not thy life! and fain would'st boast
‘Of yielding the small boon, unterrified;
‘Prized but by cowards! Let me ask thee, Dane!
‘Not thy proud heart, but that which seldom errs,
‘Thy quiet feelings, why thou lovest death?

‘Is it some little thing to breathe the air,
‘To see the light of Heaven, the glorious sun,
‘The azure firmament? this beauteous world
‘Of comforts and of wonders infinite?
‘Is it some little thing, at early morn,
‘To feel the freshness of the gale, that comes
‘Replenish'd with its vivifying powers?—
‘A senseless joy, an idle benefit,
‘To wander in the balmy summer morn,
‘Thro' fields and flowers, drinking the vital air,
‘With fragrance and with odoriferous scents
‘O'erflowing, rousing up the soul to dreams
‘Of immaterial joy, and dim regards
‘Of a sweet something, undefined, yet clear
‘In the soul's confidence, sometime to come?
‘And is it nothing deem'd, to taste the grape,
‘Nature's sweet bev'rage! or, the cheering mead?
‘Nothing to view the fruits that charm the eye,
‘And please the taste, scatter'd thro' every clime,
‘All nations blessing?—

‘Were our ears bestow'd
‘To feel disgust, and in our minds excite
‘Perpetual jarrings? Can we wander forth
‘And hear the wild-wood music, birds and things
‘Yielding their minstrelsy in soothing notes
‘Or soul-inspiring, and all choristers
‘Sounding their Maker's praise? Can this our world,

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‘Its wonders infinite, no joyance yield?
‘No comfort? and no promise give the soul
‘That should delay its wanderings, and inspire
‘One wish to linger 'mid a scene so fair?
‘And is there nothing in that foe to man,
‘Death! that affrights thee? Canst thou think, unmov'd,
‘That this thy frame, shortly beneath the ground
‘Will moulder slow? That these thy comely limbs
‘Which now support the fabrie thou hast long
‘Pamper'd and call'd thyself, will soon supply
‘The earth-worm's banquet? Yields it no dismay,
‘No creeping of the flesh, to think that these
‘Soon must relax, and all, which once was thou,
‘Sink in the grave's long quiet? Rouse thyself!
‘Let me conduct thee hence! In Alfred trust!
‘Here death must meet thee, there is safety found.’

Guthrum replied, ‘Myself I thought I knew,
‘And my resolves could trust; but, these thy words,
‘Probe deep my heart, and to my view display
‘Thoughts veil'd before. I never yet have fear'd
‘Death in his fiercest garb; but thro' my mind
‘A secret dread now passes: these thy words
‘Have dimm'd my understanding, so unhing'd
‘For calm decision, and I seem to wish
‘Longer to live. But, hear I not a voice!
‘Honour's! His look is stern! his law severe!
‘How shall I soothe him?’ To whom thus the chief:

‘Brave Dane! true honour lies not with the man
‘Who scorns all dangers, and would rather tear
‘His heart asunder, and to savage beasts
‘Cast it, than stoop to that high influence,
‘Which governs all men. Thou hast bravely fought!
‘Now bravely bear! not by thus scorning life
‘With rude and brutal rage, but, by the faith

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‘Thou placest in another, which best shows
‘What might be placed in thee. Alfred, our king,
‘No unforgiven injury e'er hath felt.
‘Trust him, and live! His worth thou knowest not,
‘Nor how he prizes valour such as thine.
‘I bore to thee his signet, that includes
‘A pledge, an oath,—all veritable things!—
‘Firm as earth's pillars! Dane, in me confide!’

‘I trust thee not!’ cried Guthrum. ‘Alfred pardon!
‘Pardon such wrongs as his? Vain thought, away!
‘It cannot be!—I think it cannot be.
‘It cannot be!—Yet the experiment
‘No hard essay.—Where are my senses flown?
‘Thy words and hers, whom blessings ever follow!
‘So scatter and confound my thoughts, that I—
‘Tremble, and fain would live.’—‘What thou hast said
‘Of Alfred's clemency shall now be tried;
‘But if it fail, the penalty? Away!
‘I will attend thee! chieftain, point the way!
‘By the first look of Alfred, I may judge
‘Of these thy words, whether I live or die.
‘Now will I seek the Danish troops, and name
‘Guthrum's design.’

He seeks them. Thus he spake,
‘Danes! here we stand, cut off from aid, and doom'd
‘To perish in this dark and evil hour.
‘Why should the waster death so charm our hearts?
‘So blind our eyes to all that cheers the soul,
‘And animates? If honour we may save,
‘And save our lives, is it not well?—for what—
‘Is there in death that living man should prize,
‘When keeping life with honour? Wessex' king
‘Hath sent yon chieftain hither, to demand
‘Submission, and hath promis'd well and true
‘To grant forgiveness. To my mind it seems

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‘Impossible for one so wrong'd, to seek
‘Aught but our blood; this Saxon tells us nay;
‘And speaks, full confident, that if we stoop,
‘Shorn as we are, to one, our bravest foe!
‘We yet may live.—

‘I will alone repair
‘To yonder camp, and with the Saxon king,
‘Treat for your safety. Vent'rous the design!
‘If I return not with convenient speed
‘Conclude me dead! Then, worthy of your race,
‘Fight manfully; and if you all must die,
‘Die like yourselves!—Guthrum, unterrified
‘Leaves you to make this perilous attempt.’

He said, whilst words of dubious import came
From those around him, not of joy or hope,
But from despair, that still had consciousness
Of its own state, to know it was despair.

The Chieftain now, with Oddune, fearlessly
Pass'd thro' the archway, whilst all mark'd them sad,
Tho' not a voice was heard, nor sound, save one,
The rustling wind, that' mid the turrets play'd;
Making each heart—sick with its hollow moan.

Whilst journeying on, to Guthrum, Oddune thus:
‘Hadst thou not once, good Dane! a daughter, one
‘Known to thy female captive? ‘I had once!’
Answered the Dane. ‘Now pray thee, ask no more,
‘Upon my wrongs, I think. Words suit not me.’—
And now they reach'd the Saxon camp, when thus
Oddune address'd the Dane. ‘I, first, will seek
‘Alfred, then lead thee to his presence near.’

Oddune now sought his monarch's tent, where sat
The King, the Queen, with one, a damsel fair.

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When Alfred cried, ‘Good Oddune, instant say,
‘Where is brave Guthrum? Have thy words prevail'd
To draw him hither?’

Oddune cried, ‘O, king!
‘At a convenient distance, fill'd with doubt,
‘The warrior waits!’ When Alfred rose and spake,
‘Since thou departedst to the neighbouring fort,
‘Within our camp, yon maiden hath arrived,
‘Guthrum's fair daughter. As to meet our force
‘The Danes proceeded, from her safe abode
‘She ventured, by affection urged, to mark
‘How fared her father; hoping, if in battle
‘Her sire should fall, or wounds, or sore mishap
‘Light on him, filial care and tenderness
‘Might soothe his pain, and win him back to life.
‘When, yielding to the valour of our arms,
‘The Danes fled, vanquish'd—Havoc in their train,
‘She, with the routed army 'scaped, nor where—
‘Heeding: her thoughts were wild. Our forces met,
‘And here conducted her. Behold her now,
‘Loved by the queen, whom she so oft has served.’
When turning to Alswitha, thus he spake.

‘Take now thy diadem. Assume the robe
‘Befitting royalty. The same will I.
‘Then let the Danish maiden screen herself.
‘I will assume the monarch;—seem to chide,—
‘Haply to hide remembrance of the hour—
‘When I, a harper, sought the Danish camp.
‘Oddune conceal our thoughts. When thus prepared,
‘Lead Guthrum hither.’—Now the royal pair
Sit in due state; when Oddune left the tent,
And soon return'd, guiding the ancient Dane.

When first he enter'd, Alfred cried, ‘Declare!
‘What think'st thou is the punishment deserved

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‘For crimes like thine?’ These words the chief confirmed
In dreadful expectations. He replied,
‘No punishment! My crime is that alone
‘Of warrior vanquished!’

Alfred cried, ‘Approach!
‘Let me behold thee!’ Guthrum nearer draws:
When Alfred thus: ‘Thy triumph now is o'er!
‘Thy power is flown! yet, wilt thou hence confess
‘Me, thy liege lord?’ ‘Never!’ replied the Dane.
‘Within thine eye I see deep vengeance sit,
‘And wrath that seals my ruin! I am wrong'd.
‘Falsehood and treachery have lured me here!
‘In vain they shake my spirit! Let me die!’
Eager he cried. ‘One blow, and I am past
‘Thy hatred, and my own consuming shame.’

He said, and instant drawing near the king,
Laid bare his breast. When, looking up,—he knew—
The Harper's visage! Sudden dropt his arm!
His cheek from crimson to a deadly white
Turn'd, and he shiver'd. Every tongue was mute,
And every eye fix'd on the wondering Dane.
When Guthrum thus exclaim'd, looking so wild,
That madness seeing him, again might start—
Itself to reason.

‘Certain, now is death!
‘Each moment is new torment! To survive
‘Blasts my last hope!’ Alswitha cried aloud,
‘Guthrum! thou shalt not die!’ (and hastening stood—
Before the trembling Dane.) ‘Thou shalt not die!
‘Brave chieftain! I am grateful; thou art good,
‘And shalt be happy.’ At these words, the Dane—
Look'd up and saw—his Captive! Wilder still
Roll'd his full eyes! Confused conceptions rose
Wildering his soul! When eager thus he spake.
‘Who art thou?’ Gazing at the queen, she thus.

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‘I am thy Captive, whom thou oft hast saved
‘When death drew near, and I will now, my hand—
‘Stretch out for thee! Pardon this Dane, Oh king!
‘A nobler and more estimable man
‘Lives not to share thy favour!’ Alfred heard,
And drawing near the wondering Dane, exclaim'd,
‘Guthrum! accept thy life, and with it, too,
‘Brave man! my gratitude.’ Thou art my friend,
‘And Alfred's choicest gifts shall hence be thine.’
At words and scenes so strange, wild look'd the Dane;
With wistful eye; unknowing, if the things
Were real, or, the baseless fantasies
That float before the mind, at the dim hour
When dreams perplex it. Round the tent again,
He look'd to satisfy his doubting mind:
Then at the king, the queen. When Alfred spake:

‘Chieftain, dismiss thy doubts! No fancied scene
‘Now lies before thee. This the Saxon queen,
‘And I am Alfred! I the Harper am,
‘Whose harp thou savedst in the Danish camp.
‘Nor doubt thy sight! for she whom thou behold'st,
‘Truly thy captive was! whom, but for thee,
‘Hubba had sacrificed, and I been found,
‘A lonely, friendless, miserable man!
‘I know thy character! I know thy heart!
‘And prize thee, but hereafter hope to prize,
‘Doubly, when better known. Behold in me,
‘Thy true and constant friend!’

‘This is too much!
Guthrum exclaim'd. ‘Man's mind was never form'd
‘To bear such conflicts! Didst thou say forgive?
‘Call me thy friend! Say life was mine! Nor yet,
‘I cannot trust my senses! Is it so?’
Alfred replied, ‘Brave Dane! my oath is pass'd.
‘Now, of me, ask some favour! Be it great!

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‘Thou need'st not fear its magnitude! Declare!
‘And I will teach thee what thou hast to hope
‘In after times, by the reply I make.’

Cried Guthrum, with surpassing majesty,
‘This be the favour which alone I ask!—
‘The greatest, and most holily desired!
‘Let me partake thy faith! Let me receive
‘The name of Christian, and embrace, like thee,
‘That true religion, which can dictate thus,
‘And thus perform. Let me renounce,’ He cried,
‘That faith which I too long have gloried in,
‘Which not, like thine, conducts to peace and love,
‘And kindly intercourse, but, wrath and blood,
‘And discord horrible.—To her, thy queen,
‘Who stands beside thee, I this feeling owe;—
‘This renovation, I would humbly hope
‘Of the interior man. Her words, ere this,
‘Have tumult wrought within me;—rais'd my thoughts
‘To things immortal, scenes invisible,
‘Piercing my spirit. At her speech, I felt,
‘Strange to my heart, some kindred sympathies,—
‘Th' approving voice within, but when she spake
‘That christians could forgive the bitterest foe,
‘And love requite for hatred: this, I cried,
‘Can never be! Thine are the sounding words
‘That have no meaning; but, I now have found,
‘Christians can pardon! Thou hast pardon'd me!’

Alfred with rapture answer'd, ‘This is joy,
‘Not of earth's kind, to find a man, like thee,
‘Whom I so honour! by that power Divine
‘Who governs all things, call'd to the true faith,
‘Thro' the remonstrance, pleadings, influence,
‘Of her thy captive, Alfred's peerless queen!’—

‘When Alfred thus, his eye to heaven upraised.

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‘Who now shall question Providence? Who doubt
‘That he who this stupendous fabric rear'd,
‘Still views and governs it:—its course directs—
‘Thro' all its windings, intricate and dark;
‘Perplexing oft!—appearing to weak man
‘Confused and orderless, who sees alone
‘The veriest surface.—Could he look beneath,
‘And heaven, the needful faculty bestow'd,
‘In what to him seem'd complicate and chance,
‘He would behold unvarying harmony!—
‘Perfection infinite in small and great,
‘Worthy the high and Sovereign Arbiter!

Checking the tear, Alswitha answer made.
‘Such is my faith! May we indulge the hope,
‘That Guthrum, who, ere this, true worth possess'd
‘And half the christian's graces now may shine,
‘With cloudless light, honour'd and lov'd of all.
‘One question may I ask thee? Guthrum! say!
‘Where is thy Daughter? Where is she I loved?
‘That noble maiden, who so many hours
‘Comfort imparted, when the world to me
‘Seem'd blank and dead? Now shall this heart display,
‘The gratitude I once could but express.
‘Thou speakest not.’

Guthrum, distracted, cried,
‘Spare me that thought!’ Within his heart there seem'd
Hard conflicts. ‘I am sad!’ he said. ‘A loss
‘Hath fall'n upon me, very hard to bear!’
Adown his iron cheek, the tears fell fast!
At length he said. ‘This weakness—Pardon me!
‘My heart is sever'd from the world and man!’
Deep anguish revels in his throbbing breast.
At length he said, in milder tone, ‘O king!
‘In the past fight—my Daughter fell, and now
‘I am a wretched man! Duteous my child,

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‘As ever father had! a loving child!
‘I could have welcom'd death, ere she had died,
‘My child! my comfort! never more shall I
‘Behold thee, oh my daughter! Thou art gone!
‘I am a poor and desolate old man,
‘Bereaved of all things!’

As he stood and paus'd
Feeling what anguish means! his Daughter springs—
Swift from her hiding-place, and rapturous cries,
‘My father! O, my father!’ On his neck
The damsel hangs, and copious are the tears
That flow around!—More eloquent,
Never was Silence! None dared break the charm!
It was a holy stillness!—where the heart,
Spurn'd the obtruding service of vain words.
Recovering from amaze, that half obscured—
Earth and material things,—as from a dream,
The startled Sire exclaims,—‘Impossible!
‘My daughter? Yes thou art! O, God of heaven!
‘Let me not die!’—He clasps her to his heart!
And gently breathes—‘My daughter, O, my daughter!’

It is a moving sight—to see old age,—
A warrior fierce in strife, by feeling touch'd—
Th' omnipotence of nature! now reduced
To the soft tones of infancy. He spake,
If speech it were, that scarce an utterance found,—
‘This hour compensates for a life of pain!’

After the pause profound. Alfred thus spake.
‘I share your transport! Long may you enjoy
‘The happiness you both so well deserve!
‘Guthrum, my friend! attend, The hour is late.
‘Befits thee now to seek thy castle, near,
‘And to the Danes, declare my purpose; say,
‘For Guthrum's sake, I will forgive all wrongs,

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‘And grant free pardon! Tell them to confide
‘In Wessex' king! And if with thee they choose
‘To own my sway, and live beneath my crown,
‘I will receive them! They with us shall prove
‘One people, whom, to serve and to protect,
‘Shall be my fervent wish, my constant care.
‘Tell them, the fleet, that to these shores convey'd
‘Ivar their chief, and all his followers' wives,
‘Not wholly is consumed: the women live,
‘Unharm'd, with all their tribe of innocents,
‘By me protected! If they here remain,
‘Soon shall they meet, and form one family
‘With us their friends. But if they rather seek,
‘Denmark, with lingering love, safe shall they go!
‘But there is one thing more of which to speak,
‘Return thou for the night with this thy child!
‘Be here to-morrow! Thou hast yet to share
‘A holy rite, Baptism; known of all
‘Who truly form Christ's kingdom militant.’
Guthrum replied, ‘Most earnestly I seek
‘This proof of my conviction and full faith
‘In Christ my Saviour! On the coming morn,
‘Thou shalt behold me here!' This said, the Dane
Straight, with his daughter, left the Saxon tent.

To Oddune thus, Alfred his words address'd:
‘Chieftain I prize thee, and would fain behold
‘All happiness attend thee, but, what joy
‘Can solitude afford? Society,
‘The smiles of her we love, th' endearing wife,
‘The hopeful offspring, and the converse sweet—
‘Affection mutual, pure where interests blend—
‘These give a zest to all things here below;
‘Earth's costliest blessings! E'en the very cares,
‘That sometimes the connubial prospect cloud,
‘Stir up the choicest feelings of man's heart,

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‘And have their balm within them. May I say,
‘If beauty can attract, affection charm,
‘Or constancy delight thee—gallant chief,
‘Think of yon damsel!’ Oddune thus replied.

‘Monarch! my heart is loyalty and praise.
‘Guthrum's fair daughter, who shall not admire?
‘Her charms I own, her virtues I confess,
‘But, never must I strive, by word, or deed,
‘To win the damsel's love. Her I respect,
‘But, more I cannot. To another maid,
‘My vows are plighted; and I trust ere long,
‘Now peace her olive wand o'er Britain waves,
‘To taste domestic joys, and emulate
‘The virtues of my great and noble king.’

Alswitha cried, ‘Brave man! Thou hast a soul
‘Which all should rev'rence, all should imitate.
‘The flower of British youth for her shall strive,
‘Yet never one more noble than thyself.
‘Oddune, I like thy frank and manly speech!
‘There is a race, worthless, and lost to shame,
‘Who rove from fair to fair, all maids alike,
‘Deck'd with officious smiles and courtesy,
‘Boasting of conquests. On their tongues are found
‘Maxims of worth and true humanity;
‘And they can loudly talk of right, and wrong,
‘Of honour, and injustice, and true love,
‘Repeated oft with meanings light as air.
‘Such of eternal constancy will vow,
‘Or, at reserved affection humbly glance,
‘Or, less presuming, tho' of equal force,
‘Speak only with the language of the eye:
‘And thus, with low and base hypocrisy,
‘Winding false way to woman's gentle heart.
‘These shadows of true men, might dread the thought

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‘To tarnish female honour, but would smile
‘To murder female peace, and, unconcern'd,
‘Nay, with self-compliments, and secret pride,
‘See grief corrode the cheek of innocence,
‘Behold the wreck of that maid's happiness,
‘Whose only fault was unrequited love.
‘Such is not Oddune! Thou a soldier art
‘In name and spirit. May thy sex, like thee,
‘Protect, not wound, the fond and guildless hearts
‘Of Albion's matchless daughters.’

Oddune bow'd,
Graceful, to earth, and from the tent retired.

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BOOK XXIII.

ARGUMENT.

The Vision of the Guardian Angel.

WHILST, on his couch, Alfred, at midnight, slept,
He saw, or thought he saw, a Spirit, tall,
And of majestic port. His eye was mild,
Yet one fix'd look he had, as though he stood,
Immoveable, from ages infinite,
That came not, but appear'd. Like some huge crag,
Fix'd on its granite base, whose towering head
The wintry frosts have bleachen, and the storms,
Wrathful assail'd; yet still it looks the same;
Through time, in all its revolutions, bears—
The same eternal aspect, white, and still.

The monarch trembled, as distinct he view'd
Th' unearthly form, whose raiment shone with rays
Effulgent, self-created, diamond-like,
Making the darkness day, and o'er the tent
Casting celestial splendors. Alfred, long,
Endured the terror expectation brings;
When in a low and solemn tone he cried,

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‘Spirit! what seek'st thou?’ ‘Till the sound had ceased
And each vibration ended, that might check
Communion, immaterial, all was still;
When, thus the Spirit answer'd:

‘I am one
‘Of the innumerable host, who throng
‘This lower world; communicants of good.
‘I am thy Guardian Angel! From the hour
‘This world received thee, I have been thy friend,
‘And ever near, commissioned by high Heaven
‘To screen thee from the powers that roam abroad,
‘Hostile to human kind. Me, God hath sent
‘To tell thee of his wondrous ways, and name
‘Immortal truths, such as shall cheer thy mind,
‘Hereafter, in the great and trying scenes
‘That lie before thee; for, prosperity,
‘Tho' all desire to have, few well may bear.
‘Thy reign shall shine amid the kings of earth,
‘Exemplar fair: whilst all will follow thee
‘Who seek their subjects' good, and hope to dwell
‘Objects of their affection, while they live,
‘Or to secure their blessing when they die:—
‘Mem'ry embalmed. How few of Regal Name,
‘Thus prominent in glory!

‘I am sent
‘Thee to instruct, in truths, needful to know
‘In thy high station, yet, if thou require
‘Knowledge of other sort, I may declare,
‘Tho' brief, for thou hast in Jehovah's sight
‘Found favour, and his smiles are thy reward.—
‘While men, as Pilgrims, passing on thro' Time,
‘And, fluttering far and wide, busied with cares,
‘The heart consuming, listening to the voice
‘Of many tempters, loud, importunate,
‘All is a dream! The man who riches seeks,
‘Toiling both night and morn, with earnest brow,

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‘Counting his gains, and on his future joys
‘Dwelling enraptured, little knows who next
‘His wealth may share. He little knows, how near
‘That foe may be which blasts the rich man's all!
‘And whosoe'er pursues, idolatrous,
‘Fantastic Pleasure, pierces his heart thro',
‘And only dreams. So he who covets Fame,
‘The tinkling sound that on the breeze is heard,
‘Then dies away;—shapes insubstantial forms
‘In tissue gay, and sighs to find at last,—
‘Shadows unreal.—Wisdom knew them such.

‘Men own that they are mortal, and must die.
‘Some talk of an hereafter; of a world—
‘Eternal,—waiting for Earth's teeming tribes.
‘(Truths mighty, and which cast a littleness
‘O'er all the passing scenes of time and sense!)
‘But is not this deceptive? Can the men,
‘Impress'd with prospects of such magnitude,
‘Withhold all evidence of heart,—of life?
‘Actions speak louder than the loudest words!
‘They may profess, but conduct gives the lie.

‘If they believed in death, that soon the shroud
‘Would wrap them round, the turf would cover them,
‘Truths so momentous! could they stand unmoved?—
‘From all their thoughts exclude them?—e'en appear,
‘Thro' the whole tenor of their words and ways
‘As tho' they thought their lives would never end?
‘If in their inmost spirit they believed
‘In an enduring state that lies before,—
‘Their spirits soon to enter, could they still,
‘Possessing man's reflective faculties,
‘Disport themselves, with maniac heedlessness,
‘Upon a verge so awful?—Falsehood,—hence!
‘Whate'er they say, they must, they do believe

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‘This life the whole of man!—his intellects—
‘So towering and ethereal!—spark of heaven!
‘Matter alone, and endless sleep his doom!
‘Comporting with such faith,—all harmony!
‘They revel, feed their pamper'd appetite,
‘Plunge into all the world's wide vanities,
‘And hold, at nought, the smiles, the frowns of God!
‘How vain are words, when deeds dishonour them!
‘Say are not men, sunk in profoundest dreams?

‘But others look censorious on the crowd,
‘Victims of folly! and, with earnestness,
‘Contend for an Hereafter;—freely chide
‘The thoughtless, senseless minds, that question it.
‘These own, that when at length life wears away,
‘After their four-score years, or more,—a state—
‘No sport of fancy, but in verity,
‘Waits to receive them, which, to this, they hope
‘Will bear resemblance,—like as like may be!—
‘For they have wealth, indulgence, luxury;
‘What joys, or higher heaven, can heart desire!—
‘Such hearts as theirs, fetter'd, absorbed by Time.

‘Tell thou such earthworms, grasping sordid dust,
‘There is another world—of Peace and Love,
‘Of Light, and Purity, but not for them—
‘Unbought, unsanctified!—Heaven is a place
‘Prepared for righteousness,—the pure in heart;
‘For those alone, who follow, prize, confess—
‘Their Saviour,—sum and source of all their joy!
‘Ask them, when rent asunder from their god,—
‘Their idol, gold, what refuge will be theirs?
‘The now receding, and the future dark!

‘Tell them, if they would Mammon, from a curse,
hange to a blessing, with the liberal hand,

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‘(While owning Him from whom their power proceeds)
‘To scatter, what erelong will scatter'd be!—
‘(Earlier, perchance, by adverse circumstance!)
‘To aid each righteous cause that languishes;—
‘Form'd to allay the pangs of suffering man,
‘To succour worth, the sorrowing heart to cheer,
‘Reclaim the bad, instruct the ignorant,
‘Or, the glad tidings, special boon of Heaven!
‘To bear to shores, far distant;—richer freight
‘Than gems, and all earth's perishable toys.
‘Tell them the day has waned, the eve is near!
‘That if they seek a treasure in the skies,
‘They must be up and doing, and become,
‘While yet they may, their own sweet almoners;
‘Leaving not honours, so refined and great
‘To others, or till they relax their hold,
‘And can no longer guard—what most they prize!
‘When the last turbid dregs of life arrive,
‘Then, haply touch'd by generous sympathy,
‘They may, to waken praise, or purchase Heaven!
‘Bestow, at death, what living they denied.—
‘The present is the only theatre
‘Where men may act the part magnanimous,—
‘Secure both worlds:—here by obeying God,—
‘Whose smiles diffuse a sunshine o'er the breast!
‘Then, looking on, thro' goodness infinite
‘(Still trusting in the sinner's Advocate)
‘To pleasures, passing thought, mid realms on high!—
‘All from their dreams awake. If in this world,
‘Happy, thrice happy they!—

‘Yet one there is,
‘Wandering awhile below, who does not dream,—
‘The christian! He, amid a dreaming world,
‘With eye, wide open, darts his filmless gaze
‘Thro' nature, and beholds his Father's hand.
‘Unmoved by all the turmoils of the world,

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‘He trusts the guide unseen, and with a joy
‘Wealth cannot buy, looks forward to the place
‘Where sighs and tears are banish'd,—to the day
‘When, with the ransom'd, he will lift his voice,
‘And share the rest, the bliss, which, evermore,
‘God has prepared—for his true worshippers!

‘With wonder raise thy thoughts. Of the vast whole,—
‘This universe, and all created things,
‘Man glimpses but an atom. Higher still,—
‘The confines, e'en by seraphs unexplored!
‘We cannot trace the governance of God—
‘On the vast scale, where angels' thoughts are lost!
‘What then can mortals know? The sagest minds
‘Thro' the tempestuous vestibule of time,
‘See things confused. The plan, the symmetry
‘Which marks th' Eternal's works, or great, or small,
‘Pertaining to earth's complicated scenes,
‘A rayless night conceals, and such to be,
‘Till borne beyond the grave, when all will prove,—
‘(All which concerns his rugged path thro' life,)
‘Light, love, and harmony. The doubtful points
‘In man's existence, that once pierced his mind,
‘And made him sorrowful, will then appear
‘No sport of chance, but order'd by that Power,
‘Supreme in knowledge, as beneficence.
‘Tho', from thy darkness, thou may'st often mourn
‘Evils thou canst not cure, and see events
‘Prove adverse to thy wishes, evermore
‘Trust in unerring wisdom. Look above!
‘And, as befitteth mortal, patiently,
‘Endure in silence; faith thy anchor-hold.

‘Tho' strange to thee, and inconceivable.—
‘The earthly mind surpassing,—lost to him
‘Seduced, enslaved, by things of time and sense,

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‘Between the realm of spirits, and thine own
‘A thin translucent veil, alone, prevails,
‘Which sometimes the Eternal draws aside,
‘Opening the splendors of the unseen world:
‘For at his bidding, an unearthly blaze,—
‘A beam—insufferable o'er the sight
‘Pours its effulgence;—as when Stephen saw
‘Christ by his Father's side! Or when the Son,
‘On Tabor's mount, unveil'd his native glory!
‘Whilst his three followers, awe-struck, fell to earth!
‘Or when the fierce, and slaughter-breathing Saul,
‘Near to Damascus, falling, heard aghast,
‘A voice, well known!—'mid light ineffable—
‘Supernal, sun-surpassing! which transformed,
‘By the same power that gave creation birth,
‘The lion to the meekness of the lamb!

‘Or when, in elder times, the hallow'd seer—
‘Elisha, in the city where he dwelt,
‘Felt calm, while hostile armies gather'd round,
‘And one, by terror smitten, told his fears:—
‘Knowing that more were for him than against,
‘The prophet pray'd, when, lo! the trembling spirit,
‘He who had quail'd at death's stern harbingers,
‘Renounced his fears. He saw celestial hosts,—
‘Chariots of fire, and horses,—compassing
‘Him, who communion held with God Most High!
‘So, till the last loud trump shall sound, all men—
‘Trusting in Heaven, while sojourning below,
‘Shall stand secure, encompass'd not by shields
‘Of earthly temp'rament, but by the Power,
‘Whose arms are a pavilion round about.

‘Joy to the heart, in a perennial stream,
‘Faith brings, sustain'd by confidence in Him
‘Who sees, and governs all things. This the pearl

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‘Of worth transcendent, holiness to prize,
‘All evil loathe, as the accursed thing,
‘Which grieves and drives the Spirit from the breast.
‘'Mid all thy cares, perplexities, and woes,
‘Trust in a God of goodness. Canst thou doubt
‘His care of mortals, for their temporal things,—
‘The fleeting, when such stores his love has made
‘For their eternal interests?—shown so clear,
‘By the benign bestowment of his Son!
‘To teach, and death endure, that man might live!

‘This is the Christian's solace—his strong tower.
‘'Mid all things fading, here, Stability
‘Stamps his firm tread!—While thrones and monuments,
‘Temples, and gorgeous domes, and pinnacles,—
‘Piercing the heavens, Time, with his withering hand,
‘Lays low, and their memorial blots from earth,
‘The christian, on his still-enduring rock,
‘Stands, undismay'd.—His spirit fears no change.
‘Mutation, bane of all things here below,
‘Extends not to the realms where he is bound,
‘Nor to the joys that wait him!—the delights,
‘Surpassing eye and ear, and which the mind
‘Vainly essays to reach, or circumscribe.
‘Secure in his eternal heritage,—
‘His home, long sought, his mansion, out of sight,
‘He, 'mid a jarring, dark, tempestuous world,
‘Calm, and unmoved, walks full of light and peace.

‘Not in th' Eternal's all-pervading eye
‘Is the same deed by different men perform'd:
‘Motives and principles to him appear,
‘Clear, tho' conceal'd from human scrutiny;
‘And some who claim high titles,—lofty names
‘From erring mortals,—lighter than the air,
‘Oft-times, to him appear, whose searching eye

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‘Pierces the deepest shade. He oft beholds
‘Amid the actions, raising loud acclaim—
‘The purpose dark!—Externals live for praise;
‘The heart is Heaven's own province, and the man,
‘Who, when no eye surveys, communion holds—
‘Most with his Maker;—tho' a thoughtless world,
‘Haply may frown, from his less prominence
‘In blazing zeal, the nearest stands allied
‘To joys celestial, and the smiles of Heaven.
‘Suspect the ostentatious, and the vain.
‘True piety retires, and covets not
‘Notice or plaudit;—holding light, man's praise
‘Emblem of frailty, crush'd before the moth.
‘The lofty look, the proud preeminence,—
‘The altitude which Mammon gives her sons,—
‘All is the spirit from beneath! Erelong,
‘Persons, and things in other light will stand.
‘Then, on thine entrance into realms of bliss,
‘Some wilt thou meet, who, in the lower world,
‘Were deem'd by thee, the doubtful, kindling fears;
‘Now clothed in spotless robe, and in their hand
‘Waving the palm-branch; whilst in yonder group,—
‘Retiring from the presence of their Lord
‘Some will be found, dismantled of their guise,—
‘Who sought all praise, but that which Heaven bestows!
‘It may perplex thy mind, yet, know assured,
‘All men are better than they seem, or worse;
‘From this learn charity. Judgment is God's alone!
‘Censorious words restrain. Th' anathema
‘Man ill becometh, or the scornful tongue
‘That to a weaker brother would declare,
‘While lifting the high look, ‘Approach me not!
‘I am the holy, thou—the cast-away!’
‘Whate'er thou lose, an entrance strive to gain—
‘At the straight gate, and for an evil world
‘Feel, and in pity, lift th' imploring eye:

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‘For, to desire another's benefit,
‘Tho' that desire be vain, brings on the heart,
‘O'erflowing with celestial charity,
‘A rich return. Indulge th' ecstatic hope,
‘The fervent prayer,—that God would hasten on
‘Time's tardy course, when this terrene shall hail,
‘(No more to set) the Sun of righteousness,
‘Driving the clouds before his chariot wheels,
‘One chorus issuing from earth's thousand tribes.
‘Then will the eternal consummation rise,
‘Rending with shouts, and concords jubilant,
‘Heaven's adamantine gates, and starry thrones.

‘Flee thou the monster pride, he whelms the breast
‘In storm and tempest; driving peace afar;
‘The blessing which the wise man values most.
‘Humility! fairest of mortal garbs!
‘And beautiful as morning! hold it dear!
‘It is a heavenly ornament! Be thou
‘Gentle of spirit, ready to be taught,
‘Seeing thy frailty: so shalt thou receive
‘Knowledge to cheer thee, wisdom to direct,
‘And to th' exactest point of benefit,
‘Whate'er high Heaven sees needful.

‘Ever know,
‘Man's mind, the full effulgence of all light
‘May not endure; therefore, be still, nor strive
‘To lift the veil, God hath seen fit to cast
‘O'er many things, and in profoundest shades
‘Hidden from mortal sight. One thing is clear!
‘God is all wise, all good.

‘Believing this,
‘Dive not in that unfathomable gulf,
‘Conjecture vague, but with the little light,
‘Certain, thou hast, rest satisfied; for more,
‘Seeking to know, will but with pangs torment,

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‘And, in the end, make thee forget what is,
‘To guess what may be. Soon the time will come,
‘(A point between!) when each mysterious thing
‘Shall be made clear, and to th' assembled worlds
‘God's ways to man be justified, and all
‘Cry, ‘Holy, Holy, Lord of heaven and earth!’

‘Thou hast endured, 'till now, a load of cares,
‘Such as have wrung thy heart, and in the hour
‘When faithless doubts prevail'd, made thee suspect
‘That, 'mid this world, thou wast ordain'd to roam
‘A friendless, drooping, solitary man,
‘Uncertain whence, and whither bound, unknown;
‘A blank in the creation; born to mourn.
‘Henceforth, when sorrows wring thy heart, believe—
‘They spring alone from that benignant power,
‘Who seeks by every trial, one effect,
‘His creatures' benefit—to raise their hearts
‘From sin to purity, from earth to heaven.
‘How different man's from the Almighty's view!
‘God often sees prosperity, or pride,
‘Or unbelief, or that disastrous foe—
‘Indiff'rence, offspring of iniquity!
‘Those whom he loves o'ertake, and lest the flood
‘Should drown their spirits, bear them far away
‘From holiness, and healing sympathies,
‘Angels, like me, become His ministers,
‘And deal some harsh, yet needful antidote
‘To call them to reflection, to arrest
‘Their wandering spirits, verging fast on sloth,—
‘That dark'ning, dead'ning, torpor of the soul!
‘Haply, some friend, or idol, loved too well!
‘Sent to the grave, untimely; or disease,—
‘The couch of pain and languor, when Life's glare,
‘Receding, shows the emptiness of Time,
‘With the supreme importance of a hope

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‘Stretching beyond these shadows; or perchance,
‘To rouse them from their fatal lethargy,
‘Anguish of spirit, or the dread decree
‘Which strips them of the baser dross of earth
‘To give them an eternal heritage.

‘Yet for thy comfort, more may I declare.
‘Such are the joys of the eternal state
‘Which wait the righteous, that one transient glance,
‘One faint perception of its weight of glory,
‘Might, from its base, the mind, hurl, and unfit
‘For mortal exercise. Men here below,
‘Endued with the celestial antepast,
‘Would feel such hopes, such longings to depart,
‘And mix with the extatic choir, who shout—
‘Praises to God, forming one concourse grand
‘Of all the righteous,—Patriarchs, and Saints,—
‘Prophets, Apostles, Martyrs,—holy men
‘The lights of every age, the salt of earth,
‘The sons of God, redeemed and sanctified,
‘That all the little round of mortal things
‘Needful to life, and fitting them as men,
‘Would fade away, nor longer interest those
‘So soon to leave them, and participate
‘In scenes celestial; therefore wisely veil'd!
‘Save, when the dying man, the Christian, looks
‘Beyond this lower world, glimpsing the joys,
‘The unfading crown that waits him, and the cloud,
‘Bearing Archangels, from whose giddy height
‘They look, with open arms, and beckoning cry,
‘Approach, bless'd spirit! He may half conceive
‘Heaven's weight of glory! Oft the good man's speech,
‘When on the verge of the eternal world,
‘May wild, and wandering seem, to us around
‘Attendant angels, other thoughts arise!
‘We hear the broken word, the silent prayer;

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‘We mark the look of agonizing joy,
‘When the first beam of immaterial light
‘Darts through the mind, and o'er the countenance
‘Diffuses heavenly radiance.

‘Wondering hear.
‘After thy peace with God, thro' faith in Christ,
‘(Stretch'd on thy dying bed, when earth recedes,
‘Its loftiest objects less than vanity!)
‘This truth may solace thee:—th' entrancing hope
‘Of meeting first, in the eternal state,
‘Those whom thou lov'dst below. Rejoicing learn.
‘The child, the parent, wife, the partner dear,
‘The friend,—found in adversity the same,
‘If subjects of Messiah's kingdom, crowd
‘Around the dying pilgrim, when his breath—
‘Labours, till all is still,—to bid him hail!
‘To greet his sight with all he loved below!
‘To welcome him to scenes ineffable!
‘To gratulate,—that the dark realms of Time,—
‘Regions of sin and sorrow, ever more
‘Have pass'd away, and an eternity
‘Before him opens, casting into shade—
‘The brightest thoughts, conceptions, hopes of man.

‘That greeting over, in the blissful world
‘Whereto thou hastest, filled with unknown forms,
‘Once inconceivable, long will the eye,
‘Cleans'd from earth's prejudice, behold around
‘Innumerable things, all wonderful!
‘Yet, like the scar'd bird hovering round its nest,
‘It will delight to view its former state,
‘Dwelling on faded scenes. Whilst gifted thus
‘To view once more the round of human things
‘So lately left, nor alien yet become,
‘This will arouse his chief astonishment,
‘Waking, almost, a passing pang in heaven,—

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‘That men so frail, the creatures of a day,
‘Should view, insensible, a world so fill'd
‘With speaking monitors, so aptly formed,
‘So wisely govern'd, so o'erspread with signs
‘Of goodness and intelligence;—yet once
‘Have follow'd the vain forms that cross'd their path,
‘The shadows of a moment! unconcern'd
‘At that advancing and imperious hour,
‘When Death, in terrors dress'd, shall claim his prey!—
‘When the sick eye turns inward to find out
‘Some joyous recollections, faith, and hope!—
‘The grand preparatives for that dread hour
‘When the loud trump shall sound, and man arise
‘To immortality!

‘If minds could doubt
‘Where all is certainty, men might suspect
‘That ever they on mortal ground had trod,
‘And heard so clear the voice of conscience, seen
‘Such proofs of an hereafter, yet remained
‘So callous to the certainty, which stood,
‘Like the fair star of eve in heaven's blue vault,
‘When all is dim beside.

‘Angels, like me,
‘Feel pity for a world involved in sin,
‘But pity most we feel, when we behold
‘Immortal souls, just issuing into life,
‘And ignorant of all things, when we see
‘These babes in knowledge, with presumptuous breath
‘Arraign the Deity! with critic eye
‘Scan all his ways, here of improvements speak,
‘There, charge with folly. Insects of an hour!
‘Before, thus impious, Heaven's Eternal King
‘You venture to instruct, say, who you are!
‘Show your credentials! In minuter things
‘Display your power!—add fragrance to the rose,
‘Or give new splendors to the setting sun.

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‘That untamed spirit, Pride, which peopled first
‘Hell's dark abodes, and made Omnipotence
‘With thunders shake Heaven's everlasting thrones,
‘Now strays on earth, urged by whose counsels, man
‘Looks higher than his Maker, and would fain
‘Direct, not follow, govern, not obey.

‘Before my mission ceases, I must name
‘Duties severe, which to all men belong,
‘But most, a king. Mark, and hereafter live!

‘Thou art established on thy throne. Thy foes
‘Now sleep in death, and thou, prosperity
‘Long shalt enjoy, (if that can be call'd long
‘Whose utmost reign resembles the fleet cloud.)
‘Blessing and bless'd. If thou be faithful found;
‘If thou preserve thy heart from life's low stains,
‘And look to God, he never will forsake—
‘Thee nor thy house. Yet, ever bear in mind,
‘Faith, (like the bud that to maturity
‘Fails to arrive) in the Almighty's sight,
‘No value holds. But the immortal incense
‘That mounts on high, and with its fragrancy
‘Fills the seraphic mansions, springs from love,
‘From faith, in sight extinguish'd, scattering far
‘Celestial fruit, which angels smile to see,
‘Spreading o'er heaven, a sudden light, which gives
‘New lustre to their pinions, as they wave,
‘Waking harmonious airs.

‘Look thou to God,
‘And ever prize 'bove all created good—
‘Jesus thy Saviour! thy Redeemer, Christ!
‘The pledge of hope! the anchor of the soul!
‘The bright and morning star! whose tranquil beam
‘Shall light thee safe, through the dark vale of death;

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‘Thy only solace. He hath been the joy
‘Of thousands and ten thousand times ten thousand,
‘Who now have spread their palms and learn'd to sing
‘Hosannas in the highest; and he, still,
‘Will cheer each heir of glory, till the hour
‘When time shall be no more. Men little think,
‘The best, the wisest, the least bound to earth,
‘What countless and eternal benefits
‘From Him proceed, what blessings for his sake
‘God hath prepared, and what felicities
‘Await his true disciples: men who lived
‘Not for themselves: who, a benignant glance
‘Cast all around them; striving with what power
‘Heaven had conferr'd, how best to moderate
‘The pungency of suffering, and the minds
‘Of thoughtless mortals raise from earth to Heaven.

‘In the pursuit of good, they oft are pain'd
‘By men's ingratitude.—He who does good,—
‘Must do it for itself. The noblest deed
‘Is tarnish'd by an eye to human praise.
‘The loud complainants, who?—Is it their aim—
‘Their purpose?—their great end?—their moving cause?—
‘Man's praise to gain?—The pure in heart (tho' sweet
‘Some sense of obligation—kindness shown)
‘Meekly will say—when robbed of their desert,—
‘The evil thine. I look beyond, above.
‘I trust by these poor services,—to gain
‘My Maker's smile.—I do it, Lord, to thee!’

‘The true disciples faint not, at the ills
‘That follow man as shadows, when required
‘Burdens to bear, by wisdom infinite.
‘Like their great Master, they the weight endure
‘And drink affliction's cup, and walk thro' earth
‘Like pilgrims, to a better country bound,

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‘Tho' briefly doomed, while in their non-age here,
‘To stray thro' thorns, and bear the buffettings
‘Of sin and satan: yet, the strife will cease!
‘The journey shortly end! The race be o'er!
‘The crown be won!

‘With lasting gratitude
‘Let thy breast glow, for that direction true,
‘'Mid a dark world, the Book of God! When joy—
‘In vortex-like o'erwhelms thy dizzy mind,
‘Makes every sound harmonious, every form
‘Appear in vernal beauties; lest the draught
‘Intoxicate, and hurry on thy feet
‘To join the evil throng, who share the gift
‘Unmindful of the Giver; turn thine eye
‘To that assemblage of divinest things,
‘Wisdom and righteousness: there mark the end
‘Of those, who, in prosperity, forgot
‘The God that made them, and whose bounteous hand
‘Sent them their every blessing. And when grief
‘Presses thy spirit to the earth, still fly
‘To the same fountain of all knowledge good!
‘Its words shall soothe thy cares, remove thy doubts,
‘Allay thy sorrows, level make thy path,
‘Cheerful thy life, thy death serene, thine end
‘Eternal glory! There shalt thou behold
‘In all dilemmas the right road to take:
‘In every state, what duties rise, what deeds
‘Secure th' applauding look of Heaven, what course
‘The weary and way-faring man may tread:
‘This ever prize! So will thy mind delight
‘To seek thy people's benefit, and strive
‘To do all good; thy law be equity;
‘And while thou guid'st the sceptre, wear'st the crown,
‘Thou wilt behold, unmoved, each gaudy scene
‘Of pomp and splendour, and this truth remain,
‘Stamp'd on thy heart—that life a shadow is,

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‘A passing show, a meteor, seen awhile
‘In dazzling hues, but, fleeting as the light
‘That from the dancing wave, at summer eve,
‘Reflects the sun, slow sinking in the west.

‘But there are those who venture to reject—
‘This only light that ever earth received;
‘The lamp, which God, in mercy to mankind,
‘Sent to direct their feet, to glad their hearts,
‘To warn them of an everlasting state.
‘With lofty spirit such may feign to spurn
‘The pearl above all price, may laugh in health,
‘May triumph in prosperity, may lean
‘Upon perverted reason, and strive hard
‘To think themselves secure; but they will find
‘A reed their staff, for soon the time shall come,
‘Advancing rapid, when their confidence,
‘Deemed durable as earth, will fail, their hearts
‘Sink with dismay, and Death, in terrors dress'd,
‘Beckon with awful aspect, while their sins,
‘In dread procession, move before their eyes,
‘Unpardon'd, at that hour—when the whole earth
‘Would be exchanged for hope. In vain for such
‘The broad and sapphire gates of heaven were spread;
‘They all refused to enter, they adored
‘Mammon, and this vain world; tho' light had cast
‘A radiance all around, they prized it not!—
‘Their deeds were evil, and their hearts subdued,
‘And prostrated to earth!

Prepare thine ear
‘For revelations of th' unfolding time.
‘His Mind and Will the Highest has revealed,
‘One volume bears the treasure; leading straight
‘To Peace and Happiness, yet sorrowing, learn,
‘Man, prone to error, in ten thousand ways
‘Diverges from the Truth. This Book alone,

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‘Instructs, alike, the mighty and the mean,—
‘Age, youth; the towering intellect, with him
‘Whose knowledge—just descrys the way to heaven.
‘Its words are lucid, yet, tho' manifest,
‘Some wander, steep'd in pride, whose hearts revolt
‘From shackles, tho' imposed by Love Divine.
‘Such add, or else diminish, what should be—
‘Sacred, inviolate; the standard, fixed
‘For faith and practice, that admits no change
‘Which whelms not in confusion, doubt, and death.

‘The distant age before my vision spreads!
‘Men will arise, once rescued from the gloom
‘Of grov'ling Superstition; ransom'd once
‘From bondage, now returning to their chains!—
‘In love with midnight!—Ingrates! these regard
‘The Glorious Spirits, who, to make them free,
‘So oft their lives resign'd;—(blessings and great
‘Attend them! Heroes in the noblest cause;)
‘Yet, who th' emancipating wand uprais'd,
‘Now are renounced,—forsaken of their friends!—
‘Stray sheep, and wand'ring in the wilderness!
‘The Highest bring them to his fold again!

‘Far off I see the light of heaven obscured!
‘The grand, the pure, the simple truths of God,
‘Pour'd on selected minds, by Him, whose words,
‘Life were, and Spirit, yet, thro' wills perverse,
‘(By process slow) perverted, till, at length,
‘Deep darkness gathers! Truth retires to rocks,
‘And lonely vallies, whilst the Powers that be,—
‘Teachers profess'd of heavenly sanctities,
‘Now raised to grandeur and supremacy,
‘In sacerdotal pride and priestly pomp,
‘Wage war on Truth, and with infuriate wrath
‘Hunt it, and all who hold it, whilst the blood

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‘Of holiest men, the children of the sky,
‘Flows copious, martyrs in their Saviour's cause.

‘In dim perspective, visions still arise!
‘I see the marshall'd bands for war prepare;
‘Fire in their eye, and venom in their heart!
‘They march to meet the foe. Behold them there,
‘Ranging the hill-top. Now, from clift to clift,
‘Coursing the enemy, and, when beheld,
‘Quickening their speed; alike, thro' young or old,
‘With no recoil, plunging the blood-red spear.
‘There fly the mothers, grasping in their arms
‘Their infants, whilst their children speed behind,
‘The fathers urging them!—while men pursue,
‘(More fitly demons named) who, pitiless,
‘Slay all, insatiate, glorying in the deed.

‘Say, what the crime, that mortal man can urge
‘To hunt, like beasts of prey, his fellow man,
‘Not sparing, in his fury, age, or sex?
‘Are those distracted fugitives, pursued,
‘With zeal so fierce, from cave to precipice,
‘From flow'ry vale, to ice-piled regions wild,
‘Outlaws, denounced of justice, pests abhorr'd,
‘Wasters, and plund'rers, spirits flesh'd in strife,
‘And plotting murders? charging earth with crime,
‘That they should live? These simple mountaineers,
‘Known for the bland amenities of life;
‘Inflicting wrong on none, and kind to all;—
‘Those mothers, (with their babes) their husbands like,
‘Valiant for truth, and yielding all for Christ,
‘Slaughter to 'scape, are rushing from their homes,
‘Pursued with hideous yells! their wounded limbs
‘Purpling the driven snow.—So late, who saw—
‘In contemplation, calm, or with their hearts,
‘Warm'd into praise, beholding on all sides,

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‘Nature's magnificence!—the ice-piled rock,
‘The rifted crag, the roaring cataract,
‘The misty mountain, and the ravine dark,—
‘Awing the spirit!—pointing to that power,
‘In his exuberance of majesty,
‘Who form'd the whole! Arrested in their prayers;
‘E'en while to Heaven their adorations rise,
‘They hear the hostile shout! They glimpse the foe!
‘And, life to save, haste on, unknowing where,
‘Hard follow'd by avengers!—What the cause?
‘Again the enquiring spirit anxious asks,
‘That can assail these peaceful villagers
‘Loving their home, and wishing well to all?
‘I hear a tonsured advocate reply;
‘They are a sect proscribed, whose very breath
‘Poisons the air, and whom t' exterminate,
‘Blessing confers on earth, and Heaven secures.
‘They all are heretics! In arrogance,
‘They dare to question men infallible!
‘E'en God's Vicegerent, in their eyes, receives
‘No rank divine, or deferential dread;
‘Whilst, as the consummation of all wrong,
‘The thunders of the Vatican they slight,
‘Nor yield obedience to the Bulls of Rome!
‘What punishment too great for crimes like these?’

‘Illustrious sufferers! you, from haughty Priests,
‘The threat'ning summons heard, but all was vain:
‘War's desolations shake not your resolves.
‘Intent alone to gain the path of life,
‘Like ancestors revered, you worship God
‘As conscience dictates: read the sacred page;
‘Practise its precepts; trust its promises;
‘And prize the Saviour!—but, stupendous wrong!
‘You love not Priests, sable, or white, or grey;
‘Priests, as of yore, like whited sepulchres,

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‘Fair to behold, but all from sight conceal'd—
‘Revolting!—The Inspector, God alone!
‘Intolerant Church! Founded in artifice!—
‘What crowds of murder'd spirits thee accuse!
‘Cheating the world with ceremonious forms!
‘By blood cemented, and on falsehood rear'd!—
‘Myriads will hail the moment of thy fall!

‘The men who thus from Rome's intol'rance flee,—
‘Regardless where, so they might peace obtain;
‘At length asylum find, in loneliest spot,
‘'Mid desolation wild, where busy man
‘Never had rested. Here their morsel coarse,
‘(A luxury from hunger) they partake,
‘And feel that freedom, compensation makes,
‘Amply, for all their hardships. Here their cots
‘Successive rise, with stunted shrubs around;
‘Their gardens,—spots of green beside the hills,
‘Cheering their heart,—such as they call'd their own.
‘An envied lot! wants few, and well supplied;
‘Contentment their companion, Joy their guest,
‘Roaming at will—o'er their domain of rocks
‘Controll'd of none. Their thriving herds of goats
‘Now rise around,—companions of their toil,
‘Picking their scanty herbage where they may,—
‘High on the mountain peak precipitous,
‘Or, 'mid the clouds, scarce seen by man below;
‘Or, in the glen profound, accessible
‘Only to feet like theirs.—While seasons roll,
‘Their happiness increases. With delight,
‘Alike thro' all their tribes, the young, the old,
‘Regardful of the bounteous Hand unseen
‘Chant praises to their Maker, night and morn,
‘Contented, envying not the rich or great.

‘Vain covert from oppression!—To their cost,

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‘The priests have found them! and aloud exclaim,
‘Insulters of the only saving creed!
‘Death! or the Church!’ These sons of liberty,
‘Through all their hardy tribes, unterrified,
‘Re-echo—‘Death!’—Did Death and Priests prevail?
‘Full often! Hosts of Virtue's noblest sons
‘Their life's-blood gave! whilst many a mangled corse,
‘Parent and child, 'mid cave, or lonely glen,
‘Banquets provided for the birds of prey!—
‘Unyielding, like the widow's cruse, again,
‘The seed sprang up. Tho' check'd, it sprang once more.
‘A remnant lived, and lives! May Heaven's right arm
‘Sustain and succour them! His spirit grant!
‘And swell their joys, their numbers, and their store!

‘But who, save spirits base, shall bless their foes?
‘Blots of the Christian's name! who cruelties
‘Hatch'd on their bed, and with composure, doom'd
‘Their thousands to proscription,—torture,—death!
‘Rav'nous for power, such spirits, charged with hate,
‘All times alike, would doom to bonds and chains,
‘Remediless destruction, all who dare
‘Their law oppose. Such, in their arrogance,
‘Would fain deny man's noblest privilege,—
‘The power to think:—to use his faculties:
‘Deeming that gift, the Right Divine of Priests!
‘Are they not famed for perfidy and blood?
‘Tigers disguised, that borrow human shape
‘Wider to spread their desolating sway.

‘All who confront, in the minute degree
‘Their will,—the sovereign arbiters of fate,
‘Are thrown without thy pale—Humanity!
‘And must be scourged, tormented, driven from life,
‘Whilst fierce-eyed Superstition claps her hands.
‘These charges not alike to all pertain,—

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‘To Laics, but their Priests; from earliest years,
‘In each intol'rant path preeminent!
‘Prompt at all times, to hunt, to crush, their foes:
‘Who never yet, at Mercy's call, withheld
‘Inflictions, such as stones might move to tears.

‘Britain, beware! There is a leaven at work!
‘Priestcraft, with nightly vigils, broods unseen!
‘It heaves the social system, and, alone,
‘(Whate'er they say of alter'd purposes)
‘Needs but the power to light the faggot pile—
‘To scatter round them vengeance,—God to please!
‘(That God a god of mercy!) who again
‘Would forge the chain; once more would re-assert
‘(With rage augmented for repressions past,)
‘Their lost dominion, and,—true Antichrist!
‘Without one pang repulsive from the heart,
‘Doom all to death who own not Papal Rome!

‘Wolves changed to lambs! These ravagers of earth,
‘With all the mild exterior Falsehood bears,
‘Oft as Dissemblance whispers—Interest near,
‘Claim kindred with the Fisherman!—descent
‘In the continuous line—immaculate,
‘From one bright Herald of a world unseen!
‘Oh! falsehood, worthy of its source, beneath!
‘If Peter from the tomb could lift his voice,
‘How would he spurn th' assumed affinity!
‘Call him their prototype, their ancestor;—
‘Source of their unction—to the end of time!
‘This priestly, dogma, cast it to the winds!
‘How should they claim an ancestry so pure,
‘(Themselves—transcendent in impurities!)
‘How see in twilight, and the depths of night?
‘Lie! broach'd at first by Priests, by Priests upheld!

365

‘To prove their hollow hearts,—the violence
‘Offer'd to sacred Truth, they evermore,
‘As to the only test legitimate,
‘Turn to the Church The Church! the Church! they cry.
‘Christ may declare, and Paul reiterate,
‘But this is naught! The ultimate appeal,—
‘The word that binds, the law that regulates,
‘Is human, not divine! what man affirms
‘Claims deference; what th' inspired of God may say
‘Small weight receives, Mandates, tho' luminous,
‘Unless they favour Priests, will be pronounced
‘(By those who live to torture, not to clear)
‘Obscure, and inadmissible. The church
‘Will own no records that impeach her ways.

‘What is this mighty Church, o'ershadowing Earth,
‘Calling her princes vassals, dealing out
‘The Medean law; professing to proclaim
‘Christ's advent, and, in all its loveliness,
‘To teach, and practise, what their Lord enjoin'd?
‘Judge, thoughtful man. He who the mandate gave,—
‘Be not ye ‘Rabbi’ call'd: has he not lost
‘The power to rule; the sway, that once he own'd?
‘Now all are Rabbies! Rabbies! He enjoin'd
‘Meekness and lowliness. he charged his friends
‘To raise their hopes above the temporal;
‘Treasure to seek in Heaven; to hold as light
‘Earth's glittering toys, its pomps and vanities.
‘Far other statutes now precedence claim.
‘I see the followers of their lowly Lord,
‘(Whom we adore, the God-head manifest)
‘Lifting the lofty look, and, as their due,
‘Demanding honours, and the prostrate knee!
‘Like kings, surrounded with imperial state!
‘What contrast here! They vow to follow Him—
‘The Lord of all! who with the sovereign word

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‘Disease arrested! sight to blindness gave!
‘The storm assuaged, the sea, with,—‘Peace, be still!’
‘He had not where to lay his head! He check'd
‘Ascriptions, profferr'd honours, praise from man,
‘And taught humility.

‘His followers now,
‘Th' expounders of his statutes consecrate,
‘Far other versions give—to words so plain.—
‘(Showing their competence to judge aright!)
‘Forgetful of instructions, once enforced,
‘Those who can riches grasp, and rise to power,
‘In a peculiar, and conspicuous sense,
‘The Seven-hilled Lords! (and some of lower name,
‘Kindred in spirit, humbler in degree)
‘Would stretch their arms, and call the earth their own!

‘I see descendants of the fishermen,—
‘Aspiring Priests, in princely guise, and raised
‘To giddy elevations:—perilous,
‘As once believed, but now in softer light
‘Regarded: freed from antiquated laws.
‘They now aspire to rank, and lux'ry prize!
‘Hold friendship with the world, while one assumes,
‘(Th' Apostles' representative below!)
‘E'en homage, due alone to Deity!
‘High state is his. I see him now enthroned,—
‘The Papacy!—that one who was, who is!
‘His days are number'd!—and, like Lucifer,
‘Time hastes,—when he shall fall to rise no more!
‘I see this Babylonian potentate,
‘Deck'd in the gorgeous Cope, the Tyrian Vest,
‘The grand Tiara, and the Triple Crown,—
‘Guards hovering round, and pacing palaces—
‘With lordly exultation!—Dust of earth!
‘The tree is fell'd that shall thy coffin form,—
Worms for their feast impatient.

367

‘Cloud on cloud
‘Still gathers round!—This grand interpreter;—
‘This Papacy! so freed from human taint,
‘(Whose very errors are infallible)
‘Invents new falsehoods: some of direst name.
‘I see the senseless crowd,—turn from their God,
‘And sins confess to man!—receive his balm
‘To cure a wounded conscience; coveting,
‘As the effectual antidote of guilt,
‘His absolution!—Sinner, he himself,
‘(Oft, monster in iniquity!) yet fools,
‘Abject as dust, crowd his Confessional,
‘And, pardon from high Heaven imploring not,
‘Seek it from Artifice and Hypocrites!
‘Searcher of hearts! burst this satanic spell!
‘Hence, let the sinner look to Calvary!
‘And (penitent) alone to God repair!

‘New crimes arise, revolting, gross, and vile!
‘Denounced by every page of sacred writ.
‘I hear the voice (perversion horrible!)
‘The voice of suppliants, in their hour of woe,
‘Earnest, address'd to her, accredited,
‘As owning sway, conjoin'd with Deity!
‘The Son, the Father, these (subordinates!)
‘Precedence yield, to prayers, importunate,
‘Raised to the Virgin Mother!—Flesh and blood
‘The child of dust!—yet, first of woman kind,
‘And honour'd, for the honour she sustain'd,
‘But, nothing more. Beyond it brings the charge—
‘Abhorr'd of Heaven, Idolatry!—What line
‘In Peter's precious legacy, enjoins
‘So black an act, as worship paid to man,
‘To woman, sun, or star, or creeping thing?
‘Like Jews of old, Priests make the Great Supreme
‘Like to themselves, their passions, thoughts, and ways!—

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‘Jehovah King of Heaven, and Mary Queen!
‘Dread blasphemy! confounding God with man!
‘This Priest-taught fallacy!—this abject faith!
‘This phantom! as the human mind expands,
‘Fast hast'ning, like a scroll, shall pass away!

‘Turning to Antichrist, the Man of Sin,
‘Of old predicted, and now realized.
‘(The system, not the individual, charged)
‘Thou hast denounced, with an excess of zeal,
‘(To vulgar eyes) the reading of that Book,
‘Made for all ranks, and suited for all climes;
‘Giv'n as the sinner's best inheritance.
‘Prized is it, by the wise, the good, the pure,
‘Who look beyond earth's perishable forms,
‘And, grateful to the Highest, there receive
‘Tidings of happier realms, and brighter skies.
‘Why hide this treasure from man's fallen race?
‘Some secret object, powerful end, must prompt—
‘Deed so adverse to holiest charity.
‘What? Who will say?—Truth, bold-eyed, blazons it.

‘Th' obnoxious book presents no aspect kind
‘Toward thy deceptions! Rather, with a frown,
‘It strips thy veil, and shows thee, as thou art,
‘Degenerate, and corrupted to the core!
‘Amid th' apparent heedlessness of pelf,
‘Whose every thought revolves on gold, how best—
‘Wealth to extract from terror, and mankind
‘Keep groping in the dark, lest merchandize—
‘So precious! light, with wings, should bear away.

Oh! does that manual, in its every page,
‘Denounce thy vain oblations, and thy ways?
‘Thou lov'st it not!—The menace dread is there!
‘Thou must conceal the harsh, th' accusing line!

369

‘Smother its clear rebukes, that none may know—
‘Thy countless wanderings from Heaven's oracles!

‘Wise in thy generation,—Lucre-wise!
‘With an intensity of zeal, thou striv'st
‘To shroud this lamp of truth,—so to enforce
‘Thine own vain fancies, prescripts, doctrines, lies.
‘Thou giv'st to hungry souls the frothy food,
‘The tinkling bell! the incense rising high!
‘The flaming tapers! Relics false, (if true,
‘Worthless as weeds that perish in the sun)
‘And pouring tawdry garments on the sight!
‘Wonder is none, that thou should'st interdict,
‘And shroud this hostile Book, so to enforce
‘Thy senseless bendings, vain observances,
‘Mock'ry of sacred things! by wisdom spurn'd!
‘That taint the mind, that paralyze the heart,
‘And shadows for the substance give to man!
‘Strive on, and see if Heaven will prosper thee!
‘Efforts redouble! Fiercer zeal display,—
‘To hide this Book; t' obscure its heavenly rays,
‘The only guide to mortals voyaging
‘Life's stormy ocean! Pole-star, Light Divine!
‘Which night transforms to Faith's meridian day!

‘From the Seven Hills the wave-like impulse flows.
‘Afar, thro' every land instructers spread
‘To teach truths fundamental. Listening crowds
‘Now mark their precepts, anxious to be told
‘How future woes to 'scape, and Heaven obtain.
‘Their maxim first is heard. “Mind thou thy Priest!—
“He stands instead of God, and reverence claims!
“My sacred rites regard! On Mary call—
“Protector of the faithful!—Queen of Heaven!
“Cross with the hallow'd water! Count thy beads!
“But, above all, sacred, this warning hold;

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“Touch not the Bible! By our Church pronounced
“Dang'rous, and interdicted!—hazardous
“To all but Priests! Its honey, we alone
“Safely may gather! Leave the task to us!
“Then trust to thy Confession! be Absolved!
“And Heaven is doubly sure!”—The Gospel this!
‘For which Apostles toiled, and Martyrs bled!
‘Thus is Heaven's precious Book, man's hope and joy,—
‘By Antichrist,—spurn'd,—trodden 'neath the feet!

‘There are, who would in ten-fold darkness hide
‘This star, refulgent, scattering o'er the world
‘A light divine, which cheers each pilgrim's heart;—
‘Teaching to live, and showing how to die!
‘There are, who would this Sun of Righteousness
‘Blot out, or keep its radiance to themselves—
‘The better to dispense their fallacies;
‘Who, to expiring man, would dare obtrude,
‘As the superior way to heavenly joys,
‘Their twilight rays! Their moon-beam glimmerings!
‘Speaking themselves, while God, even God, is mute!
‘Most perilous rebellion 'gainst the Highest!
‘Regardless of that clear and stern behest,—
‘The Sciptures search!’—These strive unceasingly
‘(For all the virtual purposes of life)
‘To drive the Scriptures from the light of day!
‘Their pure and healing waters, their commands,
‘To merge in Rites of heathenish origin!
‘And with imposing pomp and circumstance,
‘Instead of statutes, fresh from paradise,
‘To urge their own chimeras: as of yore
‘Their great design, and ever uppermost,—
‘(Absorbing thoughts by day, and dreams by night)
‘How best to raise their Order—swell their ranks,
‘And, in the surest way, effectual forge—
‘Fetters for man and mind!—Great Lord of All!

371

‘Their veil remove! Their darkness dissipate!
‘Their sins forgive! And may Thy Bread of Life,
‘Free as the air, extend the World around!

‘What were the merits of that financier—
‘That genius, whose creative mind devised
‘First, pray'rs for the defunct, that mine of wealth—
‘To subtile Priests,—those mammon worshippers!
‘Now Vice and Villany, on easy terms
‘May penal sufferance 'scape, and Heaven secure!
‘If wealth be his,—leave liberally to Priests,
‘And with the Testament well ratified
‘The work is done! The ordinary bar
‘One Priest may overcome, but if the case
‘Desp'rate be found, the team must instantly
‘Receive auxiliary aid. A Second Priest
‘Must be well paid, and their united force
‘Their powerful prayers, would drag an elephant
‘From Satan's clutch. Th' imperial sinner now
‘Feels satisfied. The will is codicill'd;
‘The purchase specified, when once again,
‘The anxious Priest, solicitous to save
‘From torments, one so generous, and so rich,
‘Suggests, perchance to his bed-ridden friend,
‘That certainty more certain might be made,
‘By payment doubled, so as to secure
‘A whole year's prayers. All this with Mary's smiles,
‘So pleased with benefactors to the Church!
‘At once would send him safe to paradise!—

‘These soul-destroying Priests their callings ply
‘With an avidity, a grasping zeal,
‘Worthy the Prince,—the Master whom they serve.
‘And there are countless forms who walk the earth,
‘With limbs and features, all external marks
‘Of manhood,—failing but in intellect—

372

‘(Illumin'd by the only source of light!)
‘These, with the mind's prostration, can believe,
‘And in their abjectness, can tolerate—
‘This Priestcraft, which reflection casts on man!

‘Beneath the spell of Guile, Credulity
‘No limit knows. Priests to collect their pelf,
‘Offer, and fools believe them, for a sum
‘Told down in ample tale, and sterling coin,
‘To grant,—Oh! mournful, melancholy truth!
‘To grant Indulgence! This high privilege
‘Affluence alone may reach; the refuse Poor
‘Who cannot purchase, must endure their pangs,
‘With pity none:—remediless, deserved!
‘But men of wealth,—their spirits set on sin
‘For every crime, Indulgence may obtain,—
‘Thro' costly interventions;—Lands and Gold,
‘Proportion'd to th' offence;—this, equity
‘Plainly prescribes,—the scale by Priests laid down
‘With an exactitude,—which blazons forth
‘Man's folly, and the deep confed'racy
‘By Artifice concocted, which rescinds,
‘Without a qualm, th' Eternal laws of Heaven.
‘The Church thus fills her coffers!—Haste the day!
‘When God, insulted, shall illume the eyes
‘Of blinded mortals, and this Priestcraft vile,
‘Sweep from the earth, with all its frauds and lies!

‘But tho' this Book, by goodness infinite
‘To man confided, as the sun-beam clear,
‘Instructs, and in all circumstance, directs
‘To peace and happiness; perversity
‘Blinds many a mind. Disastrous spectacle!—
‘Amid earth's erring children, some there are
‘High in their own esteem, who can descant
‘(The feeblest doubt a stranger to their breast)

373

‘Alike on secular, or sacred things,
‘On learned points, or questions recondite,
‘With tone and confidence oracular:
‘(When sager minds are absent) who behold
‘All nature plain before them! These assume
‘Light super-human, and pronounce themselves
‘Wisdom's interpreters.—Inflated thus
‘With vanity;—that abject littleness!
‘Which tempts the feeble to regard as fix'd
‘Whate'er their roving fancy advocates,
‘Altho' opposed by minds of largest grasp,
‘The pride of other ages and their own.
‘Twilight with them exceeds meridian day;
‘Their word, their dictum, is the only law;
‘The source of truth, the ultimate appeal;
‘And all mankind are fools and hypocrites,
‘Wand'ring in rayless night, save they, and theirs!

‘These from their tower of eminence, look down,
‘Contemptuous, on the faith, taught by that Book,
‘By them, deemed valueless!—Oh, madness strange!
‘Pouring disdain on that, which was, which is,
‘And ever will be, till the last loud trump,
‘The choicest treasure, man can call his own.
‘Such fearless confidence, such calm repose,
‘Rests on their minds, that—all inculcated
‘In creeds religious, is but fallacy;—
‘Th' enthusiast's dream! fit but for intellects
‘Less tutor'd and robust than theirs. They look
‘With silent pity on the crowds around
‘Who, from futurity, expect that good
‘Fate here denies them. Not vociferous;
‘They keep the precious treasure to themselves;
‘Nurse it with fondness, and to silence sworn,
‘(Lest general frowns should point, and follow them)
‘Laugh, unobserved, alike, at faith and hope.

374

‘These claim some merit. Other Infidels
‘Active are found, these passive, who alone
‘Go down to death, not poisoning other minds,
‘Save, haply, by their practice, with the hope—
‘Oh, abject spirits! with the fervent hope,
‘They all shall perish utterly! But if,
‘(No certainty can banish creeping doubt!)
‘If—dread alternative! there should be found
‘A world hereafter!—State succeeding this!
‘A God of justice, who of human ways
‘Takes cognizance! who will his servants bless!
‘His foes reject as chaff! their refuge—where?
‘What shelter shall secure them from the blast?

‘Others there are of deeper turpitude,
‘Loud in hostility to God and Truth.
‘Who force their maxims,—dark conceits, on all;
‘The spurners of the Sacred Oracles!
‘Often, by Heaven's appointment, in themselves,
‘Presenting both the bane and antidote!
‘Strangers to peace,—austere,—irascible;—
‘No hope to call the kindlier feelings forth.

‘These wand'ring spirits, foes to God and man,
‘Urged by th' Infernal Powers, strive hard to plunge
‘Into their own abyss of wretchedness
‘Unwary list'ners, who, in evil hour,
‘Smiled on their impious railings. Wrapt in night,
‘These pioneers of death, these advocates
‘Of maxims rife in hell, contemptuous gaze
‘On the meek followers of the Nazarene!
‘And, in their own preeminence secure,
‘Regard them, as beguiled, distemper'd, blind.

‘Soon will their triumphs cease. These lucid guides,
‘Munificent in pride, erclong will feel

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‘Th' envenom'd sting; rage rankling at their heart,
‘When (stripp'd of their delusions) they behold
‘Those whom they spurn'd as senseless, proved to be
‘The only wise and provident, who lived
‘With a prospective eye to things unseen;
‘Like sojourners on earth, intent to gain
‘That land delectable, those fountains pure,
‘Flowing with new delights; those jasper gates,
‘And amaranthine bowers, where Concord reigns,
‘With Love, its native element, whilst there
‘Thro' the wide region, in one note of praise,
‘God, and the Lamb are worshipp'd.
‘Saints on earth,
‘Before translated to the heavenly choir,
‘By faith sustain'd, toiled thro' their thorny way.
‘Confiding in th' Eternal Word, they met,
‘Unmoved, the scoffer's taunt, the railer's frown,
‘Charged often with disdain, or outrage fierce,
‘(Hostile to flesh and blood) yet still their steps
‘Press'd toward the mark in sight, and for the curse
‘Return'd the blessing. Now the fruits appear;
‘Sow'd oft in sighs, and water'd with their tears.
‘Was it an evil choice? Say, Spirits Bless'd!
‘Your highest hopes exceeded!—do you mourn,
‘Now shelter'd from the beating storms of life,
‘Safe in the heavenly haven, do you mourn
‘Your pref'rence of Eternity to Time?
‘Say! Patriarch, and Prophets! (round the throne,
‘Cleans'd, sanctified, redeem'd!) do you deplore
‘The road you trod,—that led to realms on high?
‘Say! Martyrs! who, the raging flames endured,
‘And smiled at your tormentors, heaven in sight,
‘Now crown'd with starry diadems, and born
‘To an enduring heritage! do you,
‘With backward glance, look sad and wistfully
‘Upon your mortal path? your vale of tears?

376

‘Turning from earthly toys, you lived to rear
‘An empire in the skies, that fadeth not.
‘Ambitious of the vast, you aim'd to share
‘Communion with archangels; to acquire,
‘And call your own, with tenure permanent,
‘Mansions of bliss, and joys for evermore!

‘Glancing at that assemblage of all things
‘Most awful, when before assembled worlds
‘Judgment, that changes not, shall be pronounced
‘On all the generations of mankind;
‘Many, I see, in the prophetic glance,
‘With rage ineffable, view those, to whom,
‘Thro' sophisms, impious railings, jest, and jeer,
‘They owed their hopeless banishment from Heaven.
‘And if the Lost, with the indignant rage
‘View their Destroyers, what the gratitude,
‘The praise, exceeding thought, that, from the heart,
‘The Saved and sanctified, will pour, on those—
‘Who first alarm'd them in the downward path?
‘Who, (as th' appointed instruments of Heaven)
‘Drew them from Nature's darkness, and their feet
‘Turn'd to the Path of Life!—One soul to save
‘Is mightier honour—than to conquer worlds.

‘Where now the triumphs of the Atheist crew?
‘Who, dead themselves to goodness, sought to drag
‘All others down, to their own abjectness.
‘What changes here! Behold the darken'd minds
‘Who Time adored, and Mammon made their God!
‘How are they fall'n!—Their very proselytes
‘Revile them! spurn them! charge their wretchedness
‘On their Satanic influence;—perchance,
‘On pages, poisonous as the adder's tongue!
‘Or on their oral fallacies, pour'd forth
‘In voluble excess; the fruit alone

377

‘Of blind impenitence. In vain for them
‘The Saviour of the World, invited, warn'd;
‘They turn'd from him, and now he turns from them.
‘They also sow'd, and as they sow'd, they reap!

‘These slaves of sense, these idol-worshippers,
‘Drown'd in intemp'rance, riot-loving souls;
‘Or those less rude, who in frivolity
‘Waste the most precious treasure earth contains,
‘Time! short at longest; plunging, heedlessly,
‘Into all subjects, with a senseless zest,
‘An intrepidity; with nought too small,
‘Too evanescent, or identified
‘With the minute, the trifling, or the vain—
‘To rouse their passions.—But, solicitudes
‘Fix'd on th' Eternal State succeeding this,
‘So near! so certain! they, disdainful, thrust,
‘Heedless, away; pertaining not to them!
‘Say, are not men, with all their loftiness,
‘Lull'd, dreaming; in the depths of sleep! A sight
‘Which fills the world of spirits with amaze!

‘But death will come, delusion to remove;
‘The trying moment, when all forms assume
‘Their real worth. These heroes resolute,
‘Undaunted by the Highest's loudest threats,
‘Oft have I seen astounded, terror-struck,
‘When smitten by distemper; cheerless, sad—
‘Upon the couch of loneliness;—the crew,
‘(Not friends) companions in their revelry,
‘Heart-sickening metamorphose! now become
‘Distasteful, or, revolting, each to each.

‘Where now your boast, your vaunted confidence
‘Despisers of the still small voice of Truth?
‘Where are the props which were to solace you

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‘In hour of darkness, when the troubled mind
‘Looks round for the consoling antidote?
‘Your refuge-tower, of strength invincible,
‘Is that withdrawn? for which you yielded up
‘Your peace on earth, and the inheritance
‘Which waits the righteous! Do you now exult
‘O'er your career of folly and of crime?—
‘Like the dull statue, to reflection dead,
‘Counting your straws, with blazing worlds around?
‘With your whole minds engross'd with mean delights,
‘Lighter than air, you, heedless, sacrificed
‘Your time, your talents, health, the good man's praise,
‘And dared your Maker's anger! When will men
‘Deem'd rational, learn wisdom, and provide—
‘Not for a day, a year, a season brief,
‘Call'd life, betoken'd by all fleeting things,
‘But for Eternity!

‘Stupendous thought!
‘Is man to live for ever? born to see
‘Systems and suns extinguish'd! looking back
‘On Time, and all its momentary cares
‘As atoms, scarce descried! Has he a Soul—
‘Still young, beginning his perennial course,
‘And when bewildering periods have revolved,
‘Beginning still! never to know an end!
‘The Soul, more costly than ten thousand mines!
‘Shall this be barter'd? Shall equivalent
‘For prize so vast, be found in finite things?—
‘So mean, deceptive, and intangible!
‘If in self-love the spirit be absorbed,
‘Let that intense affection loftier rise!
‘Reach to the Soul! to an inheritance
‘Assail'd not by mutation! to the joys,
‘Steadfast as Heaven! nor covet as their lot,
‘Their satisfying portion, empty toys,
‘That perish in their use, while they neglect

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‘Provision for the state that knows no end.

‘Tho' scoffers, in their pride, defiance breathe,
‘And laugh at danger, yet, adversity
‘Hangs on their rear.—There is a World of Woe
‘Far off from blessedness, and where, too late!
‘Men, making Earth, their home, their heritage,
‘Confess their madness, whilst the gnashing teeth
‘Betrays the pang, the worm that dieth not!
‘Tho' infidels deride; there is a world,
‘Out in blank space. where the iniquitous
‘In heart and life, the enemies of Truth,
‘With fellow outcasts live! What thought may reach,
‘What heart conceive, the import of those words,—
‘Banish'd from God!—excluded, permanent,—
‘From Him, the source of bliss and blessedness!
‘From intercourse, and all communion sweet
‘With saint and seraphim;—th' illustrious hosts
‘Gather'd from every age, and gathering still,
‘And still to gather, till the Trump of God
‘Thunders the knell of Time.—

‘IS goodness here,—
‘The lovely, peaceful, and compassionate,
‘Sweet to the pure in heart? What world is that
‘Where all is goodness, purity, and truth!
‘Frailty and imperfection, shaken off,
‘The dust of earth; and perpetuity,
‘Increasing still, of rest, and peace, and joy!
‘Is this the prize presented? Does the heart
‘Glow with intense desire that bliss to share—
‘Provided by the Sinner's Advocate
‘For all who love and serve him? Who would risk
‘Treasure so priceless, for the husks of Earth?
‘Who?—but the crowds that for the present live
‘And for the future feel, nor dread, nor care!

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‘I see rebellious spirits borne away
‘From God and glory! There is banishment!
‘(As when the sun withdraws, and all is night!)
‘The import of that word, how terrible!
‘Expell'd from heaven, and its felicities!—
‘From Zion's Mount,—the New Jerusalem!
‘A severance from the Spirits of the Just!
‘There leave them.—If excluded from His smile,
‘In whom alone, fulness of joy is found,
‘Thro' willing darkness, blind impenitence,
‘And all the deeds that from rebellion flow,
‘The scorpion sting of Conscience them will pierce!
‘Whilst, to augment their pungency of woe,
‘Their old companions, choice associates, friends,—
‘Foes rather, in disguise, that lured to death!
‘Will each, on each, pour contumely and scorn!
‘Seen in new light, and darker for the change!—
‘The dream-like charm that dazzled, pass'd away!
‘Strange sight! Each now would shun, whom once he sought,
‘Yet are they bound, by laws immutable,
‘To those they hate! while in their hopeless rage,
‘They cast an envious eye on happier realms,
‘Far off, and on their bright inhabitants,
‘With the wide gulf impassable between!

‘These lived for self alone. The things they sought,
‘With a supreme solicitude, they gain'd;—
‘The fleeting pleasures of a summer's day!
‘But hours of blandishment pass rapidly.
‘Eve soon arrives! They had their hearts' desire,
‘And with it,—an inheritance of woe!
‘The warnings of a thousand monitors,
‘All was despised!

‘The downward road commenced,
‘Progress increases, like the wintry ball;
‘From light to twilight; darkness then succeeds.

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‘Now to appease th' accusing voice within,—
‘Importunate, an effort grand is made
‘To hold alliance with the Infidel;—
‘To summons from their caverns deep, the men
‘Distinguish'd for their dark preeminence!
‘Famed for their prowess!—fearless to assail,
‘With rage implacable, the Word of Life!—
‘And all that sunshine o'er the future casts.

‘To wield their weapons, the Novitiates, find
‘Hard, cumbrous and unyielding, but, at length
‘(To every callous and perverted heart)
‘Obstructions end in triumph. Doubt, at first,
‘Soon ripens into confidence. Their course
‘Now bolder grows.—The grand, the clearest truths
‘Enforc'd of Holy Writ, (that precious boon!)
‘They jeer at, and the flimsy arguments,
‘A thousand times refuted, to their minds,
‘Come with a freshness, point, and cogency,
‘That wins conviction; (no achievement hard!
‘So docile is the spirit, once embued
‘With hate of Truth!) In their enlighten'd creed,
‘Now perfect!—Satan is an empty tale!
‘The lie inspired of Satan!—who beholds
‘Such, as his choicest agents, staunch, and sound,
‘Who, to explore their own drear labyrinths,
‘Hazard, dread thought! their future all,—that all,
‘The hope of Heaven!—The friendship of their God!

‘Advancing in Deception's bold career,
‘(Twin wand'rers, and associates ever found)
‘These spirits, lost in Error's sinuous ways,
‘Now spurn at Hell, and spite of obstacles,
‘(If of another world they dare to think)
‘Send all to heaven!—miscreant and parricide,
‘(After a shadowy cleansing, small and brief)

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‘With the whole brood of darkness, Belial' Sons!
‘Blasphemers stout, conjoin'd with reprobates!
‘No doubtful point, or nice contingency,
‘All soon to join in equal rank and joy!—
‘Prophets, Apostles, Saints,—the Vile, the Base!
‘Each greeting each;—grand confraternity!—
‘The whole fast hastening on to Paradise!

‘Those daring spirits deign not to implore;
‘They claim, as their indisputable right,
‘Entrance to Heaven. The pearly gates to them
‘Must open stand, and the Supreme himself
‘Salute his bold intruders! When on earth,
‘The prince who scatter'd houses, gold, or lands,
‘Profusely, they might supplicate, and know
‘The boon they sought, the owner might deny;
‘But the Eternal Ruler, on whose word
‘All nature hangs, he must his empire yield
‘To Rebels! Heaven's untold felicities,
‘(All unprepared) in their presumptuous dreams,
‘They take by storm, and deem the Highest bound,
‘Thro' their imagined worth and worthiness,
‘To welcome them; to bid his saints stand by
‘At their approach; to ope his choicest stores,
‘And bless them with his smiles. Are these their hopes?
‘Delusion, leagued with death! A few short years,
‘And this aspiring, proud, irruptive Band,
‘In their vain fancies, by their native might,
‘Forcing an entrance to the Realms of Bliss,
‘Will find, to their confusion, but too late!
‘God can reward his Friends,—reject his Foes!—
‘What that comprises they must die to learn!

‘Th' assurance that all tend to heaven at last,
‘Alike the pure in heart, the rebel host!—
‘Blackest of falsehoods! Pregnant with all ill!

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‘Casting the threats of Heaven to moles and bats!
‘Teaching the bad to glory in their shame!—
‘To tread, with an unshrinking confidence,
‘The paths of the destroyer; yet, in truth,
‘Most soothing creed!—for those so zealously
‘All creeds denouncing! for, if all, at last,
‘Meet in Heaven's Regions, they themselves are safe.
‘They must be one—where all are brought to bliss!

‘Here, there is hope, but least of all for those
‘Who brave the threat'nings of th' Omnipotent!
‘Condition—reckless—piteous—perilous!
‘These by their words, in union with their lives,
‘Scatter around them withering pestilence,—
‘The bane most fatal, that which slays the soul!—
‘Which drags immortals down from hope and heaven.
‘A ponderous load, and crushing, these sustain;—
‘The weight of blood!—of others, and their own!

‘These wiser than the wisest, now assail
‘Truth with augmented rage. They pour contempt
‘On Christ th' Anointed Son, the Sinner's Friend!
‘The Christian's only refuge! They pronounce
‘Him whom the heaven of heavens cannot contain!
‘Impostor, and his words and records, vain!
‘Deny his Resurrection! deem his laws
(‘A sacred halo round them, cloth'd in light!)
‘A system of deception!—falsehood, all!—
‘Deep under-plot, pursued from sire to son,
‘From age to age;—confederate scheme, to cheat
‘A senseless, credulous, lie-loving world!
‘Fierce in their enmity, they daringly
‘Turn their deaf ear to all the Spirit taught,—
‘Breath'd thro' Apostles;—who, to verify—
‘That Gospel, sent in mercy to mankind,
‘Endured a scoffing world, and, fearless, braved,

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‘In utterance of their mission from on high,
‘Slauder, the prison's gloom, the scourge, the chain,
‘The rav'nous beast, the stake! the crucifix!—
‘Can men belie their conscience, and believe
‘These Martyrs, banded all, to propagate
‘Falsehood?—and sealing with their blood,—a lie?
‘Delusion here prevails. It reaches not
‘Beyond Earth's confines.

‘Beings, shorn of heaven,
‘Dread thought! confined by bars impassable,
‘At length bewail their madness, yet retain
‘'Gainst God and Goodness, Truth and Holiness,
‘The enmity which banish'd them from bliss!
‘Their friends and advocates on earth, the men—
‘Hast'ning to join them, (all unconscious they!)
‘In wanderings still advance.—They spurn the hope,
‘Kindled of Revelation,—rapturous thought!
‘Of rising to new life, when leaving Time;—
‘The glorious dawn of Immortality!
‘This they disdainful scoff at. They like beasts
‘First lived, and then like beasts desired to die!—
‘Vain hope! The hour of Retribution hastens fast!

‘The anxious mind inquires, Why were these ills
‘Engrafted on our nature? Why did Heaven
‘Afflict the world with Antichrist?—allow
‘The Papists' triumph and supremacy?
‘Such source of outrage, cruelty, and strife!
‘Why was the Infidel allowed to rise,
‘To spread his noxious errors? to proclaim
‘His poisonous words, that like the Desert-blasts
‘Are leagued with death!

‘Pause, daring Spirit!—Say!
‘Can the slow-creeping earth-worm judge of man?—
‘His thoughts explore?—his motives comprehend?
‘Yet worms know more of men, than men of God!

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‘Can mortals, with their few and feeble thoughts,
‘Explore the boundless?—trace the Infinite?
‘Th' Eternal spake, when, lo! the Universe
‘Majestic rose! Still limitless in power,
‘He regulates the least concerns of man!
‘He, in the dark recesses of his mind,
‘Nurtures all plans that germinate on Earth;
‘Some, quick in their development, some late,—
‘Thro' ages drawing to maturity:
‘Some, intertwined, and seeming, e'en to us,
‘Perplex'd, confused, or tending to conserve
‘The adverse purpose, yet, harmoniously,
‘The end (The only test of value true)
‘Proves worthy of a God!—That plastic mind,—
‘Extends its sway, with an intensity
‘Of close inspection, that combines, alike,
‘The great, the small; the vastest, and the least!—
‘Systems, or atoms!—All alike to Him
‘Who made, inspects, ordains, and governs All!
‘Trust Him in all things!—Silently adore!

‘But turning to the bright entablature,—
‘Whereon Beneficence inscribes her laws;
‘Look thou around on Nature's lovely face:
‘There read perfection! Here the God-head shines!
‘All things alike, within thee, and around,—
‘With voice articulate,—to the mind's ear,
‘Proclaim his Goodness,—boundless as his Power!
‘To cheer Earth's mourning spirits, God is Love !—
‘First, and most hallow'd of Immortal Truths!
‘What thoughtful heart can doubt it?

‘Where is he—
‘Who in the silent solitary hour,
‘When meditation reigns, can look around
‘On all life's wondrous objects, and still doubt
‘The love of him who made them? Every form,

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‘Throughout all nature, opes its hundred mouths
‘To sound his praise. Yet not on man alone
‘God heaps his favour. From the o'erflowing spring
‘Of heavenly goodness, Earth's vast family
‘Drink their refreshing draughts. Th' Eternal Sire,
‘Fountain of love! Sun of the Universe!
‘Looks round upon the creatures he has made,
‘And where he looks, spontaneous pleasures rise
‘And melting harmonies! What less than God,
‘And Goodness Infinite, could bid the train
‘Of beauteous flowers adorn this lower earth;—
‘Could make its secret caverns, and the host
‘Of stately trees, diverse, conspire to swell,
‘The sum of human blessings? What but power
‘Surpassing thought, could fill Heaven's boundless vault
‘With stars innumerous, blazing on their way,
‘Sole emblem of stability on earth!
‘Rolling th' eternal course! What less than God
‘Could clothe the Eve with glory, or the Morn,
‘Slow-opening, steep'd in her transcendent dyes!
‘Could make the Seasons run their endless race,
‘And give to Life interminable bounds,
‘Bidding the air above, the earth beneath,
‘The ocean teem with creatures, who exist,
‘Unconscious of existence, their brief hour,
‘And best display their unknown gratitude
‘In being happy. Doubt not God is Love!

‘And when thou turnest thy contemplant mind,
‘From God in Nature, to that vast expanse,—
‘Dimming the sight, where e'en th' angelic mind
‘Is lost in wonder! God in Providence,—
‘Moulding Earth's jarring atoms, to promote
‘His secret, and inscrutable designs,
‘How wondrous, and o'erwhelming is the thought!
‘In darkest hour, trust that Almighty Hand

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‘So manifest in seasons numberless,
‘That he will guide thee, till thou reach that state
‘Where faith expires in sight. How should thy soul
‘Expand with gratitude, for that high gift,—
‘Its magnitude, not uttered by man's speech!
‘The hope of an Hereafter!—the belief,
‘Founded on God's good Word, that thou wilt yet
‘Survive the wreck of Nature, and enjoy
‘The Father of thy spirit, in a world
‘Where blessedness prevails! where Jesus reigns!
‘Where sin will be no more! and God himself!
‘Shall wipe the final tear from every eye!

‘And can that God whose attribute is Love,
‘Whose whole creation teems with happiness,
‘(Save where the moral taint deforms the scene)
‘Delight in morbid feelings, and the heart
‘That loves to pore on misery and night,—
‘No good beholding? Can th' Almighty Sire,
‘Well pleased, behold the creatures he has made
‘Cherish suspicions of himself, and though—
‘Nurs'd in the lap of comfort, all pass by
‘To languish o'er ideal wretchedness;
‘Sigh all the day, and murmur thro' the night,
‘Unmindful of the blessings infinite
‘That crowd around them?—Sufferers at their door,
‘The Poor, the Friendless,—Worth, without a home,
‘They little heed, and waste their sympathies
‘On dim, and distant objects!—Blessings near,
‘Heaven's varied gifts, and numberless as sands !—
‘Food, raiment, health, the lucid faculties,
‘The sweets of friendship; these are heeded not!
‘These raise no grateful sense,—no glow of thanks—
‘To Him, the bounteous Giver! God requires
‘For all his great and countless benefits,—
‘No hard return;—devotedness to Him,

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‘The spirit's consecration, with a heart,
‘Thankful, and tuned to cheerfulness; best proof
‘Of hidden virtues.—Murder never smiles.
‘But cheerfulness the Christian most becomes.
‘Why should the favour'd man, whose home is Heaven,
‘Who walks by faith, who holds communion sweet
‘With God, and spirits pure;—why should his heart
‘Sorrows o'erwhelm?—with joy and morn, so near?
‘A point between! Let terrors shake their frame
‘Who have no refuge-tower! Let those alone
‘On melancholy brood, and hang the head,
‘Strangers to happiness, who, 'mid Life's storms,
‘Behold no Heavenly Pilot; who survey
‘Confusion and thick clouds,—looking dismay'd
‘O'er the dark chaos of conjecture, chain'd
‘To earth, and earthly hopes; but let the men
‘Who seek another and a better rest,—
‘A heavenly country, smile, for all is theirs,
‘Or life, or death;—things present, things to come!

‘To him who bears the Christian's hallow'd name
‘Anguish, and grief consuming, are proscribed
‘As things unlawful. Is it a vain dream,
‘And not a sacred stern reality,
‘That God directs, and governs?—whose controul
‘The Seraphim and Worm alike obey!
‘Whence then is man's rebellion?—his distrust
‘The moment Faith, not Sight, his homage claims?
‘Is confidence ideal? Is the name
‘All that High Heaven requires? Are blossoms fair
‘The boundaries of our wishes,—not matured
‘And ripen'd into fruit?—

‘Grief, keen, is felt
‘By all the Righteous—that no deeper sense
‘Rests on their hearts, for benefits received.
‘And there are pungent pangs which others raise,

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‘When they are seen—treading the downward road,
‘Yet, rich in hope!—unmindful that they hang
‘Over a Gulf, dark, deep, and fathomless!—
‘Suspended by the brittle Thread of Life!

‘But tho' benevolence rules all that is,
‘For needful purposes, to thee unknown,
‘There is a certain residue of ill,
‘Long to prevail on earth, tho' righteous men,
‘Labour in word and deed to check its growth.
‘It is an evil world. This will be found
‘Whatever fairy schemes of happiness
‘Men fondly shape. But tho' Perfection, Earth
‘May not attain, shall not her sons aspire
‘Near to approach as may be? Shall they fail
‘To cross some limpid stream, for that no foot,
‘Vent'rous, hath ocean forded?—

‘Ever strive
‘Well to perform thy part, and know assured
‘Whence comes the aid effectual. Be thy name
‘The Father of thy People! Honour Worth!
‘Where Talent reigns, or that ethereal spark—
‘Genius,—direct and cherish it! Its power
‘Illumes the present, and a radiance casts
‘On ages yet to come. Aspire to be
‘The friend, the patron, the conservator—
‘Of Mind, which stamps the dignity of Man.
‘By Power prevent all wrong and violence;
‘All cruelty to brutes: for God beholds,
‘With a paternal eye, his lowest works,
‘And hath appointed for th' unfeeling heart
‘Deep and peculiar punishments.

‘The king,
‘Faithful to his high station, happiest feels
‘To see his people happy !—such be thou!
‘Instruct the ignorant; and, as the spring,

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‘The source of best instruction, spread the sound
‘Salvation dealt to man! Give them the food
‘God hath appointed! This shall tame their hearts,
‘Howe'er rebellious; this shall cure the ill,
‘When all things fail: so shalt thou rise, ere long,
‘To meet, on high, the New Jerusalem;
‘Stupendous thought! Yes, even thou shalt join,
‘(After the silver cords of life are loosed)
‘Th' innumerable company of angels!
‘The gen'ral church, and the first-born of heaven!
‘The God of all! the spirits of the just—
‘Made perfect! and that sole-procuring cause
‘Of all their joy, the Mediator, Christ!

‘If thou would'st other knowledge know, declare!
‘For I am sent to caution and inform.’
The king thus seemed to say. ‘Bright Messenger!
‘Communicant of holy mysteries!
‘Thou hast my praise! Angel, immortal, hail!
‘I would inquire, with due humility,
‘The nature of thy office, and what good
‘Thou hast bestow'd on me.’ To whom the angel.

‘Favour'd of God! unnumber'd are the pits,
‘Some seen, but most unseen, which throng life's path,
‘And send the unsuspecting traveller
‘To his long home. Many hast thou escaped,
‘Not of thyself, for thou hast often rush'd
‘'Mid thickest dangers, but, thy heart was right,
‘Thou trustedst in thy God, and I upheld,
‘By Him commission'd, thine unguarded feet.—
‘Deep and mysterious are the ways of Heaven!
‘Faintly perceived by us, to thee all dark,
‘One thing thou yet may'st know, of old revealed,
‘By Moses and the prophets, tho' unseen
‘By all, whose eyes, whose hearts, mammon, accurst!
‘Hath dimm'd and harden'd.—He who trusts in God,

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‘By a celestial alchemy, shall find
‘The dreariest, darkest, avenues of life
‘Transmuted into pastures green and fair,—
‘The one peculiar and appointed way,
‘That leads to God and glory.

‘Thro' the world,
‘Dangers on every side stand thick; man's eye
‘Cannot descry them! under streams they dwell,
‘Mid beds of roses; in the verdant mead,
‘The desert waste, the city populous;
‘And in the small hut, by the mountain's side—
‘On hills, and in the vallies. Each alike,
‘Stands open to the subtile enemy
‘That lurks unseen. Such is the earthly race
‘All men must run, exposed at every step
‘To sorrows infinite, to pain, and death.
‘But there is one defence, and one alone.
‘The Maker of the world and all therein
‘Hath so ordain'd, that he whose heart implores
‘Celestial guidance, shall from him receive
‘A guardian, like to me, whose keener eye,
‘From real, not apparent harm, shall lead
‘The faithful suppliant, and at last conduct
‘O'er death's dark gulf, to Heaven.

‘But I would now,
‘Further inform thee. Through th' appointed path,
‘All men must run, in this their earthly race,
‘Evil full often seems the better thing,
‘And good the evil. By th'immortal laws
‘This is ordain'd, to teach the ignorant
‘The penalty of failure, virtue's worth,
‘And from experience, fruitful source of light,
‘By slow progression, to instruct the heart
‘Where wisdom lies.—

‘Some pitfalls are to death,
‘Some quicken foresight, and awake the prayer

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‘For better guidance. Ever then at hand
‘We are, to yield our aid invisible:
‘And often do we lead, dissatisfied,
‘Men from disastrous bane, or, half permit
‘Their feet to fall, to loosen that deep root
‘Of self-dependence, all men love so well.

‘The deadliest poisons oft are found to dwell
‘With flowers most fair, to come within whose breath
‘Rouses the pestilence, and sinks the heart
‘To that worst state, insensibility!
‘Where the soul groans, yet learns not to be wise.
‘Then is our virtue tried. We know the path,
‘That death attends it, and full often lead
‘Weak man from ruin, whilst he thinks it hard
‘To see the flattering good, yet turn away.
‘And oft we guide the pilgrim, heaven-ward bound,
‘Thro' crooked ways and brambles, 'mid steep hills,
‘And pathless vallies, to escape some harm
‘Unseen, but in the end, that leads to death.—
‘From infancy our exercise begins.
‘We tend the infant from the hour it breathes,
‘'Till reason dawns, or, wretched were the state
‘Of helpless childhood. In its tender years
‘What evils lurk to whelm it in the grave!
‘But we, with most especial earnestness,
‘To those prepared the shining path to tread,
‘Ever surround, ward off each secret foe,
‘And feed the intellectual spark, ere long
‘To blaze abroad, and erring man direct
‘To the one path to Heaven. Now will I speak
‘Of my appointment, and the services
‘I have perform'd for thee.

‘Thy guardian I,
‘Constant, have succour'd thee, in hours so dark,
‘They seem'd desertion; but th' Almighty Sire

393

‘Then loved thee most, and led thee in the way
‘Best suited to secure thy better part.
‘Thou hast implored direction from on high,
‘From youth, 'till now, and though God often hides
‘The secret purpose of his ways to man,
‘And makes him walk by faith, yet I am now
‘Permitted to assume a character,
‘Clear to thine organs, to declare the ways
‘Thou hast been led in, that thy heart may place
‘Fresh confidence in Heaven.—

‘When opening youth
‘Gave to thy spirit reason, I with joy
‘Perceived thy heart implore that better guide,
‘All need, tho' few require, and still remain'd
‘Thy Guardian Angel. Little dost thou know
‘What benefits and untold blessings spring
‘From such dependence. Spirits like myself
‘Space cannot stop. And sometimes when engaged
‘In shouting loud Hosannas, 'mid the choir
‘Of Angel and Archangel, I have seen
‘Perils await thee, and beside thee stood,
‘Directing! whilst the sluggish sun-beam bright,
‘Toil'd after me. Such is an Angel's speed!
‘Our chariot is the chariot of a thought!

‘Nor deem it strange that one like me should bound
‘His narrow influence; for, all the Orders
‘Of high Intelligences, progress make
‘Toward Love's pure element, the source of good;
‘Whose crystal waters all the Sons of Light
‘Drink ever, and delightful visions feel,
‘The heart expanding; making each endure
‘For all that lives, divinest sympathy,
‘And more intense benevolence. High Heaven
‘Each hath appointed, by gradations meet,
‘To run this race, and, by steps infinite,

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‘Move toward perfection. Thus material beings
‘Love first their friends, their country, the whole world;
‘Preparing thus their minds for nobler views,
‘Their wings for higher flights; and last of all,
‘Archangels, toiling still, and still to toil
‘In this most glorious exercise, adore—
‘The drop, the stream, and last of all approach,
‘Nearer, tho' ever distant, God, Supreme!
‘The centre of his own Eternity!
‘The Fountain full of Love!

‘Still wondering learn.
‘Gifted with prescience of thy future life,
‘I saw thy dangers, and with anxious care
‘Sought to avert them, or, alike, improve
‘All to thy good. I saw thy furious foe,
‘Ivar of Denmark (ere he pass'd the seas
‘To ravage Britain) slay the mariner
‘Beside the waves. I saw th' illusions rise
‘To vex his spirit, tried, and exercised,
‘So to extort the vow, alone, that saved
‘In after times thy queen. These visions rose
‘Consistent with his own dark prejudice!
‘For, to believe the possibility
‘Is half to see and hear the thing believed.
‘I saw thee in that depth of wretchedness,
‘When by the mountain brook, thou badest go
‘Thy troops to Selwood, and across the heath
‘Bore thy young child, Alswitha by thy side,
‘Mournful and destitute. I led thy feet
‘To neighbouring abbey. I impell'd thee thence
‘To seek the cottage, where, when thou hadst heard
‘Of Glastonbury stricken, and resolved
‘To war again; thou sworest! and, that oath—
‘By the Eternal God!’ Word utter'd not
‘By angels, save with veiling of the face!
‘Not lightly take that name upon thy tongue!

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‘In passion, never!

‘For wise purposes
‘The abbey walls were rased, the Danes allow'd
‘To scatter death, but, 'mid the terrors round
‘Thy queen I safe conducted, and, at length,
‘Gave her a weeping captive to that foe—
‘Belov'd of Heaven, the man, who hence shall shine
‘Great in all virtues,—call'd to the true faith.
‘I Wilton's Abbot, wanderiug o'er the moor,
‘Led to thy child:—and thro' my influence,
‘Urged him to wind his footsteps to the cot
‘Where thou resortedst, in thy depth of woe;
‘Depression's lowest point!—Yet learn again.—
‘That she thy queen a captive should become,
‘By Heaven's all-seeing eye, needful was deem'd
‘To try thy faith, her own, discord to raise
‘Within the Danish camp; (for 'tis ordain'd
‘Before a people fall, that first shall rise
‘The fiend Dissension) and, at last, convert
‘Guthrum the Dane. Hence when affliction hangs.
‘Heavy upon thee, doubt not the design.
‘Its end is mercy.—

‘Know! my secret aid
‘In moments perilous and dark, preserved
‘Thy helpless infant, when the Abbot fell,
‘Pierced of the Dane. In his ferocity,
‘He would have slain thy child. His sword he raised !—
‘He had no power to strike!—(not more than they
‘Who led the Saviour to that precipice,
‘Resolved to hurl him downward.—Hand unseen
‘Restrain'd the raging multitude, and mist
‘Cast o'er their visual orb.)—Commission'd thus,
‘I caused the innocent—(unconscious he—
‘Of danger) in the assassin's face to smile,
‘And clap his hands. It touch'd his flinty heart!
‘Loud he exclaim'd, Let others take thy life,

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I cannot. Such our subtile influence.

‘In silent adoration, 'mid the hour,
‘Or dark, or luminous, do thou behold—
‘His Hand,—that guides the Lightning, rules the Storm,—
‘Awakes the Thunder!—in its majesty
‘Careering thro' the sky,—roar following roar
‘Till one imperial crash convulses heaven!
‘Now, from his subterranean depths unknown
‘He calls the Earthquake, heaving, terrible,—
‘Impels the whirlwind, and alike sustains
‘Thro' Earth, and to Creation's utmost bound
‘His universal empire. For thy joy,
‘That Being who controls these elements
‘Is thy Protector.—Trust Him and obey!

‘Still learn, how I have watch'd and succour'd thee.
‘In hour of sadness, I thy footsteps led
‘Where that old man the hermit walk'd, and gave
‘Soft words, consoling, to his tongue, to cheer
‘Thy languid breast, and rouse the dormant spark
‘Of faith within thee. I the mother led
‘That aged woman on the forest's verge,
‘To tell her tale, and as thou listen'dst sad,
‘Ivar pass'd on, unseeing thee. So him,
‘Who stops to hear the tale of misery,
‘Blessings shall follow! I attended thee,
‘Deeming thyself alone, in many an hour,
‘Of perils numberless, I clear'd thy path;
‘And when thou soughtest Ivar's camp, I round
‘Hover'd incessant; in thy mind called up
‘The thought that saved thee, to assume the man,
‘Smitten of God; and from thy ready tongue
‘Pronounced wild words.

‘But now the time drew near,
‘That needed my best power, the day of fight.

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‘I sought thee in the battle! I beheld
‘Each lurking danger that beset thy path,
‘And o'er thy head my unseen helmet cast!
‘And I will still be with thee. I will lead
‘Thy feet in pleasant paths. Whilst thy heart loves
‘Thy Friend and Maker, He will give me charge
‘To follow thee. Now thro' thy high career,
‘Shine as the Man of God. Show to the world,
‘In a peculiar sense, how beautiful
‘His feet, the Monarch, who in Zion's ways
‘Walks steadfastly.—Awhile, I bid adieu.
‘The memory of these words, thro' life preserve,
‘So, in the hour of death shalt thou behold—
‘Again thy Guardian Angel.’

With his mind—
Fill'd with the heavenly vision, Alfred woke.

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BOOK XXIV.

ARGUMENT.

Baptism of Guthrum and his followers—Interview of Alfred and Alswitha with their infant child—The king's last address to his troops.

THE morning star, faint in the western sky,
Had now retired, whilst in his orient path,
Enthroned in radiant pomp, the sun arose,
Majestic, scattering thro' one half the world
Such beams of dazzling splendour, that, awhile,
Earth seem'd annihilate, and heaven to pour
Thro' jasper gates of unimagined light
His floods of glory.

Whilst each heart beat high
With exultation, to the royal tent,
Oddune advanced and cried. `Guthrum awaits,
‘Seeking to know thy pleasure, and receive
‘The Rite—Baptism!’ Alfred thus replied.
‘Guide hither to our presence that brave chief.’—
He enters, bending with th' o'erflowing heart,
Leading his daughter; whom the queen approach'd,
And hand in hand, led gently on, to share
The private converse, whilst her sire drew near,
And Alfred thus address'd:

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‘Most noble prince!
‘Thy frown I could have borne, but thou, this heart,
‘Hast conquer'd by thy kindness. I am one
‘Who ever thought his oath inviolate,
‘And soon, from purer principles, will keep
‘That oath to God, more firm,—when next I swear,
‘Thou art my monarch! Yester night I sought
‘Our neighbouring castle, where, the anxious Danes
‘Look'd for me, sad, and on each passing breeze
‘Fancied they saw my spirit; such belief
‘Had they that I was slain: and tho' I came,
‘And in mine own and proper shape appear'd,
‘They questioned their own sight, half prone to say,
‘Impostor! Guthrum is no more!—I now
‘Declared thy conduct, all thy gracious words:
‘How thou forgav'st me, and for Guthrum's sake
‘Promis'd to pardon them. I told them more,
‘Of the religion I had late profess'd:
‘In my best way, explain'd its influence;
‘The power it had to tame the mind, and make
‘This jarring world one family of love.
‘I pointed out our foster'd hopes, how low
‘Compared with thine. I named the christian's joy,
‘How pure his character, how great his deeds,
‘And for the certain test appeal'd to thee.
‘They heard me, wondering, and, O king! rejoice!
‘Join in my rapture, when to thee I say,
‘They vow'd to be thy subjects, here to dwell
‘Beneath so brave a prince. But, more I say;
‘They seek to make profession of a Faith,
‘So honour'd by thyself;—the christian name,
‘Henceforth to bear; dependence to renounce
‘On Warrior Gods!—Creatures of flesh and blood!
‘With eyes illumed, confessing, with myself,
‘How baseless were their fears, their hopes how vain!
‘Cherish'd so long! and now, true penitents,

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‘Firm converts, as I trust, with hearts sincere,
‘Without this tent, thirty brave chieftains stand,
‘Desirous to partake, with me, O, king!
‘And this, my daughter, whom thy hand hath saved,
‘The rite, Baptism.’

Alfred, glad, replied:
‘Firm is my trust in thee, and on thy faith
‘I take thy fellows. They with thee shall share
‘The holy ordinance; and if their hearts,
‘Kindness may reach, a happier race, the sun,
‘Shall never visit. Tell them to repair,
‘Where silver Thone meandering glides along,
‘And be thou with them. There shall you meet me.’

Forth to the river's brink they pass along,
Whilst all the multitude of Saxons, gaze,
In silent admiration. Now the king,
Stately and slow, draws near, while follows him,
The queen, conducting to the ritual stream,
The Danish maiden. Lowly on the ground
She look'd; her steps were timid, and her form
Graceful, and chaste her eye; whilst on her cheek
Appear'd the blush of youth and innocence.
When Alfred, with commanding aspect, slow,
Descended to the water, when he call'd,
Each warrior Dane, the maiden, and her sire,
Whom, solemn, he address'd:

‘Guthrum! and ye
‘Who thus surround me, you are now about
‘To make profession of a faith divine.
‘It is no little thing, thus to profess
‘The christian convert. He who comes to God
‘Must own him such, and from his inmost soul,
‘Desire the Spirit's teaching. Pure, is God,
‘And he demands the heart! You must renounce
‘Ere you can be accepted, envy, wrath,

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‘Revenge, and every evil way. Your souls
‘Must dwell in charity, and view mankind,
‘As children of one parent, who demands,
‘Each friendly office, and the fervent prayer
‘That those who knew him not, may yet be taught.
‘Soon shall you all receive God's Holy Word,
‘Which tells whate'er is needful to be known,
‘And points the road to future happiness.
‘There will you learn how God all merciful,
‘Pitied degenerate men, and to redeem
‘Their race from bondage, sent his Son, inspir'd,
‘With the full burden of divinity,
‘To tell of sacred things, and to direct
‘Thro' faith in him, and in his sacrifice,
‘All men aright; so to escape the woes,
‘And penal fires, which disobedient souls
‘Must feel hereafter, if they live and die,
‘Estranged from God and from all holiness.
‘If from thy conscience, Guthrum! thou canst say,
‘This faith is thine, and you who round me stand,
‘And maiden thou! Bend and receive the wave!’

All bent devoutly, pressing their full hearts,
Declaring trust in Christ. And as they stood,
There came a sudden pause. No word was heard!
No low and passing sound—woke the still scene,
‘But all was silent, waves, and earth, and air;
‘And each of the unnumber'd multitude,
‘Gazing around, felt such a solemn hush,
All things pervade, and seem'd so sensible
Of his dread presence, His, the Lord of all!
That to himself, each seem'd to shrink to nought,
And feel his meanness in the scale of being,
As never he had felt.—Even like the man
Who, in a musing hour, wanders beside
The white and roaring ocean, when its waves,

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Conflicting lash the shore; and all around,
Far as the black horizon, shews one scene,
The onward, rolling billows, clothed in foam—
Terrific, vast, which to his mind call'd up
(In a peculiar and absorbing sense)
The power of Deity!—then, when he thinks,
Viewing the world of waters, on himself,
And seems to say, to every grain of sand,
‘Thou art my brother!’

Having left the tide,
The king his list'ning converts thus address'd:
‘Behold in me your sov'reign! view your friend!
‘For I am he. Hence shall you ever find
‘In Alfred a protector! one whose heart,
‘Plans for your welfare!—

To the Danish maid,
Who pensive stood, Alswitha thus began.
‘Sister beloved! my heart hath room for thee.
‘Ere this, thy friendship has been proved, and now,
‘Mine shall appear, tho' later, not less true.’
With grateful heart, the damsel press'd her hand.
‘Looking to Heaven, but language she had none.
Now to the spot, a man drew near and cried,
‘An aged pair, a warrior, and a child,
‘With two stout youths, now wait in yonder tent
‘O, king! and ask for thee!’ The monarch's heart
Leap'd but he spake not,—whilst the queen turn'd pale,
And would have rush'd, outstripping the fleet doe,
But, mindful of her dignity, she mov'd,
Stately along, whilst her heart throb'd with joy,
‘Till where no eye beheld her, when she sped,
Rapid and light as doth the passing shadow
Of the wild sea bird o'er the curling waves.
And now she reach'd the tent. She sees her child!—
Her long-lost child! She springs! She clasps him round!
He knows her face, and with his out-spread hands

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His mother press'd. ‘My child! my child!’ she cried,
The tear gush'd forth, and in her arms she held,
Speechless her child.

The king had Guthrum sent,
Him, and his daughter, and the Danish chiefs,
To the near castle, greetings to convey
And lasting peace; and now with hasty step
Approach'd the tent with all a father's warmth,
Leaning on Oddune.—

At the door he saw—
Acca, and hastening through the company,
Exclaim'd, ‘Where art thou?’ In his mother's arms
He sees his child! when with transporting joy,
He held him, and, appealing to high Heaven,
Cried, `This our consummation! This the point
‘For which our hearts have sigh'd. Mild innocent!
‘With other thoughts do I behold thee now,
‘Than when I left thee! Thou art hence released
‘From dangers and thick perils, and shalt dwell,
‘Safe with thy parents, cherish'd by their care.
‘Go, lovely boy! go to thy mother's arms,
‘And there be happy!’

Turning, near, he saw,
The rustic pair from Ethelney, and cried,
‘I greet you, friends! Ceolric, welcome here!
‘And Acca, for thy faithfulness and love
‘To this my child, whose rosy cheeks declare
‘Thy tender service—take my thanks! and soon
‘Expect some higher recompense. Erelong,
‘(With this thy faithful husband) thou shalt share
‘All good, which from the friendship of a king,
‘Reason may ask and gratitude bestow.
Lowly they bow. When Alfred thus again:—
‘These are your sons! Brave and intrepid youths!
‘To own such parents might alone secure
‘Your monarch's favour, but a higher claim

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‘You boast, an independence, resting firm
‘Upon your own high merit. To your swords,
‘I owe my life! Ye gallant youths, expect
‘No sordid recompense. My thoughts are deeds!
‘Awhile retire!’ When bending they withdrew.
Theirs was the deep and fix'd astonishment,
The glowing admiration, which requires,
Alone, the depths of silence!

Looking round,
Alfred at hand, saw Sigbert, when he cried
‘I joy to meet thee! welcome at this hour
‘Of general exultation! Thou ere this
‘Hast combated with injuries, and oft
‘Lost thy due equipoise: but God hath said,
‘He sees our frame, He knows that we are dust!
‘And I forgive thee, thou my favour hast.
‘Yet think not thou, that with forgetting ill,
‘I lose the good; inj'ries I may forget,
‘But favours cannot. Sigbert oft thy zeal
‘Hath help'd me. Thou hast foremost stood, in hours
‘Trying to do me service, and thy heart
‘I know is right! To thee do I ascribe
‘Yon infant's life, tidings of her thou seest,
‘Alswitha, Heaven's best gift. To show thee now
‘My sense of thy past services, erelong,
‘With other structures, sacred to high Heaven,
‘I will restore,—Wilton's monastic pile
‘In all its past magnificence, and thou,
‘Once more shall be its Abbot.’

Sigbert look'd,—
Oppress'd with gratitude. No words were his.
He press'd his heart. Now, looking at the queen,
Amazement seizes him!—In her he views—
The woman, mid the crumbling abbey walls
Whom late he saw, by Guthrum borne away!
Silent, he trembling stands.—The queen drew near.

405

She cried, `Brave Sigbert! Thou a subject's part
‘Well hast sustain'd, but that thou mett'st my child,
‘And screen'dst him from all harm, thou hast my thanks
‘Next after God. Behold in me thy friend!’
When thus the king:—

‘Doubtless now peace, around,
‘Hath spread her fostering wing, thy mind will back
‘To its past state return, and I shall see,
‘Sigbert, as heretofore, not when he breath'd
‘Threatenings and slaughter. To disclose my heart,
‘And shew thee that thy services I prize,
‘This my first confidence. On the south verge
‘Of Selwood's forest, an old hermit dwells,
‘Whom late I talk'd with. Seek his lone abode,
‘And lead him hither. He is one whom God
‘His Spirit hath pour'd out upon, and taught
‘Great truths. I need his converse! Princes stand
‘Firmest and most secure, when round them throng
‘Good and enlighten'd men.

‘Now,’ cried the king,
‘Oddune, one word to thee. Friend! counsellor!
‘Let me my mind unburden at this hour,
‘For full it is, o'erflowing. Visions bright
‘Dance round me, and the scenes as yet unborn,
‘Look fair. A secret whisper in mine ear
‘Tells me the time is come, when I may see
‘My people happy. I, their monarch made,
‘To do them good.—Shall e'er the hour arrive
‘When this my breast, glowing with great designs,
‘Prosperity shall mildew? when mine eyes,
‘Weary of objects fair, shall turn to view
‘Evil, and love it? Shall the moment come,
‘When, heedless of past sorrows, I shall stand
‘Giddy with praise? with flattery lifted high,
‘And to myself ascribe these benefits?
‘Forsake me not, Father of Heaven and earth!

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‘With other than th' unhallow'd boaster's heart,
‘Fled are our foes, as were the morning mists
‘When the sun rose. Britain is now releas'd
‘From the fierce Dane, and every scene around
‘Smiles on me. After looking up to God,
‘Whose arm upheld us, can I thee behold,
‘Nor think of thy deserts? In every toil,
‘Perplexity and care, my constant stay,
‘Whose words have cheer'd me, whose advice hath served,
‘Whose sword protected, and whose name alone
‘Made the invaders tremble. Honour'd friend!
‘Idle it were to say, thy happiness
‘Close is allied to mine! To do thee good,
‘Constant, shall be my care, and to reward
‘Thy nameless services. But thou wilt find
‘Thy monarch's commendation, tho' so high,
‘And all his benefits, a slender boon,
‘Compared with that bless'd consciousness within,
‘Of duties great and trying, well discharged.
‘Most precious feeling! such as I would hope,
‘One day to know myself, my dying day.’

Oddune replied, `Illustrious potentate,
‘Deem not my merit thus! My soul was roused
‘By thy example. Thou my spirit taught'st
‘To scorn oppression, and the ravenous bands
‘That scourged our isle. I dream'd as others dream'd,
‘Till thou appearedst, and the latent spark
‘Bade blaze within me. Dormant had I lain,
‘And all our race, dishearten'd, but for thee!

When Alfred thus: `My words must now be few.
‘Before this memorable plain we leave
‘To seek our friends and home, our fruitful fields,
‘Once more will I address my valiant hosts!

407

The queen arose, and with her infant boy,
Pass'd toward the waiting warriors, whilst the king,
‘With Oddune, follows her. The herald spake,
‘And instant round their prince his subjects throng,
When all was silence. Loftier than the rest
Stood Alfred. On one side the queen appear'd,
Bearing her child, and on the other, Oddune;
While the vast host of Saxons all around,
Intent, stood listening; when the king his arm
Raising, thus spake.

‘My subjects, yet once more
‘I claim your patience! Ere we leave this field,
‘Immortal in our annals, I would first
‘Address you from an overflowing heart,
‘And name what joys, what prospects, now are ours;
‘What evils are past by, and what is due
‘To Heaven above, and you His instruments.
‘Now is our foe no more! The fearful clouds
‘That o'er our heads hung low'ring, and with threats
‘Of devastating fury, through the land
‘Spread terror, from the cottage to the throne,
‘Like midnight dreams are vanish'd, and the scene,
‘Smiling around, resembles yonder sun
‘Now bright and cloudless. With heart melody
‘Sound the deep tones of gratitude, for now
‘Danger is o'er! That blessing, which, to taste,
‘Our fathers sought, yet to the grave went down,
‘And knew it not, that blessing—peace, is ours!
‘At death they trembled, not for their own sakes,
‘For they were good and faithful, but they saw,
‘When leaving this low earth, the gathering storm,
‘And fear'd for us their children. Cease to fear,
‘Ye holy martyrs! Honour'd shades! behold,
‘Our bands are broken. Albion now is free.
‘Where is the languid heart? Where stands the man
Stranger to transport? Where is he who views

408

‘What Heaven hath wrought, with black indifference?
‘He lives not to pollute the air! Your hearts
‘Glow on your cheeks, and glisten in your eyes!

‘Now to your dwellings haste, with souls elate,
‘Long left, but not forgotten. Now prepare
‘To call from crags, and caves, and forests deep,
‘Your frighted offspring, and your trembllng wives,
‘And doubly prize—whom you have bled to save.
‘Now till the soil, nor fear a stranger's hand—
‘Wresting the produce. And, at evening hour,
‘When after daily toil your cots you seek,
‘(Where treasures dwell, more precious to your heart
‘Than gems and gold) dread not to ope the door
‘Lest waste and death, the murderous Dane should show
‘These fears are o'er! These images are pass'd!
‘Hence gaze upon your smiling innocents,
‘Nor feel the horror of the thought, that these
‘Rise up to taste your sorrows, and endure
‘Th' oppressive burdens you have groan'd beneath,
‘For they shall reap where you have nobly sown.

‘A fairer isle than Britain, never sun
‘View'd in his wide career, concentering charms,
‘Scatter'd thro' other regions, here combined,—
‘Surpassing Fancy in her happiest dream.
‘Its rivers glittering to the noon-day sun,
‘Meandering glide in silent majesty,
‘Bearing their treasures to the rich campaigns:
‘Its woods delight the eye, its towering hills
‘Rise, wave-like, clothed in verdure: rocks and glens,
‘With prospects infinite, still new and fair,
‘Crowd on the vision, and pourtray the haunts
‘Of partial Nature, who here reigns supreme
‘In her selectest glory, whilst, to stamp
‘Our confluence of the lovely and the grand

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‘In one inspiring word, which fills the breast
‘With all sweet joys, and tender sympathies,
‘This Pride of the creation is our Home!—
‘Our fathers', and our own dear native land!
‘Nor shalt thou, England! in thy plenitude
‘Of good and graceful things, be left unpraised
‘For that which throws new splendours o'er thy name,—
‘Thy crowning greatness!—Genius here erects
‘Her deathless monuments! With eye benign,
‘Here Hospitality throws wide her door
‘And with the loaded banquet, cheers the heart
‘Of passing strangers, whilst (till foes assail'd)
‘The Children of Misfortune sought our realms,—
‘The wrong'd of every land, and here, in peace,
‘With cordial greetings, and kind offices,
‘Found refuge. Such illustrious deeds, our sons
‘Shall nobly emulate, and, with their own,
‘Advance our honours. Here the Forms Divine
‘Justice and Mercy, Liberty and Truth,
‘Spread wide their banners! To these happy shores,
‘(Encompassing an earthly paradise)
‘The world's remotest tribes direct their gaze,
‘And fain would claim the privilege we boast,
‘Of calling this their country. Oh, our Isle!
‘Thou Queen of Earth! henceforth when thou art named,
‘May every heart, exultant, leap with joy,
‘That he was born a Briton!

‘Gallant men!
‘Now crown'd at last, let us receive the prize
‘Won by our valour, and, to nations round,
‘Aloud proclaim, that Saxons still are brave,
‘And not more brave than free, who can respect
‘The rights of others, and defend their own.
‘And if in times, more distant, there should rise
‘Great foes and many, we may proudly hope,
‘Our progeny, thinking of us their sires,

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‘Will rise vindictive, and th' invader's spear
‘Trample in dust, as we this day have done
‘Before we part, my subjects! let me say,
‘With unfeign'd gratitude, the debt I owe
‘For eonstancy like yours. 'Mid troubles deep,
‘And hardships, such as never men endured,
‘You uncomplaining, as unconquer'd, stood,
‘Foremost in every toil: and tho' you saw
‘Success far off, yet patient were your looks,
‘And firm your hearts, and true, to me your king.
‘On this proud day posterity shall dwell
‘And in their plenitude of joy, on you
‘Heap praises, whilst the glorious sun on high
‘Makes their hearts glad.—

‘Subjects! that hence your days
‘Comfort may bless, one small return receive!
‘Each man, of all around, whose sword was drawn
‘In this his country's cause, shall now possess,
‘Together with my smiles, a plot of land,
‘A cottage, that shall every good contain,
‘And I will be your father.’

‘Wide arose
The voice of exultation, indistinct;
Sounding as doth the distant sea; for each
Felt his heart leap, and utter'd the half prayer.
When Alfred thus again:

‘Illustrious men!
‘One moment more. My words have not been framed
‘To self-applause, nor hath my heart been taught
‘To see aught good, but, from the hand of God.
‘When speaking of your valour and your might,
‘I know you but the instruments! On high
‘Dwells the Great Ruler of all mortal things!
‘With him have we found favour! He it was
‘Who this deliverance wrought; who, by His hand

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‘Unseen, made plain our path, and at this hour,
‘Gives us to triumph! He it was who screen'd
‘Our heads 'mid perils numberless! His arm
‘Fought on our side!—Saxons, with me rejoice!
‘But,—to the God of Heaven be all the praise!’

Each answered in his heart; no voice was heard,
‘But to the God of Heaven be all the praise!’

Amid the pause, to feeling sanctified,
Oddune his helm uplifted, and exclaim'd
‘Long live our king!’—The accents touch'd all hearts,
When instant round ‘Long live our king!’ arose
From the vast multitude, in deafening shout,
Extending thro' the concave, in its strength,
That earth convuls'd, and shook the firmament!—
E'en like the loud North East, when he combines
A thousand scatter'd breezes, and comes on,
Flood-like, with all his retinue of storms.