University of Virginia Library

THE CAMP OF THE DANES.

The evening wanes, and the plundering Danes
Have hied to their camp with the prey,
To rest from the fight and to revel by night,
On the spoil they have taken by day.
Loud was the glee and the revelry,
And the riot in ev'ry tent;
In wasteful excess and licentiousness,
Their nights were ever spent.
So great was the scorn, by those Heathens borne,
'Gainst the Saxon's scattered band,
From the feast was spared not a single guard,
To warn when a foe was at hand.
On a couch of state, proud Guthrum sate,
At the head of the boist'rous feast;
And around their king, a warrior ring
Of Danish nobles were placed.
A minstrel apart, with bewitching art,
Struck his harp to their Pagan glee;
Albeit they knew that a Christian true,
And a Saxon bold was he.
“Harper, thy flowing strains impart
A thrilling rapture to my heart.”
Thus spoke the Danish Prince, “But ne'er
Is northern noble wont to hear
The harp of scald at wassail strung,
Unanswered by the minstrel's tongue.”
That harper then obeisance made,
And thus the monarch's hest obeyed.—

SONG.

Each tongue confessed the minstrel's skill;
Each bosom felt the music's thrill;
In ev'ry ear were lingering still
The accents of the mournful lay,
Ere e'en their echo died away:
Again, his harp, still quivering, rung
To louder notes, as thus he sung.—

SONG.

As the smooth waves that late had lain
Calm on the bosom of the main,
When the hurrying winds arise,
Dash their white foam in anger to the skies,
Those warriors who at first had felt
Their souls beneath the music melt,
When those last wild notes were sung,
Up from the banquet all furious sprung;
'Twas the song of the warrior-god they adored.
Up they sprung from the festive board;
Some their savage skill displayed,
And fronted their comrades, blade to blade;
Branches of pine, some heaped on the ground,
Fired them with torches, and danced around:
'Twas dreadful to hear as they whirled them about,
The piercing yell and the frantic shout.
From the noisy feast and their heathen fray,
Soon that harper turned away;
Reckless of their savage mirth,
From the camp he sallied forth.
Long they revelled. He sped the while,
With hurried step, for many a mile,
Till Selwood's deepening forest spread
Its shadowy branches o'er his head.
He stops. What means, upreared in air,
Denmark's floating banner there?
A group of dusky forms around
Lie stretched upon the leafy ground;
Up they spring from their repose.
Are they friends or are they foes?
Each joyful tongue, and echoing tree,
Hath answer made, “'Tis he, 'tis he.”
Falling at that harper's feet,
They in him their monarch greet;
Loud the shouts of welcome ring,
'Tis Alfred's self—'tis England's king!
“Speak,” he cried, “what doth proclaim
Yon banner of accursed fame?”
Odun, Lord of Devonshire,
Answered then his royal sire;
“Fierce Hubba, with rapacious band,
Had ravaged Cambria's bleeding land,
Returning, laden with their spoil,
Again they crossed our hapless soil.
Whersoe'er those heathens came,
There was massacre and flame.
Around beleagured Kenwith's tower,
The scornful chief had ranged his power.
I bade my followers not despair.
We raised our hands to God in prayer;
And sallied from our castle-wall,
Scarce three hundred men in all.
My Sire, it suits not me to boast;
The hand of God o'erthrew their host.
Of our foul oppressors slain,
Twice six hundred heaped the plain.
As we retraced the battle's red heath,
There lay Hubba all stiffened in death;
His lips were unclosed, as when the last groan
Of parting life had between them flown.
In the vain endeavour to staunch its tide,
One cold hand was glued to his side.
Firmly, the other was clenched around
The reafen staff, as it lay on the ground.
He ope'd his fierce eyes, and he closed, methought,
His teeth with a grin, as I wrenched it out.”
Odun spoke, and every eye
Beheld the reafen reared on high.
By the silver moonbeam lit,
They signed the cross, as they gazed on it.
All knew the tale, how magic power
Had wove it in the midnight hour.
While Denmark's royal sisters stood,
With streaming hair and hands of blood,
O'er the woof, as legends tell,
Muttering thus their hateful spell.—
“Standard, in thy weft is bound
Every curse that may confound;
Ruin dire, ne'er ceasing woes,
Shake them, shake them on our foes.”
Then Alfred spoke: the band drew round
Their king, and hushed was every sound.
“The noble Odun has to England shown
That victory dwells not with the Dane alone;
Has shown no force of numbers can withstand
The desperate struggle of a dauntless band.
Shame, then, on us, were we to linger here,
Crouched in the sheltering woods, like timid deer.
What! can a Saxon view with careless eye
His burning altars flaming to the sky?
Can English noble cringe within the hall,
Where once his fathers ruled—a servile thrall,
To the fierce Dane the knee of slavery bend,
And till the soil he trembles to defend?
The slumbering embers of our country's fame,
From Odun's victory have again caught flame.
Saxons! the hour is come; one well-timed stroke
For ever frees us from oppression's yoke.
Three days, unknown, I tarried with the foe;
Each secret path around their camp I know.
Away! Away! our summon'd bands unite:
This arm ere morn shall lead you to the fight!”
Far the shouts that hail his speech,
Through the echoing forest reach.
Every yeoman's bosom shared
The monarch's ardour. See! prepared,
Pointed shaft, so true of flight,
Keen-edged axe, and falchion bright.
Warriors from each pathway rush,
And seem to spring from every bush.
As onward moves the gathering throng,
Hearken to their vengeful song.

SONG

While on the breeze those notes were borne,
The misty clouds of coming morn,
Tinged faintly with its rays at first,
Then reddening as the sunbeams burst,
Melted from the azure sky,
As rose the glorious orb on high.
He rose—and ere again he set,
Many a blade in blood was wet.
Ere his daily race was run,
Freedom's fight was fought and won.
In that camp, where mirth had been,
Fire and massacre were seen;
Where those festive shouts were heard,
Clashed the Saxon's vengeful sword;
Where the wine-cup redly glowed,
There the blood of the revellers flowed.

BALLAD.

BALLAD.

EPIGRAMS.

ON A GLOVE STOLEN FROM DELIA.

Delia, while thine, this glove I curst,
Which to hide that fair hand durst;
But, because that fair hand wore it,
Now 'tis mine, I do adore it.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

“Tell me,” cried Aminta, “why
The god of love hath ne'er an eye?'
“Ah!” quoth Corydon, “'cause he
Gave his two bright eyes to thee.”

FROM THE LATIN.

Burning love and burning hate,
My soul at once excruciate:
The cause, alas! I can't explain;
But so it is—and, oh, the pain!

[Dido first Sichæus wed,—]

Dido first Sichæus wed,—
Sichæus dying—Dido fled;
Dido next Eneas tried;
Eneas flying—Dido died