 | Alfred |  |
BOOK I.
4
ARGUMENT.
Arrival of a Stranger at the Court of Gregor, King of Caledonia.—Ancient Scotish Hospitality.—Summary Account of Events in the Life of Alfred, to his Defeat at Wilton, by the Danes.
5
While, with unequal verse, I venturous sing
The toils, and perils, of a patriot King;
Struggling through war, and adverse fate, to place
Britannia's throne on Virtue's solid base:
Guardian and glory of the British isles,
Immortal Freedom! give thy favouring smiles.
As, to our northern-clime, thy beam supplies
The want of brighter suns, and purer skies,
So, on my ruder lays, auspicious shine,
“And make immortal, verse as mean as mine.”
The toils, and perils, of a patriot King;
Struggling through war, and adverse fate, to place
Britannia's throne on Virtue's solid base:
Guardian and glory of the British isles,
Immortal Freedom! give thy favouring smiles.
As, to our northern-clime, thy beam supplies
The want of brighter suns, and purer skies,
So, on my ruder lays, auspicious shine,
“And make immortal, verse as mean as mine.”
6
Dark was the night, against Forteviot's tower
Howl'd the loud blast, and drove the sleety shower;
In the arch'd hall, with storied drapery hung,
While sacred bards the song of triumph sung,
Scotia's hoar monarch, with his peers around,
The genial board, with social temperance crown'd;
Beside him sat the leaders of his host,
Return'd, exulting, from Ierne's coast;
Where, edged by Justice, his victorious sword
To Donach's brow the regal wreath restored:
When, through the portal, with majestic mien,
A wandering stranger join'd the festive scene:
Vigorous, he seem'd, in manhood's ripen'd grace,
Firm was his step, but sad, and slow, his pace.
Though wet his garments from the driving storm,
Though the rough winds his sable locks deform,
The conscious dignity of noble birth,
Of manly confidence, and inborn worth,
With Valour's generous pride, by Virtue own'd,
Sat on his brow, in silent state enthroned:
But as the sullen mist, with lowering clouds,
The mountain's airy summit often shrouds,
So, o'er his face, dark Sorrow's shadows lie,
Pale the warm cheek, and dim the radiant eye.
Howl'd the loud blast, and drove the sleety shower;
In the arch'd hall, with storied drapery hung,
While sacred bards the song of triumph sung,
Scotia's hoar monarch, with his peers around,
The genial board, with social temperance crown'd;
Beside him sat the leaders of his host,
Return'd, exulting, from Ierne's coast;
Where, edged by Justice, his victorious sword
To Donach's brow the regal wreath restored:
When, through the portal, with majestic mien,
A wandering stranger join'd the festive scene:
Vigorous, he seem'd, in manhood's ripen'd grace,
Firm was his step, but sad, and slow, his pace.
7
Though the rough winds his sable locks deform,
The conscious dignity of noble birth,
Of manly confidence, and inborn worth,
With Valour's generous pride, by Virtue own'd,
Sat on his brow, in silent state enthroned:
But as the sullen mist, with lowering clouds,
The mountain's airy summit often shrouds,
So, o'er his face, dark Sorrow's shadows lie,
Pale the warm cheek, and dim the radiant eye.
Unusual awe pervades the wondering throng,
Hush'd is the laugh, and mute the minstrel's tongue:
When, rising from his seat, the King address'd,
In words of kind accost, the noble guest.
Hush'd is the laugh, and mute the minstrel's tongue:
When, rising from his seat, the King address'd,
In words of kind accost, the noble guest.
“Stranger, whoe'er thou art, thy form divine
Declares thee offspring of a generous line.—
Ne'er, houseless, at this hospitable gate
Is the night-founder'd wanderer doom'd to wait;
But when the hero, to this mansion driven,
Here seeks a refuge from the inclement heaven,
Our gates unfolding, court the welcome guest,
And warmest Friendship clasps him to her breast:
Come, and with us, a social inmate, share
The plenteous banquet Joy and Peace prepare.”
Declares thee offspring of a generous line.—
Ne'er, houseless, at this hospitable gate
Is the night-founder'd wanderer doom'd to wait;
But when the hero, to this mansion driven,
Here seeks a refuge from the inclement heaven,
8
And warmest Friendship clasps him to her breast:
Come, and with us, a social inmate, share
The plenteous banquet Joy and Peace prepare.”
“Ah! Peace and Joy,” the stranger knight replies,
“Nor chear this bursting heart, nor light these eyes;
The falling deluge and the angry wind,
Are more congenial with this tortured mind,
Than festive mirth—than all the joys that speak
In Music's voice, or glow on Beauty's cheek.—
A suppliant here, before thy throne I stand,
A wretched exile from a ruin'd land;
But the dire tale my accents must disclose,
A series sad of luckless wars and woes,
O let me now repress, nor vainly sour
The social pleasures of the genial hour.”
“Nor chear this bursting heart, nor light these eyes;
The falling deluge and the angry wind,
Are more congenial with this tortured mind,
Than festive mirth—than all the joys that speak
In Music's voice, or glow on Beauty's cheek.—
A suppliant here, before thy throne I stand,
A wretched exile from a ruin'd land;
But the dire tale my accents must disclose,
A series sad of luckless wars and woes,
O let me now repress, nor vainly sour
The social pleasures of the genial hour.”
“Then be it so,” the Scotish monarch cries,
“And, till the morning sun illume the skies,
Defer your tale. If aught your mind oppress
That friendship can assuage, or arms redress,
Prompt are our generous nobles to afford
The lenient counsel, or the avenging sword;
Meanwhile, the festive bowl, and tuneful strain,
Shall raise your drooping strength, and soothe your pain.”
“And, till the morning sun illume the skies,
Defer your tale. If aught your mind oppress
That friendship can assuage, or arms redress,
9
The lenient counsel, or the avenging sword;
Meanwhile, the festive bowl, and tuneful strain,
Shall raise your drooping strength, and soothe your pain.”
He said.—Attendant youths surround the guest,
Throw o'er his storm-drench'd limbs a fresher vest,
Then, by the monarch's side respectful placed,
His manly form the seat of honour graced.
Yet, 'mid the joyous band, he silent mused,
Oft his swoll'n eye the rising tear suffused,
And, ever and anon, a sigh, that stole
Reluctant, spoke the anguish of his soul.
Throw o'er his storm-drench'd limbs a fresher vest,
Then, by the monarch's side respectful placed,
His manly form the seat of honour graced.
Yet, 'mid the joyous band, he silent mused,
Oft his swoll'n eye the rising tear suffused,
And, ever and anon, a sigh, that stole
Reluctant, spoke the anguish of his soul.
The monarch saw, and bade the choral train
Swell, to the vaulted roof, the warlike strain:
Resounds the spacious dome with martial notes,
And round the walls the song of battle floats.
Swell, to the vaulted roof, the warlike strain:
Resounds the spacious dome with martial notes,
And round the walls the song of battle floats.
They sung what Ossian's voice, in days of old,
Of other times, and godlike heroes told;
Warriors, of royal lineage, who, of yore,
From Erin's plains the wreaths of conquest bore;
What time Fingal, to save from Lochlin's spears
Cuchullin's age, and Cormac's infant years,
Led o'er the billowy deep his guardian host,
To combat Swaran, on a hostile coast.
As the skill'd Bards, in rapture loud and free,
Swell'd the bold strain of martial minstrelsy,
Around, the listening Thanes with fierce delight
Recall'd the triumphs of the recent fight,
Where each illustrous chief on Erin's shore
Rival'd the meed of fame his fathers wore.
Of other times, and godlike heroes told;
10
From Erin's plains the wreaths of conquest bore;
What time Fingal, to save from Lochlin's spears
Cuchullin's age, and Cormac's infant years,
Led o'er the billowy deep his guardian host,
To combat Swaran, on a hostile coast.
As the skill'd Bards, in rapture loud and free,
Swell'd the bold strain of martial minstrelsy,
Around, the listening Thanes with fierce delight
Recall'd the triumphs of the recent fight,
Where each illustrous chief on Erin's shore
Rival'd the meed of fame his fathers wore.
Now, mingling pity with the warlike lay,
In softer mood the strings symphoneous play,
And paint, enwrap'd in winter's midnight gloom,
The hunter, leaning by the lonesome tomb,
Where rest, in Death's eternal slumber laid,
The youthful warrior, and the love-lorn maid;
While, as the gale in sullen murmur pass'd,
The wan ghost shriek'd in the terrific blast,—
Like scenes of years long flown, the descant stole,
Pleasant, but mournful, o'er the ruffled soul:
For, Memory! thy enchanting light can throw
A gleam of languid joy o'er distant woe.
As the pale moon, through watery mists display'd,
Faintly illumes the billows' darkling shade.
In softer mood the strings symphoneous play,
And paint, enwrap'd in winter's midnight gloom,
The hunter, leaning by the lonesome tomb,
Where rest, in Death's eternal slumber laid,
The youthful warrior, and the love-lorn maid;
While, as the gale in sullen murmur pass'd,
The wan ghost shriek'd in the terrific blast,—
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Pleasant, but mournful, o'er the ruffled soul:
For, Memory! thy enchanting light can throw
A gleam of languid joy o'er distant woe.
As the pale moon, through watery mists display'd,
Faintly illumes the billows' darkling shade.
In pathos rising now, the minstrel sung
What wild complaints the warrior poet wrung,
As sad, by Lutha's azure stream, he stood,
And raised his lay divine, in plaintive mood;
Swelling the solemn dirge, for Oscar lost,
To soothe the sorrows of Malvina's ghost:—
“The wild winds roar!—resounds each hollow cave!
Deep murmurs on the strand the rolling wave;
Through the scath'd oak the gust portentous sings;
Spontaneous sound the harp's responsive strings!
Say, does the passing wind awake the lyre,
Or strikes some shadowy hand the dancing wire?
'Tis pale Malvina's ghost that swells the note!
Born on the song, my parting breath shall float.
See, stooping from the clouds, my sires embrace
The last faint remnant of a mighty race.
Why art thou sad, my soul?—The chiefs of yore
Are wafted all to dark oblivion's shore.
As, on the bosom of the stormy deep,
Waves after waves in lapse eternal sweep;
As in the woods that Morven's mountains shade,
Leaves after leaves incessant strew the glade;
Nor shape, nor vestige, of their form retain,
These sunk in earth, those melted in the main;
So fleets of man the visionary pride,
An empty bubble, born on Fancy's tide.
How beauty lasts, let dying Ryno tell;
Could strength, could courage stand, when Oscar fell?
Fingal! the great! the brave! thy days are o'er,
Thy halls, deserted, sound thy name no more.
And say, shall hoary Ossian's fame alone
Stand, while the mighty sink, unsung, unknown?—
Yes, as the oaks of Morven boldly rise,
And throw their giant branches to the skies,
While the dark forest's weaker sons reclined,
Bend to the dust before the infuriate wind;
Ossian thy fame shall rise, shall flourish long,
Born on the enraptured energy of song.”
What wild complaints the warrior poet wrung,
As sad, by Lutha's azure stream, he stood,
And raised his lay divine, in plaintive mood;
Swelling the solemn dirge, for Oscar lost,
To soothe the sorrows of Malvina's ghost:—
“The wild winds roar!—resounds each hollow cave!
Deep murmurs on the strand the rolling wave;
Through the scath'd oak the gust portentous sings;
Spontaneous sound the harp's responsive strings!
Say, does the passing wind awake the lyre,
Or strikes some shadowy hand the dancing wire?
'Tis pale Malvina's ghost that swells the note!
Born on the song, my parting breath shall float.
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The last faint remnant of a mighty race.
Why art thou sad, my soul?—The chiefs of yore
Are wafted all to dark oblivion's shore.
As, on the bosom of the stormy deep,
Waves after waves in lapse eternal sweep;
As in the woods that Morven's mountains shade,
Leaves after leaves incessant strew the glade;
Nor shape, nor vestige, of their form retain,
These sunk in earth, those melted in the main;
So fleets of man the visionary pride,
An empty bubble, born on Fancy's tide.
How beauty lasts, let dying Ryno tell;
Could strength, could courage stand, when Oscar fell?
Fingal! the great! the brave! thy days are o'er,
Thy halls, deserted, sound thy name no more.
And say, shall hoary Ossian's fame alone
Stand, while the mighty sink, unsung, unknown?—
Yes, as the oaks of Morven boldly rise,
And throw their giant branches to the skies,
While the dark forest's weaker sons reclined,
Bend to the dust before the infuriate wind;
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Born on the enraptured energy of song.”
Here passion's torrent swell'd the stranger's breast,
And all the man of sorrow stood confess'd;
Across his face his robe he drew, to hide,
Of gushing tears, the involuntary tide;
Attentive, Gregor mark'd his struggling pain,
And still'd, with hasty voice, the plaintive strain.
And all the man of sorrow stood confess'd;
Across his face his robe he drew, to hide,
Of gushing tears, the involuntary tide;
Attentive, Gregor mark'd his struggling pain,
And still'd, with hasty voice, the plaintive strain.
“In vain, O King,” the mournful warrior said,
“To me, is Pity's generous tribute paid.—
If, while thy tuneful bards, in lofty lays,
Sung Caledonia's woes in earlier days;
If, while of chiefs they sung, who erst defied,
In many a field, the Roman tyrant's pride,
Struck by the verse, thou and thy princely peers
Pour'd to the strain the heartfelt praise of tears;
O think what pangs of grief this heart must know,
What tears of sorrow from these eyes must flow,
Which recent and tremendous scenes have view'd,
Of public rapine, and of kindred blood;
Seen Desolation stalk with demon-form,
O'er Albion's fields, and swell the ensanguined storm;
Seen, while her bravest warriors died in vain,
Barbarian victors waste her fair domain,
While Treachery gored, with parricidal hand,
The bleeding bosom of its native land;
Seen each endearing charity of life,
A smiling infant, and a blooming wife,
Torn from these arms, stretch'd to protect, in vain,
Their helpless virtues from a lawless train.—
Forgive these sighs from homebred anguish grown,
Amid my people's wrongs I feel my own.
He vainly boasts a patriot's grief to know,
Whose tears for kindred sufferings never flow.
No!—though my country's wrongs, with venom'd dart,
Strike keenest tortures through this wounded heart;
Still must my bosom feel for ties more near,
Still must Elsitha claim her Alfred's tear.
“To me, is Pity's generous tribute paid.—
If, while thy tuneful bards, in lofty lays,
Sung Caledonia's woes in earlier days;
If, while of chiefs they sung, who erst defied,
In many a field, the Roman tyrant's pride,
Struck by the verse, thou and thy princely peers
Pour'd to the strain the heartfelt praise of tears;
O think what pangs of grief this heart must know,
What tears of sorrow from these eyes must flow,
Which recent and tremendous scenes have view'd,
Of public rapine, and of kindred blood;
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O'er Albion's fields, and swell the ensanguined storm;
Seen, while her bravest warriors died in vain,
Barbarian victors waste her fair domain,
While Treachery gored, with parricidal hand,
The bleeding bosom of its native land;
Seen each endearing charity of life,
A smiling infant, and a blooming wife,
Torn from these arms, stretch'd to protect, in vain,
Their helpless virtues from a lawless train.—
Forgive these sighs from homebred anguish grown,
Amid my people's wrongs I feel my own.
He vainly boasts a patriot's grief to know,
Whose tears for kindred sufferings never flow.
No!—though my country's wrongs, with venom'd dart,
Strike keenest tortures through this wounded heart;
Still must my bosom feel for ties more near,
Still must Elsitha claim her Alfred's tear.
Struck by the illustrious name, the generous band
Around the King, in aweful silence, stand;
Each, with keen look, the far-famed chief explores,
Heroic lord of Albion's southern shores.
Through every breast a fire congenial ran,
Prompt to avenge the monarch, and the man;
When Gregor thus;—“Great heir of Hengist's line
Thy country's wrongs are ours, thy foes are mine.
The inroads dire of Scandinavia's horde,
And England's woes, and Alfred's victor sword,
Are not to us unknown; but doom'd to rear
On Erin's shores usurp'd, the avenging spear,
Where, joining injured Donach's exiled powers,
I fix'd his ensigns on Eblana's towers,
Unknown the sad reverse thy words relate,
If changeful fortune, or mysterious fate.
Fear not to mar the scene of gay delight,
Or steal our slumbers from the waning night;
The sweets of social joy, or balmy sleep,
Who can partake, if Virtue wake and weep?
Pour all thy sorrows on my listening ear,
Ours be it to avenge the wrongs we hear.”
Around the King, in aweful silence, stand;
15
Heroic lord of Albion's southern shores.
Through every breast a fire congenial ran,
Prompt to avenge the monarch, and the man;
When Gregor thus;—“Great heir of Hengist's line
Thy country's wrongs are ours, thy foes are mine.
The inroads dire of Scandinavia's horde,
And England's woes, and Alfred's victor sword,
Are not to us unknown; but doom'd to rear
On Erin's shores usurp'd, the avenging spear,
Where, joining injured Donach's exiled powers,
I fix'd his ensigns on Eblana's towers,
Unknown the sad reverse thy words relate,
If changeful fortune, or mysterious fate.
Fear not to mar the scene of gay delight,
Or steal our slumbers from the waning night;
The sweets of social joy, or balmy sleep,
Who can partake, if Virtue wake and weep?
Pour all thy sorrows on my listening ear,
Ours be it to avenge the wrongs we hear.”
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He ceased, and o'er the hero's troubled soul
A transient beam of happier omen stole;
Hope check'd, awhile, Despondence' smother'd sigh,
And future vengeance kindled in his eye.
A transient beam of happier omen stole;
Hope check'd, awhile, Despondence' smother'd sigh,
And future vengeance kindled in his eye.
“O generous Prince!” he cried, “can speech impart
The strong sensations of this grateful heart?—
Thy words shall live eternal on my breast,
In adamantine characters impress'd.—
If sympathetic Pity wish to know
The tale of England's fall, and Alfred's woe,
Scenes of disasterous conflict I disclose,
And horrid triumphs of Barbarian foes.
The strong sensations of this grateful heart?—
Thy words shall live eternal on my breast,
In adamantine characters impress'd.—
If sympathetic Pity wish to know
The tale of England's fall, and Alfred's woe,
Scenes of disasterous conflict I disclose,
And horrid triumphs of Barbarian foes.
“I was not doom'd to feel alone the weight
Which hangs for ever o'er the regal state;—
The oppressor's menace, and the sufferer's groan,
Pursued my footsteps to the English throne;
Raised, in the hour of vengeance, to command
A ruined people, and a ravaged land.—
Not such the promise of my earlier hours,
Sent, by my sire, to Rome's imperial towers,
The sovereign Pontiff, on my infant head,
With mystic rite, the holy unction shed,
Then, smiling, hail'd me, in prophetic strain,
Adopted heir of England's fair domain.
Ah, prophecy of ill! through Sorrow's way,
And Death's dark shade, my path to empire lay.
For ere of youth matured, the opening grace
With its first down, had shaded yet my face,
Three brothers, Albion's hope, wise, mild, and brave,
With their gray sire, I follow'd to the grave.
Young Ethelred the rod of empire bore,
A sword his sceptre, red with Danish gore.
In many a field his vigorous arm was tried,
Where first I learn'd to combat by his side,
While, Honour's guerdon, on my stripling thigh
He bound the glorious blade of chivalry.
Soon was I call'd, the illustrious toil to prove,
Champion, at once, of Glory and of Love.
Burthred, of Mercia tributary lord,
Shrunk from the fury of the Danish sword;
Swift, to his aid, the King his squadrons sped,
My youthful arm the gallant succours led,
Fame crown'd my first attempt, the rude invader fled.
There Beauty fair, to fairer Virtue join'd,
First caught my ardent eye, and fix'd my mind;
By mutual vows, and mutual passion tied,
I, to the altar, led my blooming bride.
Elsitha! bless'd with every female grace,
An angel's goodness, and an angel's face,
Where dost thou wander now?—Thy gentle form
Exposed to rude Misfortune's wildest storm;
Perhaps, the prize of rapine, and of war,
Born far from England's shores, from Alfred far!
Forgive my weakness, but the tear will start,
The struggling sigh will speak the bursting heart.
Which hangs for ever o'er the regal state;—
The oppressor's menace, and the sufferer's groan,
Pursued my footsteps to the English throne;
Raised, in the hour of vengeance, to command
A ruined people, and a ravaged land.—
Not such the promise of my earlier hours,
Sent, by my sire, to Rome's imperial towers,
17
With mystic rite, the holy unction shed,
Then, smiling, hail'd me, in prophetic strain,
Adopted heir of England's fair domain.
Ah, prophecy of ill! through Sorrow's way,
And Death's dark shade, my path to empire lay.
For ere of youth matured, the opening grace
With its first down, had shaded yet my face,
Three brothers, Albion's hope, wise, mild, and brave,
With their gray sire, I follow'd to the grave.
Young Ethelred the rod of empire bore,
A sword his sceptre, red with Danish gore.
In many a field his vigorous arm was tried,
Where first I learn'd to combat by his side,
While, Honour's guerdon, on my stripling thigh
He bound the glorious blade of chivalry.
18
Champion, at once, of Glory and of Love.
Burthred, of Mercia tributary lord,
Shrunk from the fury of the Danish sword;
Swift, to his aid, the King his squadrons sped,
My youthful arm the gallant succours led,
Fame crown'd my first attempt, the rude invader fled.
There Beauty fair, to fairer Virtue join'd,
First caught my ardent eye, and fix'd my mind;
By mutual vows, and mutual passion tied,
I, to the altar, led my blooming bride.
Elsitha! bless'd with every female grace,
An angel's goodness, and an angel's face,
Where dost thou wander now?—Thy gentle form
Exposed to rude Misfortune's wildest storm;
Perhaps, the prize of rapine, and of war,
Born far from England's shores, from Alfred far!
Forgive my weakness, but the tear will start,
The struggling sigh will speak the bursting heart.
19
“Short was the festive scene of nuptial joy,
New combats soon our labouring swords employ:
Barbarian hosts, wafted by every gale,
O'er Albion's desolated realms prevail.
From Mercia's fields I trace my march again,
To join my King on Wessex' native plain.
The insulting Dane's ill-omen'd ravens fly
O'er fair Berrochia's hills, and flout the sky.
Aloft, on verdant Ashdown's breezy height,
In close array, embattled for the fight,
Scorning our force the exulting victors stand,
Rich, in the plunder of a ruin'd land.
New combats soon our labouring swords employ:
Barbarian hosts, wafted by every gale,
O'er Albion's desolated realms prevail.
From Mercia's fields I trace my march again,
To join my King on Wessex' native plain.
The insulting Dane's ill-omen'd ravens fly
O'er fair Berrochia's hills, and flout the sky.
Aloft, on verdant Ashdown's breezy height,
In close array, embattled for the fight,
Scorning our force the exulting victors stand,
Rich, in the plunder of a ruin'd land.
“With fervent prayer while, seeking Heavenly aid,
His pious orisons my brother paid,
Against my sever'd force the wary foe
Pour'd his full ranks, and aim'd the unequal blow.
Full many a wistful look across the glade
I threw, to seek the loitering squadron's aid.—
In vain I threw—no squadron's aid I found,
Fierce Denmark's black battalions swarming round.
Too well I knew imperious Duty's claim,
To barter Albion's weal for empty fame;
But since nor flight, nor skill, could hope afford,
Despairing Valour sternly grasp'd the sword.
My files condensed, I bade the ensigns move,
The hovering foe still threatening from above.
Ardent, but firm, my troops, in close array,
Urge, up the grassy steep, their toilsome way.
A single thorn-tree, rugged, scath'd, and low,
Which stood conspicuous on the green hill's brow,
Mark'd the dread scene of combat,—War's red tide
Alternate ebb'd and flow'd on either side:
As fierce the conflict, and the din as loud,
As when, o'er Heaven's dark vault, in nitrous cloud,
Thick vapours, raised by adverse winds afar,
Spread the wild roar of elemental war.
The Dane elate, and zealous to maintain,
By blood and carnage won, his lawless reign;
The Saxon, hopeless, yet resolved to scale,
Though host on host his front and flank assail,
The steepy mountain's height; and snatch the wreath,
If not of conquest, yet of glorious death;
For every tender feeling, which possess'd,
Gives life's too bitter cup its only zest;
Which, torn away, is torn each social care,
And hope's last beam is whelm'd in black despair;
Friends, freedom, honour, country, all afford
Nerve to the arm, and temper to the sword.
His pious orisons my brother paid,
Against my sever'd force the wary foe
Pour'd his full ranks, and aim'd the unequal blow.
Full many a wistful look across the glade
I threw, to seek the loitering squadron's aid.—
In vain I threw—no squadron's aid I found,
Fierce Denmark's black battalions swarming round.
20
To barter Albion's weal for empty fame;
But since nor flight, nor skill, could hope afford,
Despairing Valour sternly grasp'd the sword.
My files condensed, I bade the ensigns move,
The hovering foe still threatening from above.
Ardent, but firm, my troops, in close array,
Urge, up the grassy steep, their toilsome way.
A single thorn-tree, rugged, scath'd, and low,
Which stood conspicuous on the green hill's brow,
Mark'd the dread scene of combat,—War's red tide
Alternate ebb'd and flow'd on either side:
As fierce the conflict, and the din as loud,
As when, o'er Heaven's dark vault, in nitrous cloud,
Thick vapours, raised by adverse winds afar,
Spread the wild roar of elemental war.
21
By blood and carnage won, his lawless reign;
The Saxon, hopeless, yet resolved to scale,
Though host on host his front and flank assail,
The steepy mountain's height; and snatch the wreath,
If not of conquest, yet of glorious death;
For every tender feeling, which possess'd,
Gives life's too bitter cup its only zest;
Which, torn away, is torn each social care,
And hope's last beam is whelm'd in black despair;
Friends, freedom, honour, country, all afford
Nerve to the arm, and temper to the sword.
“Heaven aids the juster cause; as lightning fierce,
The Danish line our bands victorious pierce:
Along the hills the foe astonish'd flies,
And hostile blood the thirsty herbage dies.
Death marks his progress o'er the ensanguined glade,
Till Night, ascending, spreads her welcome shade.
There Scandinavia many a chief shall mourn;
In vain her dames shall wait their lords' return.
There the proud King, stern Basseg, yields his breath,
By many a gallant noble join'd in death.
There, old in arms, the veteran Sidroc died,
His youthful brother bleeding by his side:
There Osbern sunk, his memory fame shall grace,
Unstain'd by crimes, amid a cruel race,
Lamented sunk the generous and the brave;—
Nor could his strength gigantic Fræna save.
There Harold fell, whose sires, in times of yore,
With warlike arm Norwegia's sceptre bore.
The Danish line our bands victorious pierce:
Along the hills the foe astonish'd flies,
And hostile blood the thirsty herbage dies.
Death marks his progress o'er the ensanguined glade,
Till Night, ascending, spreads her welcome shade.
There Scandinavia many a chief shall mourn;
In vain her dames shall wait their lords' return.
22
By many a gallant noble join'd in death.
There, old in arms, the veteran Sidroc died,
His youthful brother bleeding by his side:
There Osbern sunk, his memory fame shall grace,
Unstain'd by crimes, amid a cruel race,
Lamented sunk the generous and the brave;—
Nor could his strength gigantic Fræna save.
There Harold fell, whose sires, in times of yore,
With warlike arm Norwegia's sceptre bore.
“Day after day, with oft repeated blow,
Our victor arms pursued the scatter'd foe.—
Short was the triumph, with exhaustless tide
Unnumber'd hordes the waste of war supplied.
In vain, forth issuing on the billowy main,
Our barks, victorious, met the hostile train,
Staid in their mid career the invading host,
And wreck'd their hopes on Albion's stormy coast;
While wondering Ocean saw his sea-green flood
By floating corses choked, and stain'd with blood.—
Crouds, on the evening wave in safety born,
Repair'd the useless slaughter of the morn.
Our victor arms pursued the scatter'd foe.—
Short was the triumph, with exhaustless tide
Unnumber'd hordes the waste of war supplied.
In vain, forth issuing on the billowy main,
Our barks, victorious, met the hostile train,
23
And wreck'd their hopes on Albion's stormy coast;
While wondering Ocean saw his sea-green flood
By floating corses choked, and stain'd with blood.—
Crouds, on the evening wave in safety born,
Repair'd the useless slaughter of the morn.
“As clouds on clouds, in dark succession driven,
Shade the wide concave of the wintry Heaven,
While, with vain power, the struggling orb of day
Sheds, through the dim expanse, a transient ray,
So useless valour glows, with feeble light,
Quench'd in Adversity's surrounding night.—
With unremitting, though with hopeless zeal,
Nobly devoted for the general weal,
A breathing barrier, 'gainst a sea of blood,
For England, Ethelred unshaken stood;
For England too, with all a patriot's pride,
My friend, my brother, and my monarch, died.
Shade the wide concave of the wintry Heaven,
While, with vain power, the struggling orb of day
Sheds, through the dim expanse, a transient ray,
So useless valour glows, with feeble light,
Quench'd in Adversity's surrounding night.—
With unremitting, though with hopeless zeal,
Nobly devoted for the general weal,
A breathing barrier, 'gainst a sea of blood,
For England, Ethelred unshaken stood;
For England too, with all a patriot's pride,
My friend, my brother, and my monarch, died.
24
“No joy of sway my opening reign adorns,
A robe of mourning, and a crown of thorns.
For the vow'd fealty of the Saxon lord,
Gleam'd Desolation's flame, and Murder's sword;
For the loud anthem, and the festive strain,
Rose the dire shriek of Terror and of Pain!
A robe of mourning, and a crown of thorns.
For the vow'd fealty of the Saxon lord,
Gleam'd Desolation's flame, and Murder's sword;
For the loud anthem, and the festive strain,
Rose the dire shriek of Terror and of Pain!
“Swoll'n with success, elate in gathering force,
War's crimson deluge urged its fatal course;
With heart-felt anguish, and desponding soul,
I saw the mighty ruin nearer roll:
I threw my eye, with anxious search, around,
Nor chance of flight, nor hope of succour found.—
Useless, by gold's inglorious means, to try
Precarious peace, on shameful terms, to buy;
Too often had I seen the faithless tribe
Pursue the plunder, though they grasp'd the bribe.—
Yet, though dismay'd, not abject in despair,
Resolved the last resort of arms to dare,
I call'd my peers and hardy serfs around;
Eager they crowd at Glory's cheering sound.—
Brave Ethelwood, of Ebor's hills the pride,
Led his indignant veterans to my side,
Supreme in deeds of arms, in grace of art,
The boldest warrior, with the gentlest heart.
Siward and Edgar join'd the impatient host,
And valiant Oddune, lord of Devon's coast.
By glory urged, from Wyndham's far domain,
And regions border'd by the eastern main,
His gallant powers the loyal Aylwaid draws,
Happy to combat in his monarch's cause:
Though, distant from the foe, no alien band
Destroy his scatter'd herds, or waste his land,
He sees his country bleed, his King distress'd;
And virtue feels, and courage acts the rest.
But high above his peers, with fiery boast,
And threat vindictive, Ceolph led his host.
Semblance of vengeance!—in his traitor heart
Pale Envy's hand had fix'd the rancorous dart.
Long had his ardent mind in secret plann'd
Schemes of imperial grasp, and high command;
And when my hoary sire's approving voice,
Confirming, by his own, a people's choice,
Raised valiant Burthred to the Mercian crown,
Due to his race, his worth, his high renown,
Ceolph, by wild Ambition's fiends subdued,
With jealous eye the splendid burthen view'd,
His wide demesnes, and rural swains among,
In silence, brooding o'er the imagined wrong.—
But as Invasion's tempest louder rose,
Assuming sorrow for his country's woes,
Around, in arms, his warlike bands he drew,
Then to my aid with speed, insidious flew,
Seem'd, more than all, for Albion's wrongs to feel;
And mask'd his black designs in patriot zeal.
War's crimson deluge urged its fatal course;
With heart-felt anguish, and desponding soul,
I saw the mighty ruin nearer roll:
I threw my eye, with anxious search, around,
Nor chance of flight, nor hope of succour found.—
Useless, by gold's inglorious means, to try
Precarious peace, on shameful terms, to buy;
Too often had I seen the faithless tribe
Pursue the plunder, though they grasp'd the bribe.—
Yet, though dismay'd, not abject in despair,
Resolved the last resort of arms to dare,
I call'd my peers and hardy serfs around;
Eager they crowd at Glory's cheering sound.—
25
Led his indignant veterans to my side,
Supreme in deeds of arms, in grace of art,
The boldest warrior, with the gentlest heart.
Siward and Edgar join'd the impatient host,
And valiant Oddune, lord of Devon's coast.
By glory urged, from Wyndham's far domain,
And regions border'd by the eastern main,
His gallant powers the loyal Aylwaid draws,
Happy to combat in his monarch's cause:
Though, distant from the foe, no alien band
Destroy his scatter'd herds, or waste his land,
He sees his country bleed, his King distress'd;
And virtue feels, and courage acts the rest.
But high above his peers, with fiery boast,
And threat vindictive, Ceolph led his host.
Semblance of vengeance!—in his traitor heart
Pale Envy's hand had fix'd the rancorous dart.
26
Schemes of imperial grasp, and high command;
And when my hoary sire's approving voice,
Confirming, by his own, a people's choice,
Raised valiant Burthred to the Mercian crown,
Due to his race, his worth, his high renown,
Ceolph, by wild Ambition's fiends subdued,
With jealous eye the splendid burthen view'd,
His wide demesnes, and rural swains among,
In silence, brooding o'er the imagined wrong.—
But as Invasion's tempest louder rose,
Assuming sorrow for his country's woes,
Around, in arms, his warlike bands he drew,
Then to my aid with speed, insidious flew,
Seem'd, more than all, for Albion's wrongs to feel;
And mask'd his black designs in patriot zeal.
“As o'er the glittering van my eye I threw,
Hope's cheering flame rekindled at the view:
‘Brave sons of England's ancient fame,’ I cried,
‘At once your country's safety and its pride,
‘By me that country speaks.—Distress'd, forlorn,
‘By inroad fierce, and fiercer faction, torn;
‘All that to man, delight and peace can yield,
‘Debased, insulted, chides you to the field.
‘No hope for us but in our swords must lie,
‘Our only refuge, death or victory.
‘Though full and strong yon ranks; in Heaven's high hand,
‘Of human deeds, the uncertain issues stand.—
‘Our bands, though no angelic warrior guide,
‘No thunder roll tremendous on our side,
‘Yet potent still the eternal arm to save,
‘Aiding the strong exertions of the brave.
‘Be it ours with hearts, by fear untamed, to dare
‘The stormy conflict of the thickening war;
‘Brave the fierce squadrons with undaunted breast,
‘Act as we ought, and leave to Heaven the rest.
‘Still prompt to follow Freedom's holy call,
‘Her guards in life, her martyrs in our fall.’
Hope's cheering flame rekindled at the view:
‘Brave sons of England's ancient fame,’ I cried,
‘At once your country's safety and its pride,
27
‘By inroad fierce, and fiercer faction, torn;
‘All that to man, delight and peace can yield,
‘Debased, insulted, chides you to the field.
‘No hope for us but in our swords must lie,
‘Our only refuge, death or victory.
‘Though full and strong yon ranks; in Heaven's high hand,
‘Of human deeds, the uncertain issues stand.—
‘Our bands, though no angelic warrior guide,
‘No thunder roll tremendous on our side,
‘Yet potent still the eternal arm to save,
‘Aiding the strong exertions of the brave.
‘Be it ours with hearts, by fear untamed, to dare
‘The stormy conflict of the thickening war;
‘Brave the fierce squadrons with undaunted breast,
‘Act as we ought, and leave to Heaven the rest.
‘Still prompt to follow Freedom's holy call,
‘Her guards in life, her martyrs in our fall.’
“A sullen murmur from the army broke,
Which Vengeance, mix'd with temperate courage, spoke;
Inspired by Glory, one congenial soul
Shoots through the ranks, and animates the whole.
In solemn silence now the firm array
Urge, to the adverse host, their steady way;
Mounting the upland brow, whence Awe surveys
The rocks, stupendous, rear'd in ancient days,
Whose shapes gigantic, to the traveller's eyes,
O'er Wilton's plains, in distant prospect, rise,
Where, to his God, though dimm'd by error's shade,
Mysterious rites the holy Druid paid.—
Our sight, indignant, o'er the scene we throw,
Where Alun laves the extended fields below.
There fanes, and villages, and cities lie,
One smoaking ruin, to the astonish'd eye.
Vindictive Rage, by sighs of Pity fann'd,
Darts, like the flash of Heaven, along the band;
I mark'd the effect, and gave the expected word,—
Swift, down the steep, the impatient warriors pour'd.
Not swifter from the sky's empyreal height,
Where his strong eye-balls drink the solar light,
Stoops the proud eagle on the scatter'd train
Of crows, and choughs, that scream along the plain.
Which Vengeance, mix'd with temperate courage, spoke;
28
Shoots through the ranks, and animates the whole.
In solemn silence now the firm array
Urge, to the adverse host, their steady way;
Mounting the upland brow, whence Awe surveys
The rocks, stupendous, rear'd in ancient days,
Whose shapes gigantic, to the traveller's eyes,
O'er Wilton's plains, in distant prospect, rise,
Where, to his God, though dimm'd by error's shade,
Mysterious rites the holy Druid paid.—
Our sight, indignant, o'er the scene we throw,
Where Alun laves the extended fields below.
There fanes, and villages, and cities lie,
One smoaking ruin, to the astonish'd eye.
Vindictive Rage, by sighs of Pity fann'd,
Darts, like the flash of Heaven, along the band;
I mark'd the effect, and gave the expected word,—
Swift, down the steep, the impatient warriors pour'd.
29
Where his strong eye-balls drink the solar light,
Stoops the proud eagle on the scatter'd train
Of crows, and choughs, that scream along the plain.
“The plunderers quit their spoil, collect their force,
And countless myriads swarm to check our course;
Thick as the insect multitudes that fly
O'er the clear brook, in Summer's evening sky;
Fierce as the hornets, born on quivering wing,
With hum terrific, and with venom'd sting.—
The armies shock.—Here with tremendous clang,
That loud through echoing hills and vallies rang,
Dread as the wintry torrent, sweep along,
In iron deluge, Scandinavia's throng:
There, in firm phalanx, with protended lance,
Silent, and close, the Saxon lines advance.
Keen was the conflict, but the unerring blows
Of martial skill, o'er brutal fury rose.—
Untrain'd to order, as uncheck'd by fear,
The Danes, enfuriate, brave the English spear.
By rage unruffled, though in vengeance warm,
A breathing bulwark 'gainst the sanguine storm,
Our warriors stand;—fell slaughter stalks around,
And piles, with bleeding infidels, the ground.
And countless myriads swarm to check our course;
Thick as the insect multitudes that fly
O'er the clear brook, in Summer's evening sky;
Fierce as the hornets, born on quivering wing,
With hum terrific, and with venom'd sting.—
The armies shock.—Here with tremendous clang,
That loud through echoing hills and vallies rang,
Dread as the wintry torrent, sweep along,
In iron deluge, Scandinavia's throng:
There, in firm phalanx, with protended lance,
Silent, and close, the Saxon lines advance.
Keen was the conflict, but the unerring blows
Of martial skill, o'er brutal fury rose.—
Untrain'd to order, as uncheck'd by fear,
The Danes, enfuriate, brave the English spear.
30
A breathing bulwark 'gainst the sanguine storm,
Our warriors stand;—fell slaughter stalks around,
And piles, with bleeding infidels, the ground.
“Already Conquest o'er our dauntless few
Soaring aloft, with favouring pinion, flew;
When Ceolph wheels his parricidal band,
And joins the spoilers of his native land;
On our own ranks his arms the traitor bends,
And basely gores the bosom of his friends.
At once mistrust through all our squadrons spreads,
Each from his neighbour's hand a death-wound dreads.
Dismay'd, and scatter'd o'er the fatal plain,
In wild disorder speeds our vanquish'd train;
Each hears behind him, as he breathless flies,
The insulting clamour of the victor's cries,
While fugitives unnumber'd press the ground,
And die by Infamy's inglorious wound.
Soaring aloft, with favouring pinion, flew;
When Ceolph wheels his parricidal band,
And joins the spoilers of his native land;
On our own ranks his arms the traitor bends,
And basely gores the bosom of his friends.
At once mistrust through all our squadrons spreads,
Each from his neighbour's hand a death-wound dreads.
Dismay'd, and scatter'd o'er the fatal plain,
In wild disorder speeds our vanquish'd train;
Each hears behind him, as he breathless flies,
The insulting clamour of the victor's cries,
While fugitives unnumber'd press the ground,
And die by Infamy's inglorious wound.
“With ineffectual arm, I vainly tried
To stem, of foul defeat, the o'erwhelming tide.
In vain, amid the battle's rudest strife,
Frantic with rage, and prodigal of life,
Rashly I plunged; with hope some friendly dart
Might drink the life-blood from my bursting heart.
Though Death triumphant, in his ghastliest form,
Exulting rode, amid the crimson storm,
I could not find him in his loudest yell,
Or meet his arrows where they thickest fell.
To stem, of foul defeat, the o'erwhelming tide.
31
Frantic with rage, and prodigal of life,
Rashly I plunged; with hope some friendly dart
Might drink the life-blood from my bursting heart.
Though Death triumphant, in his ghastliest form,
Exulting rode, amid the crimson storm,
I could not find him in his loudest yell,
Or meet his arrows where they thickest fell.
“Now sunk the last pale gleam of evening's ray,
And favouring darkness spread its ebon sway.
No more the giant voice of battle spoke,
But distant sounds in dying murmurs broke:
Hush'd all around, save where a parting breath
The horrid silence pierced, with groans of death.
Pensive I drank chill Midnight's baleful air,
In all the agonies of dumb despair;
For,—every gleam of prosperous fortune lost,
Wreck'd the last sad remains of Albion's host,
Each hope extinguish'd, all assistance fled,
No sheltering roof to shroud my war-worn head,—
I too must fly—must leave my native land
To the wild insult of a ruffian band;
Condemn'd on foreign shores, from foreign grief,
Precarious aid to court, and mean relief;
A wretched life to keep, while Honour's law
Stamps infamy on every breath I draw.—
‘No! shame to arms!—to manhood shame!’ I cried;
‘Where is the patriot's zeal, the soldier's pride?—
‘From woes like these to endless rest I fly,
‘He only suffers shame who fears to die.’
Sudden my sword I grasp; the shining blade,
Gilt by a moon-beam, gleams amid the shade.
As on the fatal brand I gaze, while roll
Contending passions through my anxious soul,
Now my rash mind, by impious Frenzy stung,
My purpose now check'd by Religion's tongue;
Lo! with preluding groans that pierced the air,
A hollow voice, sepulchral, cried, ‘Forbear!’
The dreadful summons chill'd my curdling blood,
Upright my hair in horrid bristles stood;
An icy languor crept through every vein,
My powers no more the useless sword retain,
O'er every limb a death-like torpor stole,
Shrunk were my sinews, and unman'd my soul.—
Another groan succeeds,—again the air
The solemn mandate wafts;—‘Alfred! forbear!—
‘I, too, by glorious wounds, for England die,
‘The bleeding sacrifice of perfidy.
‘But could this arm the sword and faulchion wield,
‘Could these feet bear me from this sanguine field,
‘Fired by the hopes of vengeance, on the foe,
‘Proud would I live through pain, and shame, and woe;
‘Pain, shame, and woe, with endless fame were fraught,
‘If, by such means, were Albion's safety wrought;
‘While Infamy, in fiend-like semblance dress'd,
‘Sits on successful Treason's gilded crest.
‘Though now I feel the ruthless arm of Death
‘Check life's warm tide, and stop my labouring breath;
‘Above that pang, the heavier pang I feel
‘To speak, to act no more, for England's weal.—
‘Yet mine a private claim.—A people's wrong
‘On Alfred calls, and, with an angel's tongue
‘The widows, orphans, of yon slaughter'd band
‘Implore, demand redress, from Alfred's hand.
‘From Alfred's hand yet closer, dearer ties,
‘Widow, and orphan too, if Alfred dies,
‘Protection claim;—shall thy rash haste presume
‘To leave such duties for a guilty tomb?—
‘All look to thee:—assert thy injured throne,
‘Avenge thy people's wrongs, avenge thy own;
‘So shall the keenest pangs I suffer cease,
‘And Aylwaid breathe his parting sigh in peace.’
And favouring darkness spread its ebon sway.
No more the giant voice of battle spoke,
But distant sounds in dying murmurs broke:
Hush'd all around, save where a parting breath
The horrid silence pierced, with groans of death.
Pensive I drank chill Midnight's baleful air,
In all the agonies of dumb despair;
For,—every gleam of prosperous fortune lost,
Wreck'd the last sad remains of Albion's host,
Each hope extinguish'd, all assistance fled,
No sheltering roof to shroud my war-worn head,—
32
To the wild insult of a ruffian band;
Condemn'd on foreign shores, from foreign grief,
Precarious aid to court, and mean relief;
A wretched life to keep, while Honour's law
Stamps infamy on every breath I draw.—
‘No! shame to arms!—to manhood shame!’ I cried;
‘Where is the patriot's zeal, the soldier's pride?—
‘From woes like these to endless rest I fly,
‘He only suffers shame who fears to die.’
Sudden my sword I grasp; the shining blade,
Gilt by a moon-beam, gleams amid the shade.
As on the fatal brand I gaze, while roll
Contending passions through my anxious soul,
Now my rash mind, by impious Frenzy stung,
My purpose now check'd by Religion's tongue;
Lo! with preluding groans that pierced the air,
A hollow voice, sepulchral, cried, ‘Forbear!’
The dreadful summons chill'd my curdling blood,
Upright my hair in horrid bristles stood;
An icy languor crept through every vein,
My powers no more the useless sword retain,
33
Shrunk were my sinews, and unman'd my soul.—
Another groan succeeds,—again the air
The solemn mandate wafts;—‘Alfred! forbear!—
‘I, too, by glorious wounds, for England die,
‘The bleeding sacrifice of perfidy.
‘But could this arm the sword and faulchion wield,
‘Could these feet bear me from this sanguine field,
‘Fired by the hopes of vengeance, on the foe,
‘Proud would I live through pain, and shame, and woe;
‘Pain, shame, and woe, with endless fame were fraught,
‘If, by such means, were Albion's safety wrought;
‘While Infamy, in fiend-like semblance dress'd,
‘Sits on successful Treason's gilded crest.
‘Though now I feel the ruthless arm of Death
‘Check life's warm tide, and stop my labouring breath;
‘Above that pang, the heavier pang I feel
‘To speak, to act no more, for England's weal.—
‘Yet mine a private claim.—A people's wrong
‘On Alfred calls, and, with an angel's tongue
‘The widows, orphans, of yon slaughter'd band
‘Implore, demand redress, from Alfred's hand.
34
‘Widow, and orphan too, if Alfred dies,
‘Protection claim;—shall thy rash haste presume
‘To leave such duties for a guilty tomb?—
‘All look to thee:—assert thy injured throne,
‘Avenge thy people's wrongs, avenge thy own;
‘So shall the keenest pangs I suffer cease,
‘And Aylwaid breathe his parting sigh in peace.’
“Here Death's stern summons, with relentless power,
Closed the last moment of life's ebbing hour;
And, by the moon's wan lustre, on the glade
As my sad eyes saw lifeless Aylwaid laid
A glorious sacrifice for England's weal,
Kneeling beside the corse, with pious zeal
I cried, ‘Brave martyr in thy country's cause!
‘Thou bleeding victim for her rights and laws!
‘Through all my veins thy dying accents thrill,
‘As the dread mandate of the eternal will.—
‘That mandate be obey'd;—This wretched life,
‘Preserved, through wonders, in the recent strife,
‘I deem a pledge, by boundless Mercy given,
‘And consecrate to England and to Heaven.’
Closed the last moment of life's ebbing hour;
And, by the moon's wan lustre, on the glade
As my sad eyes saw lifeless Aylwaid laid
A glorious sacrifice for England's weal,
Kneeling beside the corse, with pious zeal
I cried, ‘Brave martyr in thy country's cause!
‘Thou bleeding victim for her rights and laws!
‘Through all my veins thy dying accents thrill,
‘As the dread mandate of the eternal will.—
‘That mandate be obey'd;—This wretched life,
‘Preserved, through wonders, in the recent strife,
35
‘And consecrate to England and to Heaven.’
“Lonely, and sad, to Burthred's friendly towers,
The much-loved mansion of my happier hours,
Where, in fraternal love, Elsitha's charms
Had sought a refuge from the storm of arms,
I bent my steps.—Alas! those towers no more
To Alfred ope the hospitable door;
There Ceolph's treacherous arms, by Fortune crown'd,
From Faction's hand the prize of empire found,
And Burthred, left by all, distress'd, alone,
Silent forsook his abdicated throne;
Each hope of fame, of power, of vengeance, lost,
A wandering exile on a distant coast.
The much-loved mansion of my happier hours,
Where, in fraternal love, Elsitha's charms
Had sought a refuge from the storm of arms,
I bent my steps.—Alas! those towers no more
To Alfred ope the hospitable door;
There Ceolph's treacherous arms, by Fortune crown'd,
From Faction's hand the prize of empire found,
And Burthred, left by all, distress'd, alone,
Silent forsook his abdicated throne;
Each hope of fame, of power, of vengeance, lost,
A wandering exile on a distant coast.
36
“Elsitha! lovely consort of my heart!
From thee, from all I value, doom'd to part,
Uncertain of thy fate, while thought forbears
To image half the horrors that it fears,
Awhile with desultory pace I stray,
Fix'd to no point, as Chance directs my way.
My southward course the unbridled rage of war,
And barbarous foes, and faithless vassals, bar.
O'er many a blasted heath and mountain drear
Wandering, behold the wretched Alfred here!
I come to Caledonia's kindred plains,
Where generous Pity dwells, for Gregor reigns,
Secure to find, in his high-trophied walls,
Heroes to fly where suffering Virtue calls.”
From thee, from all I value, doom'd to part,
Uncertain of thy fate, while thought forbears
To image half the horrors that it fears,
Awhile with desultory pace I stray,
Fix'd to no point, as Chance directs my way.
My southward course the unbridled rage of war,
And barbarous foes, and faithless vassals, bar.
O'er many a blasted heath and mountain drear
Wandering, behold the wretched Alfred here!
I come to Caledonia's kindred plains,
Where generous Pity dwells, for Gregor reigns,
Secure to find, in his high-trophied walls,
Heroes to fly where suffering Virtue calls.”
Forthuir-tabacht. Now Forteviot, near the river Ern, south of Perth; the chief residence of the Pikish kings, after the recovery of Lothian in 684.
Pinkerton on the History of Scotland, Vol. II. p. 177.For a treaty offensive and defensive against the Danes, between Alfred and Gregory the Great, see Buchannan. “Pax his regibus est facta ut peregrinum hostem communibus auxiliis propulserent.” Ed. Edinb. folio, 1582. p. 62
Duneanus, sive Donatus, sive Donachus. Buchan. Ibid. “Gregory, during the life of Alfred, invaded Ireland, in aid of Donach, right heir of the crown, defeated the usurper, besieged and took Dublin, and placed Donach on the throne.” Henry, Vol. III. p. 89. 8vo.
“Eodem Anno (A. D. 853, of Alfred's age 5.) Athelwelphus Rex, filium suum Alfredum, magno nobilium, et etiam ignobilium, numero constipatum honorificè Romam transmisit, quo tempore Dominus Leo Papus Quartus Apostolicæ sedi præerat; qui præfatum infantem Ælfredum oppido ordinens, unxit in Regem et in filium adoptionis sibimet accipiens confirmavit” Asser, p. 5.
Ethelnulphus obiit 858. Ethelbaldus 860, et regnum totum occupat Ethelbertus. 866, Ethelberto mortuo, succedit Ethelredus. Chron. Vitæ Alfredi, ad calcem Asserii.
“Alfred succeeded his brother in the twenty-second year of his age; having married the sister of Burthred, tributary King of Mercia, the beautiful and accomplished Elsitha.” Preface to Penn's Battle of Eddington.
This particular description of the scene of battle, so exactly corresponding with the country about White-horse Hill, in Berkshire, is copied from Asser, who had seen the spot. P. 21–23. “Quem nos ipsi propriis oculis vidimus.” In the same place he gives the etymology. “Æscesdun, quod, Latinè, mons fraxini interpretatur.” There is now, insulated in a very open country, a wood of nearly 100 acres, consisting chiefly of ash, on the declivity of White-horse Hill, just under the camp.
“Cecidit ergo illic Bægsceg Rex, et Sidroc ille senex comes, et Sidroc, junior, comes, et Obsbern (Osbern) comes, et Fræna comes, et Harold comes.” Asser, p. 23.
“Tunc Rex Ælfredus jussit cymbas et galeas fabricari per regnum, ut navali prælio hostibus adventantibus obviaret. Crescebat insuper diebus singulis perversorum numerus adeo equidem, ut si triginta ex eis millia una die necarentur, alii succedebant numero duplicato.” Ibid, p. 29.
“Anno 871 pugnatum est apud Redingæ, Æscedunæ, Basingæ, Meretunæ, ubi vulneratus, Ethelbertus post Pascha obiit.” Chron. ad calcem Asseri.
“The Wyndhams are of Saxon origin, descended from Aylwaid, who possessed estates in Wymondham, corruptly Wyndham, in Norfolk, whence the name assumed by his descendants.” E. L.
Stone-Henge. “Here (Wilton) A. D. 371, Ælfred, fighting against the Danes, was, at first, victorious, but the fortune of the battle changing, he was driven out of the field.” Gibson's Camden, p. 90.
“Three several times did they make composition with Burthred, and yet so continually infested his country the whilest, as in the end they drove him to forsake it and go to Rome; where dying, they entirely possessed themselves thereof, and gave it to one Ceolwolfe, an infamous renegado of the Saxons, to hold it only at their direction.” Spelman's Life of Alfred, p. 47.
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