University of Virginia Library

What need more seeming dire than Alfred's was,
Fleeing from Chippenham that winter night?
Poor comfort found he in the woods and fens.
In his sure heart alone might faith alight
To breathe and wait occasion for new strife.

The snow fell softly over Wiltshire downs—
Hiding the horse of chalk out there by Calne—
When Alfred, having hunted Guthrun north,
Sat down to keep the feast of Epiphany
Within his walls, secure from all molest.
The Danish cavalry came o'er the snow
With noiseless speed; burst through the city gates,
And drove dismay through all the Saxon power
Or ever there was time to clutch a brand.
Right on the easy town that avalanche
Roll'd, whelming, crushing down the revelers;
Only some few, half-arm'd, escaped in the dark,
Across the Avon, out to the dreary wilds.

Seven years had Alfred waged unresting war:
Nine battles in one year the king had fought.
For ever, as one swarm of Danes was crush'd,
New swarms rode in upon the ocean wind:
Much as, when one essays to outtread a fire,
Fast as this flame expires, yon scattering sparks
Inflame quick embers in some other place.
Even so those hydra-natured pirates throve.
Now all was ablaze again throughout the land:
Our first sea victories, Warham's promised peace,
And the late gain at Execester,—all nought;
Victorious Alfred a poor fugitive,
Counted as dead by both his foes and friends,
His friends dispersed—none daring look for him,
His wide realm narrow'd to a forest lair,
Nor power nor vantage-ground save in himself.

But whoso holds from God a steadfast will
May laugh in the teeth of the most gaunt Despair;
Nay, even yoke that beast to pull the car
Of his triumphal course above the years.

Follow, light Hope!—thou armourer to a king—
The hero's steps,—through all the thicket depth
Of his long hiding,—o'er the wild boar's track,
And the wide traces of the bounding deer;
Follow him through his lonesome wanderings,
By moor and dark morass and tangled dell,—
Glad if somewhile beside a swineherd's fire
His numb hands reinvigorate may trim
The arrows, once a terror to the Dane,
Now only used to bring the monarch's food.
Follow him day by day, night after night;
Speak to him in his lone and cheerless dreams;
Smile on his aimless path; till, one by one,
He meets some loyal subjects of his worth,
And breaks a way through the thin-frozen sludge
To Ethelingay's Isle—one solid space
In the vast breadth of slough, where he may build
A refuge from the overrunning Dane,
A sanctuary for what few hopes survive—
Rekindling in them patriot energy.
Follow him, Hope! tell him to bide his time.

There in his fastness, in the heart o' the waste,
The monarch and his little band abode,
Enduring hardest shifts of outlawry,—
The winged arrows for their pillowing,
And sunlight startling them with hostile glance,
Making swift forays or for food or news,
Snatching such scant subsistence as they could,
Inquiring where the Danes, where English souls,—
Until they heard how Alfred's old renown
Had stirr'd some few brave spirits in the land
To new achievement, and how Devon's Earl,
Besieged in Kinwith, fiercely sallying forth,
Had put to rout the Danish Hubba there
With mighty slaughter;—then the king arose,
And loosed his banner, and his war-cry flew
Through all the English heavens, and men look'd up,
And flung their swords on high to hail the shout
Of ‘Alfred once again for England's war!’
Who needeth tell what every child repeats?
How as a harper 'mong the enemy
The daring monarch pass'd,—amused their sloth
With idle song beside their dissolute boards,
Spied out their weakness, caught them out of guard,
And paid them back the trick of former days.
The sun is yet scarce risen on Ethandune,
The pirate watchers nod o'er their debauch;
At Egbert's stone by Selwood-side have met
The best of Wessex, Alfred at their head;
Before that sun the fallen wine-cup gilds
The Avon shall be red with Danish blood
And Chippenham's surprize have like revenge.
Thereafter the Defeated wins his way
From strife to strife, a crowned conqueror:
Taming his former victors, trampling down
Invasion on invasion: not without
Disaster and due costs of high reward,—
A long and weary tale of restless days,
Fatigues innumerable, ceaseless cares,
Sometimes discomfiture and falling back,
And baffled hope, and work to be redone,
Zeal forced to drudge like the worst-burden'd slave,
And Courage with its armour never off,
And Speed ill-yoked unto unequal help:
A work like that of Sisyphus— to roll
The rock of sure success to heaven height.
For year by year the foemen seemed subdued,
Swore peace, departed, and again return'd.
But nought can stand against determined will,
Stronger than Fate. A ceaseless drip outwears
The granite: patient resolution so
Softens the stony heart of Destiny.
Though even the indomitable Hastings try
His subtilest sleights, and war, by genius led,
Put forth, Briareus-like, its hundred hands,
Striking the king on this side and on that,
Compelling his swift presence everywhere,
From Romney Marsh and Thames to Severn's mouth,
And from the southernmost cliffs to Chester walls,—
Though pestilence come in the invader's train,
And every form of difficulty strive
To farther aid accomplish'd generalship,—
Though in ward pain, even from his early years
Gnawing out strength, conspire against his life,—
Defeat on Alfred never more shall press.
For he had met it, and had overcome,
In every shade it knows, save one—despair:
And in that guise it dared not look on him.
So stalwart Truth at last was olive-crown'd.

And now in his old days the king hath peace;
And the land rest,—its trust lain like a bride
Upon that royal heart, securely glad.
And he, who whilom at the swineherd's hearth
Bore chiding for the lowliest neglect,
Now leads the nation with his puissant will—
As valourous in peace as erst in war,
Seateth bright Justice with him on his throne,
Foundeth great universities, and rules
His own life with as scholarly discipline—
Making each hour his steward for good deeds.
He, who divided his last bit of bread
With some wayfarer, now sends costly gifts
Out of his treasury, to farthest Ind;
His ships, with Victory's breath to swell their sails,
Full-freighted with his fame for many lands,
Bring back the homage of the first of earth;
And from the heaven whereto his soul aspired
His glory beams on us along the years—
A star whose splendour may not be outshone.

Such is the life of Valour. It persists.
Its proud defiance answereth Defeat.
It tramples on despondency. It tholes
Under God's harrow; bides; and overcomes.
Why, the poor spider in Lord Robert's cell
Seven times repeats his foil'd endeavouring:
Shall Bruce do less? Thence unto Bannockburn
Is but a journey, master'd step by step.
Rightly did Rome's great senate honour him
Who in his country's ruin slew despair.
Wait yet by Hope's lone altar, Poland! wait.
To-morrow's sun will rise for all these tears.

That ‘isle of Nobles’ to the mainland now
Is join'd. So to this isolated act
Of English worship let the continent
Of later worth adhere! Till England be
An Isle of Nobles—the world's Athelney.