University of Virginia Library

ALFRED

BOOK I.

SCENE—DENMARK.

BOOK II.

SCENE—SOMERSETSHIRE.

BOOK III

BOOK IV.

BOOK V.

BOOK VI.

BOOK VII.

BOOK VIII.

BOOK IX.

BOOK X.

BOOK XI.

BOOK XII.

SCENE—THE DANISH CAMP BEFORE KENWITH CASTLE.

BOOK XIII.

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
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.—
‘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
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
‘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,
‘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!
‘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
‘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.
‘'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!
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.’—
‘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;
‘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;
‘'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,
‘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!’
‘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—
‘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,
‘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,
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,
‘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.
‘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,
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.

BOOK XIV.

BOOK XV.

BOOK XVI.

BOOK XVII.

'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
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;
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!
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
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
‘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
‘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.’
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.
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.
‘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!—
‘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.
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,
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,
‘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,
‘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:
‘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.’
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
‘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
‘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,
‘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
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.

BOOK XVIII.

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,—
‘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
‘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,
‘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,
‘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,
‘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,
‘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
‘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.
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
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!
‘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!

BOOK XIX.

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

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

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

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

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!
‘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
‘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
‘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!
‘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!
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—
‘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.
‘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.

BOOK XXI.

BOOK XXII.

BOOK XXIII.

BOOK XXIV.