University of Virginia Library

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.