Alfred An Heroic Poem, in Twenty-Four Books. By Joseph Cottle: 4th ed. |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. | BOOK III |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
 | Alfred |  |
45
BOOK III
ARGUMENT.
ALFRED, in wandering over the heath, meets a Beggar, with whom he divides his only loaf. Arrives at Glastonbury Abbey, leaves Alswitha and his infant boy there, and departs alone to seek some obscure retreat.
‘THOU lovely Moon!’ cried Alfred, as he roam'd
Across the trackless moor, all wide and waste,
Bearing his infant child. Upon his arm—
Alswitha lean'd, for they had wander'd long,
And it was night. ‘Thou lovely Moon,’ he cried,
‘How calm thou art! thou journeyest on thy way,
‘Nor heed'st the mists, that sailing thro' the sky,
‘Oft half conceal thee, for thou passest on,
‘Casting thine eye, disdainful, at the clouds,
‘The low and scatter'd clouds, that fain would hide
‘Thy majesty, pale empress of the night!
‘And have not I a mind, my better part!
‘More vast than is yon orb? an intellect
‘That ranges unconfined, through time and space,
‘Scorning their narrow limits? What is this,—
‘This thinking faculty? this prison'd soul—
‘Teeming with vast desires, that acts and plans
‘Within me? Is it not, ere long, ordain'd
‘To cast aside its fetters and assert
‘Its native dignity? I know it is!
‘Founded on God's imperishable Word:
‘Aye, in those regions, where thou sitt'st enthroned
‘In empyrean glory, lovely Moon!
‘I feel a sudden and mysterious calm
‘Shoot through my frame. This mind will follow thee.
‘Go on, ye grovelling clouds! increase in size,—
‘In number! gather round my head, and strive
‘To hide that light eternal! call the winds,
‘And tempests to your aid! yet, undisturb'd,
‘I will behold your impotence, and smile.
‘Sorrows and pangs of frail humanity,
‘Upon the wings of ages do ye fly,
‘Fast as the clouds of night, whilst I shall live
‘Clad in the robe of immortality
‘When yon bright orb is quench'd.’
Across the trackless moor, all wide and waste,
Bearing his infant child. Upon his arm—
Alswitha lean'd, for they had wander'd long,
And it was night. ‘Thou lovely Moon,’ he cried,
‘How calm thou art! thou journeyest on thy way,
‘Nor heed'st the mists, that sailing thro' the sky,
‘Oft half conceal thee, for thou passest on,
‘Casting thine eye, disdainful, at the clouds,
‘The low and scatter'd clouds, that fain would hide
‘Thy majesty, pale empress of the night!
‘And have not I a mind, my better part!
‘More vast than is yon orb? an intellect
‘That ranges unconfined, through time and space,
‘Scorning their narrow limits? What is this,—
‘This thinking faculty? this prison'd soul—
‘Teeming with vast desires, that acts and plans
‘Within me? Is it not, ere long, ordain'd
‘To cast aside its fetters and assert
46
‘Founded on God's imperishable Word:
‘Aye, in those regions, where thou sitt'st enthroned
‘In empyrean glory, lovely Moon!
‘I feel a sudden and mysterious calm
‘Shoot through my frame. This mind will follow thee.
‘Go on, ye grovelling clouds! increase in size,—
‘In number! gather round my head, and strive
‘To hide that light eternal! call the winds,
‘And tempests to your aid! yet, undisturb'd,
‘I will behold your impotence, and smile.
‘Sorrows and pangs of frail humanity,
‘Upon the wings of ages do ye fly,
‘Fast as the clouds of night, whilst I shall live
‘Clad in the robe of immortality
‘When yon bright orb is quench'd.’
The King, a joy
Felt cheer his heart, as thus on lofty themes
He meditates; but soon the busy thoughts
Of his own crushing cares,—his country's wrongs,
Like an o'erwhelming flood, rush'd thro' his mind,
And he was sorrowful.—Thus picturing well
Our mortal feelings: like the ocean tide,
Now ebbing, and now flowing; but, ere long,
(Vicissitude pass'd by, memento dread!)
The endless to the fleeting will succeed.
Felt cheer his heart, as thus on lofty themes
He meditates; but soon the busy thoughts
Of his own crushing cares,—his country's wrongs,
Like an o'erwhelming flood, rush'd thro' his mind,
And he was sorrowful.—Thus picturing well
Our mortal feelings: like the ocean tide,
Now ebbing, and now flowing; but, ere long,
(Vicissitude pass'd by, memento dread!)
The endless to the fleeting will succeed.
While these reflections o'er his countenance
Cast seriousness, unwittingly he smiles!
For at that moment he beheld his boy,
(Stretched on his father's arm) who wondering lay—
At that fair lamp on high, whose tranquil beams
Lit the wide heavens:—and now, with new delight
Aloud he laughs,—to see the full-orbed moon,
With her fair clouds, and leaps with sudden start
Of infant gratulation,
Cast seriousness, unwittingly he smiles!
For at that moment he beheld his boy,
(Stretched on his father's arm) who wondering lay—
At that fair lamp on high, whose tranquil beams
Lit the wide heavens:—and now, with new delight
Aloud he laughs,—to see the full-orbed moon,
With her fair clouds, and leaps with sudden start
Of infant gratulation,
47
Alfred spake.
‘We now are wandering far, and lest this garb,
‘Still bearing marks of royalty, though worn,
‘And half obscured, should tell my name and state,—
‘Here will I leave it: on this barren heath
‘To moulder and endure the winds of heav'n.
‘Thy dress is simple, thou hast nought to fear.’
When on the ground the king his mantle cast.
The glimmering light now streak'd the orient sky.
‘Thou dost not speak to me,’ said Alfred, ‘speak
‘That I may hear thy voice, and know indeed
‘Thou art not sorrowful.’ Alswitha thus.
‘I can but speak, thy kindness to confess,
‘Best friend! and blameless cause of all my woe.’
‘We now are wandering far, and lest this garb,
‘Still bearing marks of royalty, though worn,
‘And half obscured, should tell my name and state,—
‘Here will I leave it: on this barren heath
‘To moulder and endure the winds of heav'n.
‘Thy dress is simple, thou hast nought to fear.’
When on the ground the king his mantle cast.
The glimmering light now streak'd the orient sky.
‘Thou dost not speak to me,’ said Alfred, ‘speak
‘That I may hear thy voice, and know indeed
‘Thou art not sorrowful.’ Alswitha thus.
‘I can but speak, thy kindness to confess,
‘Best friend! and blameless cause of all my woe.’
Whilst wandering thus, far o'er the heath, they see
A moving shape, that in the early dawn
Seem'd hast'ning toward them. Travelling slow it was,
With size and motion so peculiar,
That, to compare it to familiar thing,
They could not. ‘Quick, my lord,’ Alswitha cried,
‘I do not like yon form. With needful speed
‘We soon shall pass this spirit-freezing spot,
‘For from our right it comes, and we are first.’
‘Nay, fear it not,’ said Alfred,—‘Let us wait
‘To see and satisfy our doubting minds.’
The queen exclaim'd. ‘With danger sport not thus!
‘It is the loneliest corner of the heath
‘Where ghosts might walk by instinct; e'en the turf
‘Treads hollow, and the breeze, slow passing by,
‘Whispers mysterious meanings. Haste my Lord!’
‘Not so,’ replied the king. ‘Who trusts in God,
‘Encompass'd by his shield of providence,
‘Needs nothing fear, and least of earthly things
‘The ghost, thou dreadest.’ Words, regarded not.
Alswitha hurries on, a few short steps,
Then turning, saw her child, and back return'd
To share her lord's misfortunes.
A moving shape, that in the early dawn
Seem'd hast'ning toward them. Travelling slow it was,
With size and motion so peculiar,
That, to compare it to familiar thing,
They could not. ‘Quick, my lord,’ Alswitha cried,
‘I do not like yon form. With needful speed
‘We soon shall pass this spirit-freezing spot,
‘For from our right it comes, and we are first.’
‘Nay, fear it not,’ said Alfred,—‘Let us wait
‘To see and satisfy our doubting minds.’
The queen exclaim'd. ‘With danger sport not thus!
‘It is the loneliest corner of the heath
‘Where ghosts might walk by instinct; e'en the turf
‘Treads hollow, and the breeze, slow passing by,
‘Whispers mysterious meanings. Haste my Lord!’
‘Not so,’ replied the king. ‘Who trusts in God,
‘Encompass'd by his shield of providence,
‘Needs nothing fear, and least of earthly things
‘The ghost, thou dreadest.’ Words, regarded not.
Alswitha hurries on, a few short steps,
48
To share her lord's misfortunes.
Whilst they spake,
The doubtful form drew nearer, till at length
A cripple, dragging his weak limbs, appear'd.
‘Oh, pity me!’ he cried, ‘it was most kind
‘To stop on this wide down to hear my tale,
‘For I am poor, and hunger in my breast
‘Aloud doth call for bread. Have ye no food
‘To give an old man?’ ‘Yes,’ the king replied,
‘And thou shalt have a part.’ Alswitha said,
‘A small part, husband, for thou knowest well
‘How scarce it is, and on this trackless moor
‘Our babe may cry in vain. I weep for age,
‘And, for myself, would give him all the loaf.
‘For we have only one; but, then, the child!
‘Bethink thou of the child, nor quite forget
‘Thine own hard wants.’ The king no answer made,
But took the scrip, and open'd it, and said;
‘This is our all, old man! one half is thine!’
And Alfred parted it. ‘God prosper thee!’
Replied the aged man, then fast assuaged
The pang of hunger. Alfred turn'd the while
And to the queen thus spake:
The doubtful form drew nearer, till at length
A cripple, dragging his weak limbs, appear'd.
‘Oh, pity me!’ he cried, ‘it was most kind
‘To stop on this wide down to hear my tale,
‘For I am poor, and hunger in my breast
‘Aloud doth call for bread. Have ye no food
‘To give an old man?’ ‘Yes,’ the king replied,
‘And thou shalt have a part.’ Alswitha said,
‘A small part, husband, for thou knowest well
‘How scarce it is, and on this trackless moor
‘Our babe may cry in vain. I weep for age,
‘And, for myself, would give him all the loaf.
‘For we have only one; but, then, the child!
‘Bethink thou of the child, nor quite forget
‘Thine own hard wants.’ The king no answer made,
But took the scrip, and open'd it, and said;
‘This is our all, old man! one half is thine!’
And Alfred parted it. ‘God prosper thee!’
Replied the aged man, then fast assuaged
The pang of hunger. Alfred turn'd the while
And to the queen thus spake:
‘Hear, best beloved!
‘Words that from mildness spring. Strict, must we guard
‘The plant humanity. its leaves are tender,
‘And he who checks their wild luxuriance,
‘Will find them pine, and, from th' unfriendly soil,
‘At length, slow die away. Proud man supports
‘His boasted independence, and would fain—
‘Prying in cold futurity's grey dawn,
‘Plan for himself, and govern, free of heaven.
‘That Being who surveys all mortal things,
‘Best knows our wants; He sees them manifest,
‘While yet they have no name, and, on the heart
‘Whose trust he is, bestows, if seem him right,
‘The flattering good, but, given or denied
‘Is done in mercy. Let us look to God,
‘And do his will, and we shall have enough
‘Of food and raiment: more we must not hope,
‘Nor need desire.’ Alswitha wept consent,
And faultering answer'd—‘Give the poor man all!
‘We trust in God.’
‘Words that from mildness spring. Strict, must we guard
‘The plant humanity. its leaves are tender,
‘And he who checks their wild luxuriance,
‘Will find them pine, and, from th' unfriendly soil,
‘At length, slow die away. Proud man supports
‘His boasted independence, and would fain—
‘Prying in cold futurity's grey dawn,
‘Plan for himself, and govern, free of heaven.
‘That Being who surveys all mortal things,
‘Best knows our wants; He sees them manifest,
‘While yet they have no name, and, on the heart
49
‘The flattering good, but, given or denied
‘Is done in mercy. Let us look to God,
‘And do his will, and we shall have enough
‘Of food and raiment: more we must not hope,
‘Nor need desire.’ Alswitha wept consent,
And faultering answer'd—‘Give the poor man all!
‘We trust in God.’
The beggar now approach'd
His benefactors, and with grateful words
Thank'd them full oft. ‘Now, pray thee,’ said the king,
‘How cam'st thou here, alone, and destitute?
‘Whilst journeying onward, freely tell thy tale.
‘Tho' strangers, we are friends.’ He thus began:
His benefactors, and with grateful words
Thank'd them full oft. ‘Now, pray thee,’ said the king,
‘How cam'st thou here, alone, and destitute?
‘Whilst journeying onward, freely tell thy tale.
‘Tho' strangers, we are friends.’ He thus began:
‘Pardon the tedious words of an old man.
‘My name is Nidor; far o'er yonder Tor
‘My dwelling was; a hut of humbler sort,
‘Yet such as I could love, for it was warm;
‘And there was space to sit beside the fire,
‘Or turn the spindle, and without were heap'd
‘Faggots and straw to last till Candlemas.
‘Upon the top of a green sloping hill
‘Our hamlet stood, whilst in the vale beneath
‘Another hamlet rose, and they were called
‘The sister villages. A lovely spot!
‘Such as the trav'ler oft would stop to view,
‘Over and over, but would nothing say,
‘Sorrowing to leave, yet loth to look again,
‘Lest he should cease to be a traveller.
‘From youth to age beside my cottage door,
‘A yew-tree waved, under whose spreading shade
‘I oft have sat, and view'd the glorious sun,
‘Smiling, with all around me; mark'd the hills
‘In the blue distance, over which these feet
‘In earlier days had wandered, stranger then
‘To every malady. How many an hour,
‘'Neath that cool tree, have I reclined myself,
‘And carved my name, while yet in boy-hood years,
‘And sung the merry song, or, with my lute,
‘Piped to the dancing villagers, and made
‘Tottering four-score forget his load of care,
‘Half young again! But, I am talking wild!
‘These pleasant thoughts so fill an old man's mind,
‘That he could dwell for ever on them. Now,
‘Sorrowing, my tongue a heavier tale shall tell.
‘My name is Nidor; far o'er yonder Tor
‘My dwelling was; a hut of humbler sort,
‘Yet such as I could love, for it was warm;
‘And there was space to sit beside the fire,
‘Or turn the spindle, and without were heap'd
‘Faggots and straw to last till Candlemas.
‘Upon the top of a green sloping hill
‘Our hamlet stood, whilst in the vale beneath
‘Another hamlet rose, and they were called
‘The sister villages. A lovely spot!
‘Such as the trav'ler oft would stop to view,
‘Over and over, but would nothing say,
‘Sorrowing to leave, yet loth to look again,
‘Lest he should cease to be a traveller.
‘From youth to age beside my cottage door,
‘A yew-tree waved, under whose spreading shade
‘I oft have sat, and view'd the glorious sun,
‘Smiling, with all around me; mark'd the hills
‘In the blue distance, over which these feet
‘In earlier days had wandered, stranger then
50
‘'Neath that cool tree, have I reclined myself,
‘And carved my name, while yet in boy-hood years,
‘And sung the merry song, or, with my lute,
‘Piped to the dancing villagers, and made
‘Tottering four-score forget his load of care,
‘Half young again! But, I am talking wild!
‘These pleasant thoughts so fill an old man's mind,
‘That he could dwell for ever on them. Now,
‘Sorrowing, my tongue a heavier tale shall tell.
‘Three nights before the wane of yonder moon,
‘There came a noise! Some, rushing to their doors,
‘Beheld with strange dismay, th' o'erwhelming flames
‘Consuming our near hamlet! We could hear
‘The cry of infants, and the mother's shriek,
‘Falling before the Danish massacre!
‘My better days were pass'd, and I had lain
‘Long 'neath my roof, in burdensome old age;
‘From morn to night, from night to lingering morn,
‘Seeking some change, that only brought again
‘The same unvarying round of restlessness;
‘When, like a sudden storm, the foe drew nigh!
‘Forgetful of old Nidor, all my friends
‘Sought each his life. My children were far off
‘Who would have succour'd me. Deserted thus,
‘A miserable man! it seem'd most hard
‘To lie and, all alone, receive my end,
‘Dreadful as certain. Resolute I rose;
‘And tho' till that sad hour, I thought myself
‘A weak bed-ridden man, yet sudden fear
‘So on me wrought, that I, in truth, appear'd
‘Gifted with youth afresh. Alert I seized
‘This neighbouring crutch, when, hastening through the door,
‘I just remember'd, that in Ethelney,
‘That fair sequester'd Isle! I had a son,
‘(As good a son as ever father priz'd,
‘Bounteous to all, so far as his low cot
‘Might deal in bounty;) and turn'd zealously
‘To seek his dwelling. I am on my way,
‘But never farther had I gone,—this moor
‘Would soon have proved old Nidor's bed of death,
‘But for your food, good christians! Pardon me!
‘I never saw your faces till this hour,
‘Nor know your names, nor whither you are bound
‘In these disastrous times; but if no house,
‘No better house should wait you, by my troth,
‘My son's shall be your dwelling. Haste with me!
‘And you shall find good cheer, tho' humble! Come,
‘I pray you come!’
‘There came a noise! Some, rushing to their doors,
‘Beheld with strange dismay, th' o'erwhelming flames
‘Consuming our near hamlet! We could hear
‘The cry of infants, and the mother's shriek,
‘Falling before the Danish massacre!
‘My better days were pass'd, and I had lain
‘Long 'neath my roof, in burdensome old age;
‘From morn to night, from night to lingering morn,
‘Seeking some change, that only brought again
‘The same unvarying round of restlessness;
‘When, like a sudden storm, the foe drew nigh!
‘Forgetful of old Nidor, all my friends
‘Sought each his life. My children were far off
‘Who would have succour'd me. Deserted thus,
‘A miserable man! it seem'd most hard
‘To lie and, all alone, receive my end,
‘Dreadful as certain. Resolute I rose;
‘And tho' till that sad hour, I thought myself
‘A weak bed-ridden man, yet sudden fear
‘So on me wrought, that I, in truth, appear'd
‘Gifted with youth afresh. Alert I seized
‘This neighbouring crutch, when, hastening through the door,
‘I just remember'd, that in Ethelney,
‘That fair sequester'd Isle! I had a son,
51
‘Bounteous to all, so far as his low cot
‘Might deal in bounty;) and turn'd zealously
‘To seek his dwelling. I am on my way,
‘But never farther had I gone,—this moor
‘Would soon have proved old Nidor's bed of death,
‘But for your food, good christians! Pardon me!
‘I never saw your faces till this hour,
‘Nor know your names, nor whither you are bound
‘In these disastrous times; but if no house,
‘No better house should wait you, by my troth,
‘My son's shall be your dwelling. Haste with me!
‘And you shall find good cheer, tho' humble! Come,
‘I pray you come!’
Alfred uncertain stood:
When, as he paus'd, there to his sight appear'd
A stately pile, of which the king inquired,
‘It is,’ said Nidor, ‘Glastonbury; famed
‘O'er all the land, where holy monks abide;
‘And where the singing is both night and day.
‘By this I see my path is to the right,
‘And yours I trust.’
When, as he paus'd, there to his sight appear'd
A stately pile, of which the king inquired,
‘It is,’ said Nidor, ‘Glastonbury; famed
‘O'er all the land, where holy monks abide;
‘And where the singing is both night and day.
‘By this I see my path is to the right,
‘And yours I trust.’
‘I cannot go thy way,’
Alfred replied. ‘The place in view, I seek,
‘But, I return with feelings of good will,
‘Thy kind proposal. Thine the friendly words,
‘Such as we Saxons loved, before the Danes
‘Made cold our hearts, and taught us to respect
‘Our wants, while yet uncertain. Take my prayers,
‘Thou good old man! my unfeign'd gratitude,
‘And health attend thee.’ Many greetings kind
Then each exchanged of blessings and of hopes,
And thus they parted.
Alfred replied. ‘The place in view, I seek,
‘But, I return with feelings of good will,
‘Thy kind proposal. Thine the friendly words,
‘Such as we Saxons loved, before the Danes
‘Made cold our hearts, and taught us to respect
‘Our wants, while yet uncertain. Take my prayers,
‘Thou good old man! my unfeign'd gratitude,
‘And health attend thee.’ Many greetings kind
Then each exchanged of blessings and of hopes,
And thus they parted.
Whilst they paced along,
Upon the abbey gazing with delight,
Whose circling arches rose majestical
And lofty turrets, mantled in the garb
Of hoar antiquity,—so dark!—so vast!
And awe inspiring!—raising many a thought,
Solemn, that told of virtues pass'd away—
The reverenced Founders, who, their earthly coil
Long had exchanged for heaven. Slowly the king
Raising his hand, thus to Alswitha spake:
‘This is a place of refuge! Joy it yields
‘To my distracted mind, to meet a spot
‘So safe and durable. Alswitha, hear!
‘This shall be thy abode; while I must haste
‘To cot obscure, conceal'd in forest shade,
‘Waiting the destin'd time, that shall unfold
‘New prospects, and revive our drooping hearts.
Upon the abbey gazing with delight,
Whose circling arches rose majestical
52
Of hoar antiquity,—so dark!—so vast!
And awe inspiring!—raising many a thought,
Solemn, that told of virtues pass'd away—
The reverenced Founders, who, their earthly coil
Long had exchanged for heaven. Slowly the king
Raising his hand, thus to Alswitha spake:
‘This is a place of refuge! Joy it yields
‘To my distracted mind, to meet a spot
‘So safe and durable. Alswitha, hear!
‘This shall be thy abode; while I must haste
‘To cot obscure, conceal'd in forest shade,
‘Waiting the destin'd time, that shall unfold
‘New prospects, and revive our drooping hearts.
Alswitha answered, ‘Husband! thou for whom
‘My heart has never ceas'd to feel, since first
‘From Mercia's soil I came; oh pity me!
‘Nor add a weight too heavy to be borne
‘At this hard time. I, leave thee, Alfred! leave
‘My only friend! behold thee go amid
‘Ten thousand secret perils, and endure
‘That keenest of all ill—uncertainty?
‘It cannot be!’
‘My heart has never ceas'd to feel, since first
‘From Mercia's soil I came; oh pity me!
‘Nor add a weight too heavy to be borne
‘At this hard time. I, leave thee, Alfred! leave
‘My only friend! behold thee go amid
‘Ten thousand secret perils, and endure
‘That keenest of all ill—uncertainty?
‘It cannot be!’
When, earnest, thus the king:
‘Alswitha! dearly do I hold thy love,
‘Thy true affection; dearly do I prize
‘Thy presence, but, the thought of self, of joys
‘That to myself belong, at hour like this,
‘When Britain groans and bleeds, were weak indeed.
‘I for my people live, and them alone!
‘To see their wrongs redress'd, to scourge the Danes,
‘To raise again the frighted form of peace,
‘And place the crown safe on this infant's head;
‘Who little knows his danger, nor the pangs
‘That rend his parents! This is my design;
‘For this I yield all meaner purposes;
‘All other dear delights, and, not the least,
‘Thy smiles and counsel.’
‘Alswitha! dearly do I hold thy love,
‘Thy true affection; dearly do I prize
‘Thy presence, but, the thought of self, of joys
‘That to myself belong, at hour like this,
‘When Britain groans and bleeds, were weak indeed.
‘I for my people live, and them alone!
‘To see their wrongs redress'd, to scourge the Danes,
‘To raise again the frighted form of peace,
‘And place the crown safe on this infant's head;
‘Who little knows his danger, nor the pangs
‘That rend his parents! This is my design;
53
‘All other dear delights, and, not the least,
‘Thy smiles and counsel.’
Boldly cried the queen,
‘Uncommon times, demand uncommon deeds,
‘And lofty resolutions. Firm and well
‘Hast thou declared, and truly I revere
‘Thy spirit, unsubdued by time and chance,
‘And all the little storms that vulgar minds
‘Toss and o'erwhelm. Thou judgest right, O, king!
‘Go to thy place of hiding; there behold,
‘Tranquil, the tempest riding high through heaven:
‘Though fierce, it will not always last, and seize
‘The hour of sunshine to come forth and sing
‘The song of triumph; but, regard me, king!
‘I will not leave thee! I, unmoved, can bear
‘The tempest and the beating wind and rain:
‘These bring no terrors to my heart, I live
‘Beneath thy sight; away from thee, I die.
‘If with vain fear thou shudder at the snares
‘That lurk for woman, I will clothe these limbs
‘In iron-mail, or with the garb of man:
‘And look such terrors to th' obtruding eye,
‘That, aw'd to distance, all alike should mark
‘My frown, and tremble. Say not nay, O, king!
‘Beloved friend and husband!’
‘Uncommon times, demand uncommon deeds,
‘And lofty resolutions. Firm and well
‘Hast thou declared, and truly I revere
‘Thy spirit, unsubdued by time and chance,
‘And all the little storms that vulgar minds
‘Toss and o'erwhelm. Thou judgest right, O, king!
‘Go to thy place of hiding; there behold,
‘Tranquil, the tempest riding high through heaven:
‘Though fierce, it will not always last, and seize
‘The hour of sunshine to come forth and sing
‘The song of triumph; but, regard me, king!
‘I will not leave thee! I, unmoved, can bear
‘The tempest and the beating wind and rain:
‘These bring no terrors to my heart, I live
‘Beneath thy sight; away from thee, I die.
‘If with vain fear thou shudder at the snares
‘That lurk for woman, I will clothe these limbs
‘In iron-mail, or with the garb of man:
‘And look such terrors to th' obtruding eye,
‘That, aw'd to distance, all alike should mark
‘My frown, and tremble. Say not nay, O, king!
‘Beloved friend and husband!’
Alfred cried,
‘Thou canst not go with me! I have a path
‘Before me hazardous, of such a kind,
‘That man alone can venture. Canst thou climb
‘The mountain precipice, and rob the nest
‘Of eagles for thy food? Canst thou contend
‘With prowling wolves, and, on the topmast branch
‘Of lonely tree, watch till returning light,
‘Nor dare to dream of hardship?’ Thus the queen,
‘Hear thou thy loved Alswitha,—I can climb
‘The mountain precipice, and rob the nest
‘Of eagles for my food. I can contend
‘With prowling wolves, and, on the topmast branch
‘Of lonely tree, watch till returning light,
‘Nor dare to dream of hardship, if, my lord,
‘Thy voice I hear, and courage learn from thee!’
The king replied, while conflict reign'd within.
‘A heart like thine, firm as the beetling crag,
‘Might dare all perils, and serene look down,
‘Smiling, while others fear'd; yet, best beloved!
‘Hear one objection, sterner than the rest.
‘If thou canst perils dare—can this thy babe?’
Alswitha smote her breast, and answer'd not.
‘Thou canst not go with me! I have a path
‘Before me hazardous, of such a kind,
‘That man alone can venture. Canst thou climb
‘The mountain precipice, and rob the nest
‘Of eagles for thy food? Canst thou contend
‘With prowling wolves, and, on the topmast branch
‘Of lonely tree, watch till returning light,
‘Nor dare to dream of hardship?’ Thus the queen,
54
‘The mountain precipice, and rob the nest
‘Of eagles for my food. I can contend
‘With prowling wolves, and, on the topmast branch
‘Of lonely tree, watch till returning light,
‘Nor dare to dream of hardship, if, my lord,
‘Thy voice I hear, and courage learn from thee!’
The king replied, while conflict reign'd within.
‘A heart like thine, firm as the beetling crag,
‘Might dare all perils, and serene look down,
‘Smiling, while others fear'd; yet, best beloved!
‘Hear one objection, sterner than the rest.
‘If thou canst perils dare—can this thy babe?’
Alswitha smote her breast, and answer'd not.
Near them, they now behold the Abbey walls,
Awhile forgotten. Alfred thus: ‘'Tis meet
‘To pass for trav'llers. Know, yon pious men
‘Our wants will aid; and grant asylum fit
‘For thee and for thy child.’—They knock. the door
Turns on its ponderous hinges, when the sound
Rang through the vaulted roof, and forthwith brought
An aged Father, who inquired the cause
Of their so early visit. Alfred spake.
‘Father! we hither come, to ask thy prayers,
‘And claim thy bounty. We have travelled far,
‘And, weary, here we stand.’—
Awhile forgotten. Alfred thus: ‘'Tis meet
‘To pass for trav'llers. Know, yon pious men
‘Our wants will aid; and grant asylum fit
‘For thee and for thy child.’—They knock. the door
Turns on its ponderous hinges, when the sound
Rang through the vaulted roof, and forthwith brought
An aged Father, who inquired the cause
Of their so early visit. Alfred spake.
‘Father! we hither come, to ask thy prayers,
‘And claim thy bounty. We have travelled far,
‘And, weary, here we stand.’—
The Monk replied,
‘First follow me, the holy chant to raise,
‘Then for inferior things.’ Him they obey'd,
Following thro' aisles that scarce receiv'd heaven's light,
Mid shrines and fretted pillars, till at length
They came before the altar, canopied
With broider'd vest, while dim and glimmering rays,
From lonely taper, spread o'er all the place
A dubious light, a gloom that to the heart
Convey'd a sudden awe, and many a fear
Doubtful and undefined.
‘First follow me, the holy chant to raise,
‘Then for inferior things.’ Him they obey'd,
Following thro' aisles that scarce receiv'd heaven's light,
Mid shrines and fretted pillars, till at length
They came before the altar, canopied
With broider'd vest, while dim and glimmering rays,
From lonely taper, spread o'er all the place
A dubious light, a gloom that to the heart
55
Doubtful and undefined.
These rites perform'd,
Each to the neighbouring hall repair'd, where stood
The liberal table, spread with food and drink,
And all were satisfied. Now to the spot
Where Alfred thoughtful sat, the abbot came,
And, with no rude solicitude, inquired
The cause that made him wander; whence he sped,
And whither he was bound, in times like these,
When danger and destruction roam'd abroad.
A good and hospitable man he was;
A smile beneficent beam'd o'er his face,
And his mild accent, so disposed the mind
To kindly feelings, and like music soft,
So lull'd the senses, that his words sank deep
Into all strangers' hearts.
Each to the neighbouring hall repair'd, where stood
The liberal table, spread with food and drink,
And all were satisfied. Now to the spot
Where Alfred thoughtful sat, the abbot came,
And, with no rude solicitude, inquired
The cause that made him wander; whence he sped,
And whither he was bound, in times like these,
When danger and destruction roam'd abroad.
A good and hospitable man he was;
A smile beneficent beam'd o'er his face,
And his mild accent, so disposed the mind
To kindly feelings, and like music soft,
So lull'd the senses, that his words sank deep
Into all strangers' hearts.
Alfred replied,
‘Good father I am come, my wife and child,
‘From a loved home, where peace and plenty reign'd.
‘There never pilgrim-monk unheeded ask'd
‘For food or shelter; but we left it all,
‘Flying before the Danes, whose savage rage
‘No power might stand—whose breasts no pity move.
‘There is no safety now, throughout the land.
‘In town and hamlet, pale and troubled forms
‘Meet us on every side, aghast! who mourn
‘Some friend or relative, untimely slain
‘By these fierce Danes—faithless and bloody men!—
‘May yet the hour arrive, Oh, grant it heaven!
‘When wiser Saxons, (now at enmity,
‘Whilst foes the while upon their vitals prey,)
‘Beholding their delusion, may arise,
‘Unite their strength, and with a torrent's force
‘Sweep Denmark's hordes from this our groaning land.’
‘Good father I am come, my wife and child,
‘From a loved home, where peace and plenty reign'd.
‘There never pilgrim-monk unheeded ask'd
‘For food or shelter; but we left it all,
‘Flying before the Danes, whose savage rage
‘No power might stand—whose breasts no pity move.
‘There is no safety now, throughout the land.
‘In town and hamlet, pale and troubled forms
‘Meet us on every side, aghast! who mourn
‘Some friend or relative, untimely slain
‘By these fierce Danes—faithless and bloody men!—
‘May yet the hour arrive, Oh, grant it heaven!
‘When wiser Saxons, (now at enmity,
‘Whilst foes the while upon their vitals prey,)
‘Beholding their delusion, may arise,
‘Unite their strength, and with a torrent's force
‘Sweep Denmark's hordes from this our groaning land.’
‘Stranger, thou speakest well,’ the abbot cried:
‘This is our only hope; and I may say,
‘The day is terrible to every man
‘Who loves his country. Should dissensions still
‘Afflict and palsy this our native land;
‘We all must perish! In a few more years
‘No Saxon blood will flow, for these fierce Danes
‘Have made a league with death's dark ministers,
‘And Alfred strives in vain.—At early morn,
‘At noon, and when the hour of eve draws near,
‘Silent and shivering at the heart, we mark
‘Yon lofty Tor to see if ghastly flames
‘Rise ominous, warning the sea-kings' march—
‘Slaughter before, and fire and waste behind.
‘Hard is our lot, for never lie we down
‘On nightly pillow, but, at sound, or heard
‘Or fancied, we arise and cross our breasts,
‘And listen fearfully, then, sleep again.
‘Only to start more terrified. Young man!
‘Thy wish is granted; here contented live
‘And happily; and when thou journeyest hence,
‘May peace go with thee!’
56
‘The day is terrible to every man
‘Who loves his country. Should dissensions still
‘Afflict and palsy this our native land;
‘We all must perish! In a few more years
‘No Saxon blood will flow, for these fierce Danes
‘Have made a league with death's dark ministers,
‘And Alfred strives in vain.—At early morn,
‘At noon, and when the hour of eve draws near,
‘Silent and shivering at the heart, we mark
‘Yon lofty Tor to see if ghastly flames
‘Rise ominous, warning the sea-kings' march—
‘Slaughter before, and fire and waste behind.
‘Hard is our lot, for never lie we down
‘On nightly pillow, but, at sound, or heard
‘Or fancied, we arise and cross our breasts,
‘And listen fearfully, then, sleep again.
‘Only to start more terrified. Young man!
‘Thy wish is granted; here contented live
‘And happily; and when thou journeyest hence,
‘May peace go with thee!’
Alfred look'd, and cried,
With wonted dignity, ‘abbot! thy name?
When checking soon himself, he humbler spake.
‘I thank thee, father! take a stranger's thanks,
‘His only gift.’ The holy man replied,
‘To aid the houseless wanderer, well befits
‘The christian who has learn'd to imitate—
‘His master, who about went doing good.
‘But what the news thou bring'st? Where are the Danes?
‘If thou hast comfort, cheer our drooping hearts!’
When Alfred thus:
With wonted dignity, ‘abbot! thy name?
When checking soon himself, he humbler spake.
‘I thank thee, father! take a stranger's thanks,
‘His only gift.’ The holy man replied,
‘To aid the houseless wanderer, well befits
‘The christian who has learn'd to imitate—
‘His master, who about went doing good.
‘But what the news thou bring'st? Where are the Danes?
‘If thou hast comfort, cheer our drooping hearts!’
When Alfred thus:
‘No comforter am I;
‘I mourn to say, it is a wint'ry scene,
‘All bleak and desolate; whilst every house
‘With the white frost is covered. Peace may come,
‘Prosperity may shine, but, in an hour
‘When low we lie, for feeble are our hopes,
‘Declining fast, and a dark veil between:
‘If safety can be found, this spot is safe,
‘Wherefore, good father! I, my earthly all,
‘This mother and her babe; heaven's choicest gifts!
‘Beneath thy roof—thy fostering care, will leave.
‘Preserve the rich deposit! To a place,
‘Distant, I hasten, but the hour draws on,
‘When with a lighter heart I may return.
‘'Tis hard to hope, yet harder to despair.’
‘I mourn to say, it is a wint'ry scene,
‘All bleak and desolate; whilst every house
‘With the white frost is covered. Peace may come,
57
‘When low we lie, for feeble are our hopes,
‘Declining fast, and a dark veil between:
‘If safety can be found, this spot is safe,
‘Wherefore, good father! I, my earthly all,
‘This mother and her babe; heaven's choicest gifts!
‘Beneath thy roof—thy fostering care, will leave.
‘Preserve the rich deposit! To a place,
‘Distant, I hasten, but the hour draws on,
‘When with a lighter heart I may return.
‘'Tis hard to hope, yet harder to despair.’
Throughout the hall, each to his neighbour spake
As fancy prompted; but, at Alfred's words,
The clamour died away, whilst all approach'd
Successive, to the place, and listen'd, still;
And when the king had ceas'd, the abbot cried;
As fancy prompted; but, at Alfred's words,
The clamour died away, whilst all approach'd
Successive, to the place, and listen'd, still;
And when the king had ceas'd, the abbot cried;
‘Fear not the enemy! his reign is short.
‘Know, gallant stranger! God will prosper yet
‘Our good king Alfred. He is wise as brave
‘Tutor'd in that best school, adversity,
‘And all the hopes of Britain rest alone
‘On him and on high heaven. Dismiss thy fears;
‘And if important calls demand thee hence,
‘Go satisfied, that never mortal trust
‘This heart betrayed. Safe be thy treasure here,
‘And safe, tho' perilous, thy journey back!
‘My blessing shall go with thee.’
‘Know, gallant stranger! God will prosper yet
‘Our good king Alfred. He is wise as brave
‘Tutor'd in that best school, adversity,
‘And all the hopes of Britain rest alone
‘On him and on high heaven. Dismiss thy fears;
‘And if important calls demand thee hence,
‘Go satisfied, that never mortal trust
‘This heart betrayed. Safe be thy treasure here,
‘And safe, tho' perilous, thy journey back!
‘My blessing shall go with thee.’
Words so kind—
This unexpected praise, this flattering proof
Of unbought confidence, made the queen's heart,
Throb fast with gladness—as the king, to earth,
Look'd, whilst conflicting passions shook his frame;
Joy, sorrow, hope; fearing each eye might read
Upon his cheek his real character.
When thus he answered. ‘Sire! the faith thou hast
‘In better days, inspires again my breast;
‘And these thy words encourage me. I prize
‘All blessings, but the blessing given by one,
‘Like thee, a good man, brings a benefit
‘In after times, as doth the genial shower
‘Bathing the bud of Spring. Father! awhile
‘I claim thy patience.’
This unexpected praise, this flattering proof
Of unbought confidence, made the queen's heart,
Throb fast with gladness—as the king, to earth,
Look'd, whilst conflicting passions shook his frame;
Joy, sorrow, hope; fearing each eye might read
Upon his cheek his real character.
58
‘In better days, inspires again my breast;
‘And these thy words encourage me. I prize
‘All blessings, but the blessing given by one,
‘Like thee, a good man, brings a benefit
‘In after times, as doth the genial shower
‘Bathing the bud of Spring. Father! awhile
‘I claim thy patience.’
Alfred now arose.
The queen slow followed him, bearing her child,
Through where the cloisters stood, and to the trees,
(Laden with fruit, blithe Avalonia
Far from obtruding ear. When thus he spake:
The queen slow followed him, bearing her child,
Through where the cloisters stood, and to the trees,
(Laden with fruit, blithe Avalonia
Far from obtruding ear. When thus he spake:
‘Alswitha! dear art thou! but, thrice more dear
‘For these thy sorrows. Deem me not unkind,
‘In leaving thee 'mid those who little know
‘Thy worth, and thy hard fate; who never felt
‘The social tie divine; who never knew
‘A husband's struggles, nor the bitter pang
‘Of separation from that holiest friend—
‘A dear-loved wife. But thou hast that within
‘Which buoys thy spirit; lifts thy soaring mind
‘Above the power of circumstance,—thy heart—
‘Teaches to view these shifting scenes of life—
‘Smiling superior.—Do I feign regret
‘At leaving thee 'mid strangers, far from home?—
‘From early friendships, kindred sympathies?’
Silence prevail'd. At length the king pursued;
‘It is most hard! But we shall meet again!
‘Soon will my feet return, and I would hope
‘With tidings, such as thou wilt joy to learn:
‘But, doubt whate'er thou wilt, oh, never doubt
‘The pang this parting gives; oh, never doubt
‘Thy husband's true affection.’
‘For these thy sorrows. Deem me not unkind,
‘In leaving thee 'mid those who little know
‘Thy worth, and thy hard fate; who never felt
‘The social tie divine; who never knew
‘A husband's struggles, nor the bitter pang
‘Of separation from that holiest friend—
‘A dear-loved wife. But thou hast that within
‘Which buoys thy spirit; lifts thy soaring mind
‘Above the power of circumstance,—thy heart—
‘Teaches to view these shifting scenes of life—
‘Smiling superior.—Do I feign regret
‘At leaving thee 'mid strangers, far from home?—
‘From early friendships, kindred sympathies?’
Silence prevail'd. At length the king pursued;
‘It is most hard! But we shall meet again!
‘Soon will my feet return, and I would hope
‘With tidings, such as thou wilt joy to learn:
‘But, doubt whate'er thou wilt, oh, never doubt
‘The pang this parting gives; oh, never doubt
‘Thy husband's true affection.’
Alfred turn'd;
He wept. Alswitha mark'd the tear! a tear
That on her soul impress'd a character,
Deep, and for ever fresh. Sudden she strove
To hide the anguish of her breast, and cried,
(In woman's softest tone!) ‘I trust that sigh
‘Came not for me! Oh, do not grieve for me!
‘Beneath this roof, and in this pious place,
‘I can live happily, and, tho' thy sight
‘Might cheer my spirit; I, full willingly,
‘That sight can yield, and when thou see'st it right,
‘Doubt not, with winged transport, that thy feet
‘Hither will turn, and thy heart join the heart
‘That is alone without thee. Cheer thou up,
‘And rest on heaven, we shall do well again,
‘Both thou and thine.’
59
That on her soul impress'd a character,
Deep, and for ever fresh. Sudden she strove
To hide the anguish of her breast, and cried,
(In woman's softest tone!) ‘I trust that sigh
‘Came not for me! Oh, do not grieve for me!
‘Beneath this roof, and in this pious place,
‘I can live happily, and, tho' thy sight
‘Might cheer my spirit; I, full willingly,
‘That sight can yield, and when thou see'st it right,
‘Doubt not, with winged transport, that thy feet
‘Hither will turn, and thy heart join the heart
‘That is alone without thee. Cheer thou up,
‘And rest on heaven, we shall do well again,
‘Both thou and thine.’
Alfred, with transport, cried,
‘Partner in suffering! soothing are thy words!
‘Thou dost not know how soothing, at this hour
‘When darkness reigns. Beloved, ere I go
‘Grant me one boon—let me behold thee smile,
‘For wherefore should'st thou grieve, and in thy mind
‘Cherish foreboding sorrow? I must haste
‘To gather tidings, but, will soon return,
‘Joy in my eye, and gladness at my heart,
‘And we shall yet exult o'er perils past.’
‘Partner in suffering! soothing are thy words!
‘Thou dost not know how soothing, at this hour
‘When darkness reigns. Beloved, ere I go
‘Grant me one boon—let me behold thee smile,
‘For wherefore should'st thou grieve, and in thy mind
‘Cherish foreboding sorrow? I must haste
‘To gather tidings, but, will soon return,
‘Joy in my eye, and gladness at my heart,
‘And we shall yet exult o'er perils past.’
Alswitha said. ‘I hear thy words, O, king!
‘And I should think thee cheerful, but thy face!
‘There is the myst'ry! There, thou canst not hide
‘The conflict hard within. Yet, was it kind,
‘Thus with mild stratagem, to strive to cheat
‘My heart of anguish, but, in vain! I see
‘Things as they are, and never more expect
‘Pleasure on earth. Now, hear me! If thou go,
‘Oh, do not danger court to prove thy strength,
‘Courage, or skill, but when thou seest it,
‘Turn off, and think of me. May rivers wide
‘Stop not thy course; no savage man approach
‘With dark designs! no wolf with hideous yell
‘Draw nigh thee! May no storms upon thy head
‘Wrathful, descend! and, at the hour of sleep,
‘If hospitable roof be far away,
‘May some propitious gale, the wither'd leaves,
‘Blow near, and angels guard thee!’
‘And I should think thee cheerful, but thy face!
‘There is the myst'ry! There, thou canst not hide
‘The conflict hard within. Yet, was it kind,
‘Thus with mild stratagem, to strive to cheat
‘My heart of anguish, but, in vain! I see
‘Things as they are, and never more expect
‘Pleasure on earth. Now, hear me! If thou go,
‘Oh, do not danger court to prove thy strength,
‘Courage, or skill, but when thou seest it,
60
‘Stop not thy course; no savage man approach
‘With dark designs! no wolf with hideous yell
‘Draw nigh thee! May no storms upon thy head
‘Wrathful, descend! and, at the hour of sleep,
‘If hospitable roof be far away,
‘May some propitious gale, the wither'd leaves,
‘Blow near, and angels guard thee!’
Alfred now
Viewing his rosy boy, thus mournful spake;
‘Mild infant! thou canst lift thy hands in sport,
‘And laugh unconscious of the cares that now
‘Oppress thy parents; but, the hour will come
‘When these light dreams will vanish; when thy heart
‘Will sink within thee, and the passing clouds
‘Seem leagued against thy peace. Delighted child!
‘Go on to smile, stretch out thy playful arms
‘In nature's holiday, and chaunt thy song,
‘Untutor'd—heedless of thy coming wrongs:
‘But, they will soon draw near. Evil and few
‘Are man's appointed days, and such indeed
‘Thy sire has found them. May a double share,
‘His, and thine own, have been his destiny!
‘Beloved child! if thou should'st never more
‘Behold these eyes, nor at a riper age
‘Receive a father's blessing, may high Heaven
‘Protect thee! God of heaven and earth, look down
‘And save my child! Alswitha! now, farewell!’
She sighed, but answered not, and as the King
Turned to pursue his way, his infant boy,
With sudden impulse, forward stretched his hands
And changed from smiles to tears. ‘Oh, fare thee well,’
Cried Alfred. ‘Fare thee well!’ when toward the hall,
Downcast and sad, he walked.
Viewing his rosy boy, thus mournful spake;
‘Mild infant! thou canst lift thy hands in sport,
‘And laugh unconscious of the cares that now
‘Oppress thy parents; but, the hour will come
‘When these light dreams will vanish; when thy heart
‘Will sink within thee, and the passing clouds
‘Seem leagued against thy peace. Delighted child!
‘Go on to smile, stretch out thy playful arms
‘In nature's holiday, and chaunt thy song,
‘Untutor'd—heedless of thy coming wrongs:
‘But, they will soon draw near. Evil and few
‘Are man's appointed days, and such indeed
‘Thy sire has found them. May a double share,
‘His, and thine own, have been his destiny!
‘Beloved child! if thou should'st never more
‘Behold these eyes, nor at a riper age
‘Receive a father's blessing, may high Heaven
‘Protect thee! God of heaven and earth, look down
‘And save my child! Alswitha! now, farewell!’
She sighed, but answered not, and as the King
Turned to pursue his way, his infant boy,
With sudden impulse, forward stretched his hands
And changed from smiles to tears. ‘Oh, fare thee well,’
Cried Alfred. ‘Fare thee well!’ when toward the hall,
Downcast and sad, he walked.
The holy Sire
A cordial had prepared for their return,
With hearty greetings, but, when he beheld
The king alone, he would have asked the cause,
And led him to the feast: but Alfred cried;
‘My soul is full! The sun is journeying on,
‘And I must leave thee! Grateful is my heart
‘But it is full, and I can only say,
‘Servant of God! protect my wife and child!’
This said, he thro' the lofty gateway pass'd.
A cordial had prepared for their return,
61
The king alone, he would have asked the cause,
And led him to the feast: but Alfred cried;
‘My soul is full! The sun is journeying on,
‘And I must leave thee! Grateful is my heart
‘But it is full, and I can only say,
‘Servant of God! protect my wife and child!’
This said, he thro' the lofty gateway pass'd.
| Alfred | |