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Craven Blossoms

or, Poems chiefly connected with the district of Craven. By Robert Storey

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THE ROYAL MINSTREL.
  
  
  
  
  


63

THE ROYAL MINSTREL.

Long within the Danish camp
Had the sound of wassail rung,
In their King's pavilion long
Had the Danish Minstrels sung,
When a Saxon Bard there came
With a Harp of simplest frame,—
But the notes were notes of flame
Which it flung!
I dare not give his Lay!
It hath suffered wrong from time,
And its spirit ill would brook
The chains of modern rhyme:
To old Denmark's name it rose,
In her glory rung its close,

64

And the cheers of England's foes
Drowned the chime.
But beneath the seeming praise
There lay irony and scorn,
Which the jealous Bards have caught,
And have round in whispers borne:
The King and Nobles laughed
At the hint they gave, and quaffed
But a deeper, merrier draught
Till the Morn.
The Morn had scarcely broke
On the land and on the wave,
When around the Danish camp
Thronged the best of England's brave—
Still beamed the Morning-star
From its misty heights afar,
When the Danes awoke to war—
And the grave!

65

That Minstrel led the fight!—
He was England's martial lord,
The glorious Alfred, famed
For the Lyre as for the Sword!
Joy! joy! to tower and town;
Joy! joy! to dale and down;
Our Monarch to his crown
Is restored!