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Poems

by R. E. E. Warburton

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3

THE CAMP OF THE DANES.

The evening wanes, and the plundering Danes
Have hied to their camp with the prey,
To rest from the fight and to revel by night,
On the spoil they have taken by day.
Loud was the glee and the revelry,
And the riot in ev'ry tent;
In wasteful excess and licentiousness,
Their nights were ever spent.
So great was the scorn, by those Heathens borne,
'Gainst the Saxon's scattered band,
From the feast was spared not a single guard,
To warn when a foe was at hand.

4

On a couch of state, proud Guthrum sate,
At the head of the boist'rous feast;
And around their king, a warrior ring
Of Danish nobles were placed.
A minstrel apart, with bewitching art,
Struck his harp to their Pagan glee;
Albeit they knew that a Christian true,
And a Saxon bold was he.
“Harper, thy flowing strains impart
A thrilling rapture to my heart.”
Thus spoke the Danish Prince, “But ne'er
Is northern noble wont to hear
The harp of scald at wassail strung,
Unanswered by the minstrel's tongue.”
That harper then obeisance made,
And thus the monarch's hest obeyed.—

5

SONG.

1

“Oswy's troops ere morning go,
To oppose the Mercian foe:
Cedric, here I swear to thee,
If they're blest with victory,—
If the flag of Penda's band,
Wrench'd away with daring hand,
At thy mistress' feet be spread,
Here I swear that thou shalt wed
With thy Edilfleda.”

2

Joyful, Cedric made reply,
“Or to vanquish or to die,
Will I seek the battle-plain;
Or, my faithful blade shall gain
Mercia's flag from Penda's hold.
—Yes, and stained shall be its fold,
With that haughty monarch's gore,
Or thou ne'er shalt see me more,
Lovely Edilfleda.”

6

3

Rages now the fight amain;
Cedric's foremost on the plain;
Firm of heart, and strong of limb,
Where's the knight may vie with him?
Penda falls beneath his blade;
His hand is on the banner laid;
Shall he rear it in his pride?
That hissing shaft has pierced his side!
Faint, the warrior, as he died,
Murmur'd “Edilfleda.”
Each tongue confessed the minstrel's skill;
Each bosom felt the music's thrill;
In ev'ry ear were lingering still
The accents of the mournful lay,
Ere e'en their echo died away:
Again, his harp, still quivering, rung
To louder notes, as thus he sung.—

7

SONG.

1.

Stout was the buckler that Odin wielded,
But stouter far was the heart it shielded;
When he brandished his sword, it gleam'd like fire,
But the glance of his eye was more bright in its ire.
His arm, all shagged, in toughness might vie
With the cumbersome club that it lifted on high

2.

When Odin that buckler had girded on,
Many a mother might weep for her son;
Woe to the foeman who ventured nigh
That unsheath'd sword or that angry eye;
That club, when uplifted, ne'er fell to the ground
But the brains of a victim were scatter'd around.

8

3.

When he led his bold band to the battle-plain,
Who could e'er number the foes that were slain;
Heap upon heap they were backwards cast,
As drifted snow by the whirlwind's blast;
In accents of thunder, he cheered to the slaughter,
And his white lips foamed like the ocean's water

4.

Vainly the shrieks of the dying implore;
His wrath was unquench'd, tho' he waded in gore;
There was but one sound that could sink on his breast,
Like a charm on the ocean, and lull it to rest;
Still reeked his red sword, still flashed his fierce eye,
Till the shout of his comrades was “Victory!”

9

5.

Such was fierce Odin, and such must he be,
Who would banquet with him in the halls of the free;
In the halls of the blest, where each warrior-guest
Shall sit by the side of the maid he loves best.
While sweetly her song shall his deeds declare,
And softly the sound of her music shall lull,
She shall smooth o'er his forehead the blood-clotted hair,
That a chaplet of triumph his temples may bear,
As he quaffs the red beer from a foeman's skull.

10

As the smooth waves that late had lain
Calm on the bosom of the main,
When the hurrying winds arise,
Dash their white foam in anger to the skies,
Those warriors who at first had felt
Their souls beneath the music melt,
When those last wild notes were sung,
Up from the banquet all furious sprung;
'Twas the song of the warrior-god they adored.
Up they sprung from the festive board;
Some their savage skill displayed,
And fronted their comrades, blade to blade;
Branches of pine, some heaped on the ground,
Fired them with torches, and danced around:
'Twas dreadful to hear as they whirled them about,
The piercing yell and the frantic shout.
From the noisy feast and their heathen fray,
Soon that harper turned away;
Reckless of their savage mirth,
From the camp he sallied forth.

11

Long they revelled. He sped the while,
With hurried step, for many a mile,
Till Selwood's deepening forest spread
Its shadowy branches o'er his head.
He stops. What means, upreared in air,
Denmark's floating banner there?
A group of dusky forms around
Lie stretched upon the leafy ground;
Up they spring from their repose.
Are they friends or are they foes?
Each joyful tongue, and echoing tree,
Hath answer made, “'Tis he, 'tis he.”
Falling at that harper's feet,
They in him their monarch greet;
Loud the shouts of welcome ring,
'Tis Alfred's self—'tis England's king!
“Speak,” he cried, “what doth proclaim
Yon banner of accursed fame?”
Odun, Lord of Devonshire,
Answered then his royal sire;
“Fierce Hubba, with rapacious band,
Had ravaged Cambria's bleeding land,

12

Returning, laden with their spoil,
Again they crossed our hapless soil.
Whersoe'er those heathens came,
There was massacre and flame.
Around beleagured Kenwith's tower,
The scornful chief had ranged his power.
I bade my followers not despair.
We raised our hands to God in prayer;
And sallied from our castle-wall,
Scarce three hundred men in all.
My Sire, it suits not me to boast;
The hand of God o'erthrew their host.
Of our foul oppressors slain,
Twice six hundred heaped the plain.
As we retraced the battle's red heath,
There lay Hubba all stiffened in death;
His lips were unclosed, as when the last groan
Of parting life had between them flown.
In the vain endeavour to staunch its tide,
One cold hand was glued to his side.
Firmly, the other was clenched around
The reafen staff, as it lay on the ground.

13

He ope'd his fierce eyes, and he closed, methought,
His teeth with a grin, as I wrenched it out.”
Odun spoke, and every eye
Beheld the reafen reared on high.
By the silver moonbeam lit,
They signed the cross, as they gazed on it.
All knew the tale, how magic power
Had wove it in the midnight hour.
While Denmark's royal sisters stood,
With streaming hair and hands of blood,
O'er the woof, as legends tell,
Muttering thus their hateful spell.—
“Standard, in thy weft is bound
Every curse that may confound;
Ruin dire, ne'er ceasing woes,
Shake them, shake them on our foes.”

14

Then Alfred spoke: the band drew round
Their king, and hushed was every sound.
“The noble Odun has to England shown
That victory dwells not with the Dane alone;
Has shown no force of numbers can withstand
The desperate struggle of a dauntless band.
Shame, then, on us, were we to linger here,
Crouched in the sheltering woods, like timid deer.
What! can a Saxon view with careless eye
His burning altars flaming to the sky?
Can English noble cringe within the hall,
Where once his fathers ruled—a servile thrall,
To the fierce Dane the knee of slavery bend,
And till the soil he trembles to defend?
The slumbering embers of our country's fame,
From Odun's victory have again caught flame.
Saxons! the hour is come; one well-timed stroke
For ever frees us from oppression's yoke.
Three days, unknown, I tarried with the foe;
Each secret path around their camp I know.
Away! Away! our summon'd bands unite:
This arm ere morn shall lead you to the fight!”

15

Far the shouts that hail his speech,
Through the echoing forest reach.
Every yeoman's bosom shared
The monarch's ardour. See! prepared,
Pointed shaft, so true of flight,
Keen-edged axe, and falchion bright.
Warriors from each pathway rush,
And seem to spring from every bush.
As onward moves the gathering throng,
Hearken to their vengeful song.

SONG

1

The Saxon has roused him; false Pagan, beware!
His bow it is bent, and his sword it is bare;
His sword it is bare—and bare it shall be—
Till sheathed in thy bosom—till England is free!

16

2

With his king for his leader—revenge for his cry,
He has reared the broad banner of freedom on high.
With the rage of a lion, when bursting his chain,
Will he rush to the slaughter of Pagan and Dane.

3

Cruel Heathen! thy sword shall avail thee no more,
For its keen edge is clotted with Christian gore.
In luxury slumber thy countless array,
As the overgorged serpent, when glutted with prey.

4

Oh! where is the chief that should lead thee? and where
The standard should cheer thee from flight and despair?
He is slain—it is lost—and thy numbers are vain;
The Saxon has roused him—woe, woe to the Dane!

17

5

Woe, woe to the Dane; but more cursed be the slave,
Who shall see the broad banner of liberty wave,
Who shall hear the loud blast, when it summons alike
The prince and the peasant,—yet tremble to strike.

6

False merciless heathens! now think on your guilt—
On the vows ye have broken—the blood ye have spilt;
Oh! think on your guilt, and repent ere ye die;
For the Saxon has roused him, and vengeance is nigh!
While on the breeze those notes were borne,
The misty clouds of coming morn,
Tinged faintly with its rays at first,
Then reddening as the sunbeams burst,
Melted from the azure sky,
As rose the glorious orb on high.

18

He rose—and ere again he set,
Many a blade in blood was wet.
Ere his daily race was run,
Freedom's fight was fought and won.
In that camp, where mirth had been,
Fire and massacre were seen;
Where those festive shouts were heard,
Clashed the Saxon's vengeful sword;
Where the wine-cup redly glowed,
There the blood of the revellers flowed.

19

BALLAD.

1

Oh! who is yon Baron that girds on his sword,
To fight 'gainst the Scot for King Edward his lord?
Oh! who is yon ladie that cries in despair,
Wilt thou leave me behind, when Philippa is there?
Her prayer has been granted. See! onward they ride:
'Tis the Lord of Fitzavon and Edith his bride.

2

Hark! hear you the clash of the broad sword and targe?
And see you bold Percy rush on to the charge?
Oh! who is yon warrior so loudly doth cry,
“On! on, merry England, we'll conquer or die?”
Oh! who the fair youth that still fights at his side?
'Tis the Lord of Fitzavon and Edith his bride.

23

3

The battle is o'er: mid the wounded and slain,
Oh! who are yon two that lie stretched on the plain?
Their pale lips are clinging, but yield not a breath;
Their eyelids are closed, and their slumber is death!
'Tis love's fairest flower, 'tis chivalry's pride,
'Tis the Lord of Fitzavon and Edith his bride.

24

BALLAD.

[_]

[The occurrence here related took place near the village of Gressenig, about a league from Stollberg, during the retreat of the French army, under Dumouriez.]

1

The tide of war had turned at last,
As the ocean backward flows;
The army of Gaul was retiring fast,
From the might of her Austrian foes.

2

There was a young and lovely bride,
Mid the ranks of those that fled;
She followed the steps and she fought by the side
Of him she had lately wed.

25

3

She had left her home in that fertile soil,
Where the vine and the olive grow;
For fields of blood, and to share in the toil
That her lover must undergo.

4

Alas! that love which had nerved her heart,
To war and its daring deeds,
Could not to her tender frame impart
The strength a soldier needs.

5

Now lingered that youth with his bride in the rear,
For her limbs began to fail;
And the hue of her cheek, tho' unchanged by fear,
With weariness grew pale.

26

6

He looked on her features in fond despair,
As he held her to his breast;
And her drooping head, as they tarried there,
Sunk in his arms to rest.

7

From that hurried sleep, when she woke again,
Far from her anxious sight,
The distant bands of her countrymen
Had vanished in their flight.

8

Then, together they left the beaten track,
And sought the forest shade:
She wished from that host—not a soldier back,
While her own stood by to aid.

27

9

Hid from the search of pursuers there,
For days and nights they sped;
The fruits of the forest their only fare,
The leaves their only bed.

10

Fondly they thought that those paths might guide
Once more to their native land:
Vain hope! what sees that startled bride?
Why grasps she her lover's hand?

11

'Tis the levelled gun of a foeman near,
Half hid by the copsewood screen.—
She clung, as a shield, to that breast so dear,
And the fatal flash was seen!

28

12

They fell—their hearts' blood stained the spot
Where yon lonely cypress grows;
Their bodies pierced by that single shot,
In a single grave repose.

EPIGRAMS.


29

ON A GLOVE STOLEN FROM DELIA.

Delia, while thine, this glove I curst,
Which to hide that fair hand durst;
But, because that fair hand wore it,
Now 'tis mine, I do adore it.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Tell me,” cried Aminta, “why
The god of love hath ne'er an eye?'
“Ah!” quoth Corydon, “'cause he
Gave his two bright eyes to thee.”

30

FROM THE LATIN.

Burning love and burning hate,
My soul at once excruciate:
The cause, alas! I can't explain;
But so it is—and, oh, the pain!

[Dido first Sichæus wed,—]

Infelix Dido nunquam bene nupta marito;
Hoc pereunte fugit, hoc fugiente perit.

Dido first Sichæus wed,—
Sichæus dying—Dido fled;
Dido next Eneas tried;
Eneas flying—Dido died