 | England |  |
95
ALFRED. A.D. 849.
He was a man (then boldly dare to say)
In whose rich soul, the virtues well did suite,
In whom, so mix'd, the elements all lay,
That none to one could sov'rangtie impute;
All else did govern, yet all did obey;
He of a temper was so absolute,
As that it seem'd, when Nature him began,
She meant to shew all that might be a man.
—Drayton.
In whose rich soul, the virtues well did suite,
In whom, so mix'd, the elements all lay,
That none to one could sov'rangtie impute;
All else did govern, yet all did obey;
He of a temper was so absolute,
As that it seem'd, when Nature him began,
She meant to shew all that might be a man.
—Drayton.
A meteor wert thou in a darksome night;
Yet, shall thy name conspicuous and sublime,
Stand in the spacious firmament of time
Fix'd as a star: such glory is thy right.
—Wordsworth.
Yet, shall thy name conspicuous and sublime,
Stand in the spacious firmament of time
Fix'd as a star: such glory is thy right.
—Wordsworth.
Without a home, or where to lay his head—
Condemn'd to every mean and servile toil—
Alfred, the mightiest of the kingly dead—
The stateliest stem that ever grac'd our soil—
Thus lay encas'd within the serpent's coil:
There, in lone huts, he learnt how virtue shone—
How pure the lowly heart, that did recoil
From all of base or low; through good, alone,
How, from the humblest date, rose deeds to grace a throne.
Condemn'd to every mean and servile toil—
Alfred, the mightiest of the kingly dead—
The stateliest stem that ever grac'd our soil—
Thus lay encas'd within the serpent's coil:
There, in lone huts, he learnt how virtue shone—
How pure the lowly heart, that did recoil
From all of base or low; through good, alone,
How, from the humblest date, rose deeds to grace a throne.
A patriot king—a teacher—a true guide—
A warrior brave, as England's foes well knew:
One hand smote down the Northman in his pride,
The other gave our soil a greener hue,
And scatter'd pleasant learning's honey dew.
Souls mightier, and the empire of the mind,—
Laws to the lawless—wisdom to the true,
He gave; and Freedom, chainless as the wind,
Rearing a light on high, for those who lagg'd behind.
A warrior brave, as England's foes well knew:
One hand smote down the Northman in his pride,
The other gave our soil a greener hue,
And scatter'd pleasant learning's honey dew.
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Laws to the lawless—wisdom to the true,
He gave; and Freedom, chainless as the wind,
Rearing a light on high, for those who lagg'd behind.
When he arose—when he with harp in hand,
His gold locks rolling down his shoulders strong,
First walk'd in pride, among the Danish band,
And won them by the magic charms of song,
Hope, freedom, valour, had been banish'd long:
Our bravest sons were slain—children and maids,
Like flowers, lay wither'd, the lone glens among:—
The glory had departed from our glades:
We had been slaves so long, the rust was on our blades.
His gold locks rolling down his shoulders strong,
First walk'd in pride, among the Danish band,
And won them by the magic charms of song,
Hope, freedom, valour, had been banish'd long:
Our bravest sons were slain—children and maids,
Like flowers, lay wither'd, the lone glens among:—
The glory had departed from our glades:
We had been slaves so long, the rust was on our blades.
The laugh had died upon the joyous tongue:
The bright blue Saxon eye was sad; the hair
Of noblest maid, in matted tangles hung:
All songs of love had faded from the air;—
In hut and hall dwelt sorrow and despair;
The orphan had no place to rest its head;
The voice of wailing sounded everywhere;
The madman shriek'd o'er his unburied dead;
The poison-weeds of hell, o'er all the land were spread.
The bright blue Saxon eye was sad; the hair
Of noblest maid, in matted tangles hung:
All songs of love had faded from the air;—
In hut and hall dwelt sorrow and despair;
The orphan had no place to rest its head;
The voice of wailing sounded everywhere;
The madman shriek'd o'er his unburied dead;
The poison-weeds of hell, o'er all the land were spread.
Alas, for gentle men, who in the gloom
Of sacred cloister, sought a peaceful rest!
Even there the wild barbarian shook his plume—
Even there the murderer pierc'd the snowy breast—
Even there came lost, and made himself a guest:
Old priests were slain—the marble stain'd with blood—
The altar-stone by heathen footsteps prest;
And England, like a time-worn pillar, stood—
Her guardian spirit dead, and swept along the flood.
Of sacred cloister, sought a peaceful rest!
Even there the wild barbarian shook his plume—
Even there the murderer pierc'd the snowy breast—
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Old priests were slain—the marble stain'd with blood—
The altar-stone by heathen footsteps prest;
And England, like a time-worn pillar, stood—
Her guardian spirit dead, and swept along the flood.
Ye mothers, when your little children died,
Even at your breasts—ye children, when ye saw
Your mothers fade away, and gradual glide
To death—ye maidens, when, in green-wood shaw,
Your wounded lovers could no red sword draw—
Fathers and heroes, when in every bay
The Danish ships were heaving to and fro;
Why, from your sea-cliffs, where they towering lay,
Dash'd ye not down your lives, now worthless, 'mong the spray?
Even at your breasts—ye children, when ye saw
Your mothers fade away, and gradual glide
To death—ye maidens, when, in green-wood shaw,
Your wounded lovers could no red sword draw—
Fathers and heroes, when in every bay
The Danish ships were heaving to and fro;
Why, from your sea-cliffs, where they towering lay,
Dash'd ye not down your lives, now worthless, 'mong the spray?
Your altars and your liberties call'd loud;
The ocean billows shouted in your ear,
That ye were better rotting in your shroud,
Than live as slaves, beneath the Danish spear:
Ye saw your women shrieking with loud fear,
Your tombstones ruined, and your altars broke,—
Your harvests all burnt up; and, far and near,
The invader's axe against each guardian oak.
Why slept your lion hearts?—Where, Freedom, was thy stroke?
The ocean billows shouted in your ear,
That ye were better rotting in your shroud,
Than live as slaves, beneath the Danish spear:
Ye saw your women shrieking with loud fear,
Your tombstones ruined, and your altars broke,—
Your harvests all burnt up; and, far and near,
The invader's axe against each guardian oak.
Why slept your lion hearts?—Where, Freedom, was thy stroke?
But Alfred rose, and, o'er the sounding blast,
His voice, even like a godhead's, thunder'd forth.
England beheld him: he was as the mast
Of some strong ship of war, when storms have birth.
Thus drove he back the sea-kings to the North;
Who, worse than hungry locusts, swarm'd the land:
Yea, on the festival, and wassail's mirth,
He stretch'd his might, as a magician's wand,
And the invader fell beneath his giant hand.
His voice, even like a godhead's, thunder'd forth.
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Of some strong ship of war, when storms have birth.
Thus drove he back the sea-kings to the North;
Who, worse than hungry locusts, swarm'd the land:
Yea, on the festival, and wassail's mirth,
He stretch'd his might, as a magician's wand,
And the invader fell beneath his giant hand.
Fresh, like a new-wed bride, England arose;
The dews she shook from off her lion mane;
Her wroth, even then, was death unto her foes;
And well she prophesied, in language plain,
Of future empire over land and main.
Once more, her harvests roll'd their locks of gold—
Her forests spake aloud in jocund strain:
Once more the pulse of England gather'd bold;
Once more her thunders spake in terrors as of gold.
The dews she shook from off her lion mane;
Her wroth, even then, was death unto her foes;
And well she prophesied, in language plain,
Of future empire over land and main.
Once more, her harvests roll'd their locks of gold—
Her forests spake aloud in jocund strain:
Once more the pulse of England gather'd bold;
Once more her thunders spake in terrors as of gold.
O that all kings were Alfreds! pure and wise,
And swift in deed, and eagle-like in sight;
Soon would the earth from out its bondage rise,—
Soon would the clouds be scatter'd from grim night,
And the earth rise in freedom, glad and bright!
For he did never kneel to vulgar praise;
Nor was the laud of courtiers his delight;
He rather sought the primal source to raise,
And smooth the mind's full path, among more peaceful ways.
And swift in deed, and eagle-like in sight;
Soon would the earth from out its bondage rise,—
Soon would the clouds be scatter'd from grim night,
And the earth rise in freedom, glad and bright!
For he did never kneel to vulgar praise;
Nor was the laud of courtiers his delight;
He rather sought the primal source to raise,
And smooth the mind's full path, among more peaceful ways.
99
Unhonour'd names shall rot in dust and mire,—
But he, my noble theme, shall live for aye;
Pure, bright, and clear, as heaven's immortal fire,
His soul shall shine amid the wormy clay,
When that which held it fades to dull decay.
His monument is with the glorious dead
Of ages, prouder even in fame than they—
Hero, sage, patriot, all in him were wed;—
A saviour of his land, in heaven may rear his head.
But he, my noble theme, shall live for aye;
Pure, bright, and clear, as heaven's immortal fire,
His soul shall shine amid the wormy clay,
When that which held it fades to dull decay.
His monument is with the glorious dead
Of ages, prouder even in fame than they—
Hero, sage, patriot, all in him were wed;—
A saviour of his land, in heaven may rear his head.
What are the pillar'd trophies—what the plume
Of conquest, arch, and monument, and all
That shine o'er warriors, and their deeds illume?
Say, do not groaning nations bear their pall?
But he who loves his kind, and when they fall
Still bears them up:—he who shall purge the state,
And purge men's minds, and listen when they call,—
He, lives beyond the brass and marble's height,
Far in the nation's heart, unchang'd by time or fate.
Of conquest, arch, and monument, and all
That shine o'er warriors, and their deeds illume?
Say, do not groaning nations bear their pall?
But he who loves his kind, and when they fall
Still bears them up:—he who shall purge the state,
And purge men's minds, and listen when they call,—
He, lives beyond the brass and marble's height,
Far in the nation's heart, unchang'd by time or fate.
He found his people, weltering in the mire;
To them he gave the light that cannot die:
Valour had sunk, and could no more aspire—
He gave it sword and spear, and liberty;
He rear'd the broken altars upon high;
He taught that knowledge was a spear of flame—
A heavenly blaze, as of an evening sky;
And thus he won himself a fadeless name—
The proudest niche of all within the towers of fame.
To them he gave the light that cannot die:
100
He gave it sword and spear, and liberty;
He rear'd the broken altars upon high;
He taught that knowledge was a spear of flame—
A heavenly blaze, as of an evening sky;
And thus he won himself a fadeless name—
The proudest niche of all within the towers of fame.
Methinks a martyr hath no holier part
Of love immortal, than hath such a king:
Disease, that fell like death upon his heart,
And smote him like a slave,—possest no sting
To bind him down,—or hold his eagle wing:
Yea, as a ship of light, his spirit rose
O'er mortal pain, a glad and blessed thing,
And the dark waves of ignorance did oppose,
Though hemm'd by shapes of night, and ever-watching foes.
Of love immortal, than hath such a king:
Disease, that fell like death upon his heart,
And smote him like a slave,—possest no sting
To bind him down,—or hold his eagle wing:
Yea, as a ship of light, his spirit rose
O'er mortal pain, a glad and blessed thing,
And the dark waves of ignorance did oppose,
Though hemm'd by shapes of night, and ever-watching foes.
Soft fell the winds on England's queenly brow;
Foul treason wail'd not then the live-long hour,
To stir the savage rabblement as now;
Contentment smil'd within each leafy bower,
And peace and plenty were her proper dower;
The murderous crimes of France were then unknown;
The atheist and the traitor had no power:
And thus, in peaceful times, the sigh and groan
Were never heard, but peace and happiness alone.
Foul treason wail'd not then the live-long hour,
To stir the savage rabblement as now;
Contentment smil'd within each leafy bower,
And peace and plenty were her proper dower;
101
The atheist and the traitor had no power:
And thus, in peaceful times, the sigh and groan
Were never heard, but peace and happiness alone.
Well had it been for England, had she still,
In her bright path, despis'd the traitor's breath.
Then had her blood ne'er fed the mountain rill,
Nor dyed the blossoms of her flowered heath,
Nor sunk in dastard and ignoble death.
Ye talk of freedom—are strong rivers free?
The skies above—the waters underneath?
And man himself is bound to custom's tree,
And laws, and passions strong, that leave no liberty!
In her bright path, despis'd the traitor's breath.
Then had her blood ne'er fed the mountain rill,
Nor dyed the blossoms of her flowered heath,
Nor sunk in dastard and ignoble death.
Ye talk of freedom—are strong rivers free?
The skies above—the waters underneath?
And man himself is bound to custom's tree,
And laws, and passions strong, that leave no liberty!
Back, then, ye brawlers for the public good—
Ye champions of a rabble ye despise!
'Tis ye who fill our city streets with blood,
And hurl these midnight fires unto the skies,
And fill the land with misery's loud cries:
These vipers must be crush'd into the mire,
Ere England from the dust shall e'er arise;
England must feel the purifying fire,
Or she must gaze and weep on her own funeral pyre.
Ye champions of a rabble ye despise!
'Tis ye who fill our city streets with blood,
And hurl these midnight fires unto the skies,
And fill the land with misery's loud cries:
These vipers must be crush'd into the mire,
Ere England from the dust shall e'er arise;
England must feel the purifying fire,
Or she must gaze and weep on her own funeral pyre.
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