 | Alfred |  |
53
SCENE VII.
To a grand flourish of instruments the scene, gradually
opening, discovers several triumphal arches, adorned
with trophies and garlands, and from space to space
beautifully illuminated. The procession is led by shepherdesses,
strewing flowers.
First Shepherdess.
Arise, sweet messenger of morn,
With thy mild beam our skies adorn:
For long as shepherds pipe and play,
This, this shall be a holy-day.
Second Shepherdess.
See, morn appears; a rosy hue
Steals soft o'er yonder orient blue:
Soon let us meet in trim array,
And frolic out this holy-day!
These are followed by soldiers with palm branches in
their hands. An officer behind bears the Danish
standard. Flourish of instruments.
First Voice.
Swell the trumpet's boldest note!
Second Voice.
Let the drum it's thunders roll!
Both.
And, as on aery wings they float,
Spread Alfred's name from pole to pole!
Chorus.
Our sons unborn,
Still on this morn
With annual joy shall tell;
How by his might,
In daring fight,
The foes of England fell.
Air.
Prince, of every fame possest!
Prince and patriot both confest!
Thy grateful Albion shall to latest days
Roll down thy glories in a tide of praise!
Chorus.
Thy grateful Albion shall to latest days
Roll down thy glories in a tide of praise!
First Shepherdess.
Arise, sweet messenger of morn,
With thy mild beam our skies adorn:
For long as shepherds pipe and play,
This, this shall be a holy-day.
Second Shepherdess.
See, morn appears; a rosy hue
Steals soft o'er yonder orient blue:
Soon let us meet in trim array,
And frolic out this holy-day!
54
First Voice.
Swell the trumpet's boldest note!
Second Voice.
Let the drum it's thunders roll!
Both.
And, as on aery wings they float,
Spread Alfred's name from pole to pole!
Chorus.
Our sons unborn,
Still on this morn
With annual joy shall tell;
How by his might,
In daring fight,
The foes of England fell.
55
Prince, of every fame possest!
Prince and patriot both confest!
Thy grateful Albion shall to latest days
Roll down thy glories in a tide of praise!
Chorus.
Thy grateful Albion shall to latest days
Roll down thy glories in a tide of praise!
56
Yon pictur'd raven—tell me is it not
Their wonderous magic standard!
Devon.
'Tis the same:
Wrought by the sisters of the Danish king,
At midnight's blackest hour; when the sick moon,
Wrapt in eclipse by their enchanting song,
Down thro the turbid clouds her influence shed
Of baleful power. The sisters ever sung—
“Shake, standard, shake destruction on our foes.”
| Alfred | |