Alfred the Great. A poem

Preface

. The writer of a long poem at the present day, and particularly if he cannot claim indulgence on the score of youth, seems to owe some explanation and apology for such an undertaking, if not to the public, at least to himself. A few fugitive verses are easily written, and even when they are bad, are easily pardoned, as the not unbecoming amusement of a leisure hour; but it is very different with a work of several thousand lines. The time indeed has not yet arrived when the writing of a good poem can be regarded otherwise than as one of the noblest employments of the faculties of man; nor will it ever be so, till the mind shall have become insensible to the charms of clear and harmo nious language, and to the excitement of high and ennobling passion. In the mean while the stringing together of a number of feeble verses, is very gene rally regarded as ridiculous trifling; and in these busy and practical times, the writer may reasonably expect to be called to account for the months and years which he will thus have wasted.

Lest such a question should hereafter be asked of me, I have re solved to answer beforehand, that many years ago the subject of Alfred presented itself to me as one pecu liarly adapted to a work of this nature; and although it had been attempted by former writers, their success did not appear to be such as necessarily to preclude others from following in the same track. Since that. time, this poem has formed the principal amusement of my hours of exercise in the open air ; and the suc sessive lines composed out of doors, were either forgotten or on my return home committed to paper, and have gradually grown into their present shape. I have never asked for the opinion of my friends, having found in my own case that such a request may put sincerity to too severe a trial; and being at the same time unwilling to suppress my work entirely, I have, after the usual hot and cold fits of authorship, resolved at last to submit it to the judgment of the public.

The character of Alfred has been beautifully de- V scribed by Mr. Sharon Turner in his history of the Anglo-Saxons, from which I have largely drawn ; and I have sought to enrich my poem by inter weaving into it, whenever I could find occasion, the expressions and sentiments of Alfred himself, as I ga thered them from his translation of Boetius, of which many extracts are given in the 2nd Vol. of Mr. Turner's History. I have particularly availed myself, at some length, of those passages in which Alfred, as Mr. Turner well observes, has "taken repeated occasions, and with a peculiar pleasure, to expatiate upon the power, perfections, and providence of the Deity, with all the clearness of perception, and large ness of thought and warmth of sentiment of a Plato nic or Pythagorean philosopher, though with the su perior light of a Christian thinker.

The subject ne ver occurs to his pen but he dilates upon it with such visible affection as to show that it was the habitual and predominant feeling of his cultivated mind." Vol. ii. p. 139. While I have endeavoured to preserve as much as possible the character of Alfred's times, and the man ners of the Danish invaders, as they appear in the Quida, or death-song of Regner Lodbrog, and the other sources to which Mr. Turner refers, I have vi thought myself authorized, in a subject taken from such early times, to depart a little from the strictness of historical dates. In order to be enabled to bring more into view the beauty of Alfred's domestic cha racter, I have represented his children, some of whom were infants at the capture of Chippenham, as taking part in that event ; and to one of them, Ethelgoa, I have given a fate, which, if not strictly hers, was of frequent occurrence among the daughters of the Saxon kings.

I have also made use of Alfred's cousin St. Neot, and of St. Swithin, al though they had died earlier ; and have put into this period Alfred's naval battles with Hastings, and his treatment of that chieftain's wife and children, events which occurred at a later date. With the single other exception of my having chosen the isle of Portland for Kinwith, of which the position, although uncertain, was probably in the north of Devon, I have followed the rapid course of events which occurred between Alfred'sflightfromChippenham in the Christ mas of 878, and his defeat of the Danes, about six months afterwards, on Bratton Hill, at Eddendun, near Westbury. Of the manner in which this poem has been written, it is for others to decide. I will venture, however, on one single remark, which has been suggested to me by some recent criticism, where objection is taken to the repetition of the ordinary similies on the ground that they have long been exhausted, and are tedious.

Butitissurely too late toexpect that they should be ori ginal. In alllanguages, and particularly in one which like our own delights in comparison, the points of real or supposed resemblance are early seized on, and pass current not only in writing of the most unam bitious character, but even in ordinary conversation : so that to hear of a man being as bold as a lion, or as firm as a rock, and of many such comparisons, is of hourly occurrence. They have long formed the com mon stock of all Poets ; and descriptive writers in particular have resorted to them with the hope of breaking the tediousness of continued narration by other, and more varied imagery. If they can still be made to answer this purpose, and by the introduction of some new circumstance of detail can be prevented from appearing as mere common place, they will have done all which a writer at this time of day can expect from them.

Whatever may the fate of this work, I cannot part from it without remembering how often it has occupied and amused my mind during my solitary rambles ; and if it shall now fail to produce cor respondent sensations in others, I must be contented to revert to the past, and to say with Dry den, What has been, has been, and I've had mine hour.

Book I

Of Alfred is my song, upon whose head Full long by Heaven's unerring Providence, Though to blind man dark and inscrutable, Ruin and woe were laid. Long time he saw The barbarous Dane triumphant, mid the wail Of ravaged cities, whose pale denizens, Spared by the weary sword, sigh'd for the grave, Though e'en its violated depths no more Shelter'd their inmate. Long he toil'd in vain : But when the fulness of his time was come Gloriously concmer'd ; nor by arms alone, But gentleness and truth, that to his love Won the reluctant savage : then as sweet As dew-drops on the thirsty earth, came Peace, With Justice in her train, and equal Law. He bade our land be free, free as the gales Of heav'n; * and hence 'bove all her glorious sons, * Note I. _ Who since have fill'd her thousand years of fame, She lauds her Alfred, and proclaims him Great.

Dark was the night on Chippenham's ruin'd tow'rs, Save where, unnumber'd as the wintry stars, Glared the red embers of the Danish fires : Or some huge form at times, amid the gloom Seen dimly, heap'd fresh fuel, when the flames Arose, and lines of slumbering myriads broke On the pale Saxon, gazing motionless Upon his midnight watch ; who lighter felt His throbbing heart, as darkness closed again, And gave short respite from the dreaded morn. Or save where faintly gleam'd the wasting torch From the lone hall, where with his martial Peers Sate Alfred ; faded was his brow, and care Graved on each dim but glorious lineament. Yet all unclouded was his eagle eye, And in its calm and lustrous azure spoke Th'unconquerable soul. As when the storm That long has warr'd against some antique tower, Is hush'd beneath its sulphurous canopy ; The reverend pile in grey tranquillity Looks forth, and from its ivied tresses thrown O'er each rent wall, and ruin'd battlement, Shakes the collected rain : though closing round Vaster and vaster on the burthen'd sky, The mountain clouds from their red summits give The signal, and again the forked fire, Thunder, and sleet, and hail, and all the blasts

BOOK I.

3 Of Heav'n, are mustering in their lurid caves. On either side him were his princely sons : Edward, his elder born, upon his hand Resting his helmed head, survey d his sire With fix'd and reverent gaze ; and from his look Drank fortitude, and more confirm'd resolve To bear the worst that adverse fate could bring Undaunted : yet at times a deeper red Flush'd o'er his cheek, and on his curling lip Sate scorn and indignation, that the Danes Should walk unquestion'd o'er his native land, While he, the rightful heir, mid wall and tower Lay shrouded from their rage. Upon his left Young Ethelward, whose auburn ringlets twined With golden braid hung clustering ; he alike Of his great Father's virtue emulous, Sate calm in native valour : but the tear Was glistening in his eye, as fancy drew His mother's form, the sisters of his love, And chiefly her by equal years endear 'd, Sweet Ethelgoa, sinking mid the foe Defenceless ; till he started horror-struck From the dread visions that himself had raised.

And then like one from dreams of fear aroused He press'd his brow, and with strong effort back His thoughts recalling, on the council bent. Mid Oxford's rising halls his father's care Had placed the gentle boy, to his rapt gaze Opening the book of knowledge ; and to train His mind aright, and with the lore of age b2 Mix the fresh spirit of unblighted youth, Had sought him comrades, chosen from the heirs Of England's princes : * and among them one Whom when a child the king, mid forest sport, Saved from an eagle's nest, the destined food Of its voracious young, and Nesting call'd. Whence thither broughtthey knew not, thoughhisvest With golden broidery wrought, and infant grace, And beauty mark'd him of a noble line. But war had chased from Oxford's studious halls The brother band, that had in ruder fields Their early knighthood won.

Some in the front With awe the councils of their king survey 'd ; While some retiring, on their comrades lean'd, And mid the locks that veil'd their cheek was heard The deep-drawn breath, as in their happy youth, Forgetful soon of war and woe, they slept. Above the rest in beauty eminent Was Ethelred, the lord of Mercia ; long Had Alfred mark'd amid Wigornas halls His course of fame ; and destined to his love, If happier days should come, his earliest flower, The young Elfrida : Oddune, Devon's earl, Was placed beside him, of gigantic bulk And broad frank brow deep-scarr'd by Danish swords. There in his chair of state the princely Priest Swithin, enfolded in his robe reclined. He like an oracle of God revered * Note 2.

BOOK I

Long sway'd the power of feeble Ethelwulph, And many a year from Winton's gorgeous throne Had preach 'd humility, and worldly things Sinful and vain ; but now by war divorced From that high place, he shrunk from poverty Held light while yet untasted, closer clung To the vain world that from his grasp escaped, And sigh'd for pomps his tongue condemn 'd before. Disorder'd was his thin grey hair, and pale His wrinkled cheek with terror, for the foe Haunted his daily board and nightly bed. Yet as he rose and spoke, his sunken eye Shot forth its wonted fire, and proudly flow'd His accents of command, as when of old The gaping crowds with awe and wonder bent Around his throne, and listen'd and obey'd. Vain are these counsels, Alfred, vain the prayers That holy men and cloister'd maidens pour In intercession for the land, and vain The martyr's blood ; witness those Abbies fair Croyland and Mendeshampsted, fanes of God, Glorious no more, since sacrilegious hands Swept gold and gems devoutly treasured there For service of the highest ; and the sword, Oh horror ! on the consecrated heads Of those blest saints, the reverend abbots, fell.

Not man alone works these permitted crimes, 'Tis outraged heaven that bares its vengeful arm : And as of old to free his captive sons ALFRED THE GRE.VT. 6 He pour'd his plagues on Egypt's hardend race ; So now his wrath for temples unadorn'd, And unrewarded zeal of holy men, Casts on the neck of war the loosen'd rein, And drives it furious forth to do his will Mid profanation. Then attend, oh King, And ye assembled Lords, nor impiously Reject the voice of Him, who speaks through me His servant. 'Tis for gold this pagan host Spreads havoc o'er our land, for carnal gold ; Blind to the purer wealth that virtue finds In years like mine of toil and abstinence. Bring then your gold, and gems, and broider'd vests, Vain luxury, that bows the spirit down, And binds it faster to mortality. Or if the foe claim ampler ransom, add These gorgeous arms, rich sword, and gilded helm That gleam before me, and offend my sight.

E'en holy church shall ope her sacred store, And for short space, if haply need shall be, Lend to redeem the land. Nor, Princes, deem Your duties ending with these ransom 'd walls, And brief withdrawal of the Pagan foes ; That but begins your task : to Rome's high shrines Must England's Monarch and her nobles go. As once your Sire, good Ethelwulph, who wears In heaven the crown his filial duty won, Before the meek Vicegerent of the Lord, Honoring the master through his servant, bow'd : And to our holy Church, in England's name,

BOOK I

The tenth of all her harvests, from above Inspired, in token of her duty, gave. * Blest Saint ! but nursed beneath the cowl, his youth Drank deep of wisdom and of sanctitude. Nor he alone. Your wise progenitors Oft to the holy City, from the world Retiring, built rich fane and studious halls, And, taught by holy men, for England pray'd. Happy was England then, the Dane unfear'd Amid his wilds, and e'en his name unknown. And thither too thy Father, to my care Trusting thy youth sent thee, his younger born, When the sage Pontiff on thy infant head, By light infallible illumined, pour'd His sacred unction, and proclaim'd thee King. Come then, and prove thee worthy of his choice, Learning that swords avail our need no more ; But grasp'd by false unyielding pride, destroy What e'en the Dane would spare.

Often has France When battle brought no safety, bought her peace With gold, and rescued fanes and pious halls, That else had perished ; and, their Pagan rites Abjuring, hosts, whom war could ne'er subdue, Have oft before her holy ministers At Christian font, in filial reverence, knelt. So shalt thou do ; then with these Peers adore The shrines of Rome, pay tribute to the Throne Of the blest Fisherman ; and turning home * Note 3. Fraught with his priceless benediction, give Manors and gold with ampler piety To holy church ; who thus propitiate Shall bid her potent mediation rise, Tenderest of mothers, and the pardon'd land Gather 'din peace beneath her wing repose. He ended ; mute the martial conclave stood ; Strange looks exchanging, some by pity moved, And some by reverence of his mitred head.

But scorn from youthful Edward's eye of fire Shot forth reproachful glances ; twice he rose, Th' unalter'd calmness of his Father's brow Twice kept him silent : till th' impatient Priest, Who seem'd to brook no mortal answer, roused Disdain beyond controul, and thus he spoke. Shame on such counsels, fitter for the ear Of cloister'd maidens, than of England's King ; Counsels of fear ! Yet wherefore should he fear Who scans the purpose of the highest, wields His vengeance and his pardon ? Fearful words ! Not mine — I dare not measure by my own Th' Omniscient's will ; yet know I that his power Temper'd by mercy, lays no load on man But man may bear. E'en death, of human ills The last, is borne by frail and feeble things, Who watch on beds of pain its slow approach, Yet feel within a spirit, that endures Its coming unappall'd. Shall we alone, Warriors of England, crouch before its threat ?

BOOK I

9 No ! but abide like men, grateful for good If that may come, yet fearless of the worst, As fits the Princes of this famous isle. But to redeem our father's land with gold, Purchase dishonor'd life, from rapine's grasp Buy back our own ! Oh ! shame to manhood, shame E'en to religion, that if truly taught Must bid us guard the good that God bestows. How dear, how needful to our frailty pray'r All hearts must witness; yet not that alone Can save, nor taper, song, and pilgrimage; Nor monks, that people with inactive crowds Fair abbies, and unman the battle plain ; Nor holy treasures — though I grudge them not, Save that too lightly wrested from your grasp They tempt the spoiler : and the doubt will rise Why a meek master's humble ministers Need worldly pomp, and why they bid us chuse Those evil things of low *ly Lazarus, While they themselves, like Dives, purple-clad, Each day feed sumptuously.

But let it pass. Trust not that wealth to Danes, whose nature knows Nor faith nor mercy. What if France have bought Brief peace, and converts round her altars stood; They have as oft, like wasps to plunder'd hives Returning, brought new rapine on the fanes That heard their vows, and stain 'd the font with blood Of its own ministers. For holy saints, If with due reverence I may speak it, most I honor Edmund, the East Anglian boy, Who like a king, albeit too softly nursed To drive invasion from him, scorned to bow Before th' invader, though the price were life; But with bared breast their darts confronting, fell A martyr for his land, and justly gain'd A saintly name. But why in idle speech Do we from war and warlike counsels turn ! A soldier's trust is in a soldier's sword ; And if too close the hostile nations press, And as indeed I deem, our wasted strength No more suffice to hold the ruin'd wall, All is not lost, to those who have despair.

The wintry night casts round her misty shroud ; Then let us forth in arms, and in the midst Bear hence my mother, sisters, and the train Of wives and children, whom the Dane designs For other fate. But we will guard them more Than lions do their young. We yet may pass Unnoticed ; or if seen, some may survive To tell our fate, and in an happier hour Avenge their country, and their brethren's fall. Or say all perish! Death is light as air When weigh'd against dishonour. Such, oh Peers, Is Edward's counsel. Like to one amazed At sounds so strange, stood Swithin, and his wrath Was bursting forth in fierce anathema : But when at once that warrior synod rose, And with glad shouts hail'd the bold purpose, round He wildly gazed a while ; then closed his eyes

BOOK I

And sank, and groan'd in hopeless agony. The Knights and Earls were issuing forth in arms, When now the King, who from that bold harangue Had caught the flame, that fired the heai.= of all, His calmer thoughts recalling, w*aved his hand; When at the signal all their seat resumed, And on his w*ords in mute attention hung. Brave is my Edward's counsel, English Lords, And worthy of my son. Yet need we not Though sorely press'd, seek refuge in despair, All hope of happier combat, or escape Renouncing. E'en if we surprise the guard, And pass unnoticed 'mid the shades of night, We gain short respite. Over naked downs, And pastures must our path of safety lie, Yielding themselves no shelter : and at morn, When these deserted walls our flight betray, The Danes will issue forth in swift pursuit, Mad to regain their prey ; and 'mid the plains Too soon o'ertaken, will this scanty band But draw fresh outrage on our helpless charge ; While we, unable to avert their fate, Beneath the hoofs of trampling squadrons whelm'd, Shall die in vain.

Yet will we not despair; We still may save them. Avon's wintry flood Usurping many a field and lowly vale, Spreads like an ample lake. On either shore, Confiding in the wat'ry bound, the Danes Keep careless watch. To us each winding creek, Drown'd vale and bank are known, to daily sports Familiar, when the horn with welcome call Gave summons to the chace : amid the flood, Whose dashing waters will conceal their flight, Shall my loved queen and daughters, and each wife, Maiden and child, to other hearts endear 'd, And with them this good aged Prelate pass, In safety. You, Edward and Ethelward, Shall guard your mother with a chosen band, With Ethelred and Oddune, who shall lead To his own towers of Kinwith ; there arrived, To rescue rouse whate'er of manhood lives In warlike Devon. I will be your guide Among the waters, then returning back With this dear band of gallant brothers left, I will, at earliest dawn, with taunt and shout, And quick irruption oft defy the foe, That they your flight suspect not ; and your aid Awaiting, we will hold the leaguer'd town While hand to strike remains, or heart to beat.

And if o'erpower'd — You shall not need, my sons, To blush, we will not at our death bequeath A shameful heritage and tainted name ; But win at least a soldier's sepulchre. And lay our bodies in the ruin'd wall : Then come what will, though lost yet unsubdued, Will humbly bow to God's high ordinance, And bless the hand that gives, and takes away. As thus he spoke, Edward, with crimson cheek

BOOK I

Suffused with burning blushes, to his lips Press'd Alfred's hands; and Say not so, he cried, Dear is my mother — Heaven alone can tell How dear — -that bore me, dear my sisters, dear This noble boy : had I a thousand lives I would to buy their safety give them all, And deem my end most happy ; but for thee — To leave thee to thy fate, and live myself To hear how Alfred perish 'd, while his son, Heir to his throne, but stranger to his fame, Far off sought shelter. No ! be witness, Truth, Ne'er have I till this day, perhaps my last, In word or deed against thy will rebell'd ; Then deem him not ungracious, if for once Thy son implore thee to recall thy word. Let Ethelward go with them; years like his Plead for such mission ; all would grieve to see His opening bloom of youth untimely closed : But pardon thou, and He whose law enjoins Honor to parents, and with lengthen'd days Rewards our duty, when by Him I swear I will not leave thee, Father.

Then he fell On Alfred's neck, and sobbing audibly, By love o'ercome, with frequent kisses prest His father's brow, while he upon his son Admiring gazed, and clasp'd him to his breast. And now had Ethelward uprising made Like answer, but his sire with steadfast look Forestall'd his purpose, bade the Council rise, And all beneath the sheltering night prepare For quick departure of the female train. Then w*ith his sons on like intent he sought Alswitha. Near a massive fabric stood By Saxon monarchs built, for holy rites Fit temple : now the tapers' light that gleam'd From the low altar-window dimly shew'd Buttress and ponderous arch, far mid the dark Receding. Entering there his Queen he saw Before the Virgin's shrine, with hands upraised In prayer for him. Young Ethelgoa knelt Beside her ; while against a column, carved With quaint device and fretted capital Elfrida leant.

Upon her snowy breast Half hid by raven locks, that parted fell From her clear brow, her folded arms were laid; And motionless she seem'd a statue, framed By Grecian artist, to adorn the fane Of Dian or Minerva, where enshrined In lucid marble, maiden dignity Fresh with immortal youth and grace repose. Too pure for living thing; save that her cheek Was changeful, and the light of that deep gaze Told that within a noble spirit dwelt, And with itself held commune. When, aroused By their advancing steps, her father's form She knew, her looks of pride and daring fell, And all the woman's soul, and daughter's love Beam'd from her soften 'd eye. Then too the queen Perceived her lord, and rising from her knees

BOOK I

With pure matronal transport on his neck Fell weeping ; while, as on his breast she lay In long embrace, he kiss'd her streaming eyes That upward with insatiate tenderness Gazed on her life and joy. About him knelt His children, and to them full oft he bent With dear caress, and on their foreheads laid His hand in silent blessing ; nor restrain'd His fondness, paj ring at that sacred shrine No unbecoming homage ; for to Heaven Nor clouds of incense, nor the pealing hymn Rending the roof with loud Hosannas, rise More grateful than the mute petition pour'd From the full bosom of domestic love. At length, Oh dearest to my soul, he said, My wife, my comforter, though war without May rage, within thine arms is peace, and here My wearied head I lay, and find repose. How shall I fitly bless thee, and the Power That gave thee to my love ; how vainly grieve For riches lost, while still of thee possess'd My treasure ; or for regal state lament, Throned in this heart that beats for me alone.

Heav'n knows I sought not empire, 'twas the will Of Albion, placed in this reluctant hand The staff of power ; far happier had I been With you my wife and children, journeying down The hallow'd path of humble privacy, Loving and loved. But soon presumptuous thoughts Of fame and conquest on my mind arose; How freed from rapine this polluted land Might breathe, and drink her children's blood no more. Too brief the blissful dreams : pow'rless of good I found my sceptre, and the pendent sword For ever o'er my head. But now to turn From my appointed task, though hard; betray To the false Pagan this confiding land ; Trust in the mercy of the merciless, And yield to wrong, were crimes that God and man Deem shameful, and forbid. Then let us draw What good we may from stern adversity, That steels th' enduring heart, 'till firmness grow By suffering ; and much I need it now : For we must part, Alswitha. — Part, she cried, Why part !

Oh! where, and wherefore should I go ? Say it not, Alfred, Alfred,— But the King With fond endearment check'd her rising grief. Too long, he said, my grateful heart recals Thy gentleness, that soothed and shared my woe, Disarming ill of half its bitterness, To think that now thy spirit will recoil, And add fresh sorrow to this trying hour. I have delay 'd this parting, till our fate Compels it : scarce our wasting stores suffice For those who guard the walls, and 'tis resolved That all for arms unfit this night shall pass Amid the darkness, to a safer hold. Edward and I will guard you on your way

BOOK I

Beyond the farthest post of yonder camp ; Then yield you to the care of Ethehvard, Oddune, and Ethelred, our chosen son, Who shall to Kin with, or some mountain hold Of Devon, lead thee : then with levied aid Rejoin us watching here, until the foe Driv'n by the gathering storms of winter flee For shelter ; or mid eddying snows o'erwhelm'd Yield fair occasion, and our issuing bands Slay with the sword what frost and tempest spare. Heaven grant it so ; and we shall meet again, Alswitha : and remember, love, that both Have duties ; and if few our number'd days, Shall man so long forewarn 'd repine to see The fragile broken, and the mortal die ! Be patient then, my Queen : but since in night The future lies, nor aught is sure below Save that this life, whate'er its joy or pain, Or loved, or loathed, must shortly close on all, And chance may place thee on thy father's throne ; Come hither, Ethelward.

The duteous Prince, Who held young Ethelgoa in his arms, Arose and stood before him. And if so The will of Heav'n decree it, let our fate But steel thy spirit to the conflict, boy, Whate'er befall, to free the land or die. Life is not short, while in it man may gain Immortal honor or undying shame. Better to purchase freedom with thy blood c Than slavery with thy tears; but if the. hopes, To which our faith and reason cling, be true, As who shall doubt, and that almighty hand, That rules in mercy what in might it made, Withdraw his chast'ning rod, oh ! Ethelward Then may a great and glorious task be thine. Prepare thee for it now, sweet Ethelward. A fearful heritage is pow'r, beset With hidden snares ; and frequent was my fall Where most I deem'd me safe. Adversity, Stern teacher, like the storm, dispels the mists That cheat the sight and give to meanest things Unreal greatness.