Henry James Pye: Verses about Betrayal

Propitious Bacchus come—so round thy brow
Be with the mystic vine the ivy wove;
Come, kindly come, and heal thy suppliant's woe:
Oft sinks beneath thy arm the power of love.
Fill, fill, dear youth, the mantling goblet high,
Pour the Falernian juice with liberal hand;
Fly hence ye heart-felt cares, ye sorrows fly,
Fly by the Delian god's white pinions fann'd.
Indulge, my friends, indulge my fond design,
Nor fear to follow where I lead the way;
If any scorn the jovial strife of wine,
Still may his hopes some treacherous nymph betray!
The jolly god the generous breast inflames,
To savage souls can gentle thoughts impart;
The Libyan pard and yellow lion tames,
And bows to beauty's sway the stubborn heart.
All this, and more, can Love—But generous wine
We ask—ah! whom can empty bowls delight?
Just is the god to those who grace his shrine
With the full goblet in the festal rite.
He comes with wrath, with vengeance fir'd—assuage
His glowing ire; swift let the vintage flow:
How fierce his anger, and how dire his rage,
The bleeding spoils of mad Agave show.
Far, far from us such fear.—But let my fair,
My perjur'd fair, alone his vengeance find:
What have I wish'd? ah! may the frantic prayer
Be scatter'd wide before the driving wind!
Ah, dear Neæra! though I'm lov'd no more,
May bliss and smiling fortune wait on thee;
While social joys my banish'd peace restore,
And years of storm one tranquil moment see.
'Tis hard with mirth our sufferings to beguile,
'Tis hard to trifle with an aching breast;
Ill sits on sorrow's lip the labour'd smile,
Ill sounds to pensive ears the drunken jest.
Why do I weep? Disgraceful cares, away!
Insult the cheerful god with tears no more;
He lenient heal'd the Cretan maid, who lay
By Theseus left upon a lonely shore.
Daughter of Minos! thus Catullus sung;
Whose learned strains thy lover's crimes have shown:
Happy, ye youths who hear my warning tongue,
And by another's sufferings heal your own.
No—While her snowy arms were round you twin'd,
Tho' her fond tongue the softest accents spoke;
Tho' by her eyes she swear, tho' her false mind
The Queen of Heaven and Queen of Love invoke,
Believe her not;—for to the viewless air
Gives laughing Jove the perjuries of love.—
Why dwell for ever on my perjur'd fair?
Far, far away ye words of anguish move!
Ah! how I long with thee the winter night,
With thee the summer's livelong day to wear!
Perfidious maid! a love so true to slight;
Perfidious maid! yet, though perfidious, dear.
Bacchus the Naiad loves.—Haste, lingering boy,
Cool from the lucid spring the full-ag'd wine;
If the vain nymph fly from our social joy
To seek a stranger bed, still must I pine?
Still sigh away the night's revolving hours?
Boy, be the bowl with stronger beverage crown'd;
With Tyrian perfumes wet, should blooming flowers
Long long ere this about my brows be bound.

Ye pleasing visions, and fantastic dreams,
Of hallow'd mountains, of poetic streams,
And shades for ever sacred to the song
Of Græcian Phœbus, and the Thespian throng,
O! melt into the winds, nor longer spread
Your sweet delusions round my raptur'd head:
But thou, celestial Truth, my prayer attend,
And be my Muse, my Guardian, and my Friend:
While I from Fancy's fairy realms depart,
To search the nobler regions of the heart,
Deign, heavenly Guide, my numbers to inspire,
And wake to bolder strains the breathing lyre.
The flow'ry landscape, and the blooming fair,
Bright as they are, no more demand my care,
Direct my eyes from Nature's pleasing roll,
To read the moral Beauty of the soul,
To trace her form by matter unconfin'd,
Thro' each divine perfection of the mind,
And there behold her sovereign hand dispense,
The powers of bliss to each attending sense.

Say, if we roam where all the Graces lead,
Thro' the cool thicket, or th' enamel'd mead?
Tho' Nature in her vernal pride appear,
Or laughing Summer deck the purple year,
What scenes of pleasure can the bosom share
Deform'd by passion, or disturb'd by care?
Or what delightful hopes does love impart,
When jaundic'd jealousy infects the heart?

'Tis in the mind that Beauty stands confess'd,
In all the noblest pride of glory dress'd,
Where virtue's rules the conscious bosom arm,
There to our eyes she spreads her brightest charm:
There all her rays, with force collected, shine,
Proclaim her worth, and speak her race divine.

Ye sages, who creation's depth explore,
And hang incessant o'er the pleasing lore,
Who view the earth, in stated periods, run
Her course mysterious round the central sun,
Who view five diff'rent orbs direct their flight
Round the same chearing fount of heat and light;
Who rushing forward, urg'd by force divine,
See distant suns on distant systems shine,
Till all the wisdom reas'ning man can boast,
Amidst the boundless fields of space is lost.
Vast as it is! does this stupendous whole
With half that wonder strike th' astonish'd soul?
With half that veneration fill the mind?
As those brave chiefs, the patrons of mankind,
Who mov'd by pity for the public weal,
Despis'd the tyrant's axe, the bigot's wheel,
Repell'd the cruel force of factious hate,
Or bravely fell, to save a sinking state?

Ye warrior kings! Ambition's fav'rite train,
Who hunt false glory thro' th' embattled plain;
Tho' varnish'd speciously your martial rage
Beams forth too brightly from th' historian's page,
Tho' lays divine record each impious name,
And worlds misjudging, call th' oppression, fame;
The honest man, from power at distance plac'd,
By freedom guarded, and by virtue grac'd,
More true rewards from reason's hand shall find,
Than ye, the storms and earthquakes of mankind.
Tho' half the globe, by error drawn aside,
Scorn modest merit, while they kneel to pride;
Fair reason dares assert the fair pretence
To endless fame, of peaceful innocence,
Will snatch the wreath from proud ambition's sword,
And honor Shenstone more than Prussia's Lord.
So when some torrent, swell'd by hasty rains,
Rolls from the hills, and hides the neighb'ring plains,
The meads around one liquid mirror lie,
A glorious object to the stranger's eye,
But worthier praises to the stream belong,
Which winds its waves the humbler vales among,
Improves the fields that grace its sedgy sides,
And pours fair plenty where its current glides.

O! would the royal race but learn to know
From what blest source their future praise must flow,
Enroll'd with Titus in the lists of fame
Succeeding times should sanctify each name:
The smiles of freedom o'er a realm to spread,
To bid fair science lift her lovely head,
To strike dread terror thro' the guilty breast,
To raise the humble, and relieve th' oppress'd,
With lenient hand to stop the heart-felt sigh,
And wipe the tear from pale affliction's eye,
These! these are charms! to which compar'd the globe,
The crown, the scepter, and the purple robe,
The arm'd array, the courtier's idle state,
And all the low ambition of the great,
Meet with our childhood's toys an equal lot,
A moment's transport, and the next forgot.
Virtue alone, on active wings, shall rise
From earth's mean pomp, and seek her native skies:
She of superior lustre nobly proud,
Contemns the suffrage of the fickle croud,
Mocks envy's darts, and scandal's pois'nous breath,
Great, tho' defam'd, and conqu'ror, ev'n in death.

For freedom arm'd, on Chalgrave's fatal plain,
Lo! glorious Hampden number'd with the slain:
O! while with mournful sighs you view his tomb,
Own him more blest in that untimely doom,
Than impious Cromwell; tho' his stronger fate
Grac'd him with all the gorgeous pomp of state,
Who, base deserter of his country's cause,
Despis'd her senates, and revers'd her laws;
Chang'd regal power for arbitrary sway,
Fought to enslave, protected to betray,
And clos'd the horrid scene of social strife
With the sad off'ring of his sov'reign's life.

Thrice happy train! whom freedom leads afar,
To hurl on foreign foes the bolts of war:
Rancour to you shall ne'er impute the guilt
Of royal blood, in civil discord spilt,
But the victorious band shall justly claim
The wreath of glory, and immortal fame;
While on the youthful warrior's fatal bier
His sorrowing country pours the pensive tear:
Secure those chiefs of honor's lasting meed,
Who fight like Granby, or like Wolfe who bleed.

Are there so mean, who boast of worth that springs
From venal statesmen, and deluded kings?
Who without blushing own, their hands have sold
Their fame, their truth, their liberty for gold?
Who break each tye of public, private life,
For sounding titles, or a portion'd wife,
Proud on their breasts a glitt'ring mark to bear,
Which honor hates, and virtue scorns to wear:
Tho' the misdeeming vulgar's dazzled sight
Awhile may bless these meteors spurious light,
Short is their joy!—let fortune hide her head,
Such pride is tarnish'd, and such glory fled:
While that unfading worth, which builds alone
On Virtue's solid base, a lasting throne,
And, by no random censures kept in awe,
Is clear'd by Conscience, and by Virtue's law;
On fortune's smiles can look with coolness down,
Can bear, without a pang, her keenest frown:
The threats of want, of death, unmov'd can hear,
And fearing God, disclaim all other fear,
Shine forth alike, oppress'd, or grac'd by power,
In courts, in camps, in exile, or the tower.

Thus far, O Beauty! has my daring tongue,
In humble lays, thy various merits sung:
Still as the theme, impetuous I pursue,
The fleeting goal flies farther from my view;
Ev'n in the breast by virtue's dictates arm'd,
Thy light is sickly, and thy shape deform'd;
The stormy passions all their rage employ
To cloud that lustre which they can't destroy.
Then Wisdom, come! unfold thy mystic page,
Rich with the spoils of ev'ry clime, and age,
Thy aweful volume let my eyes explore,
Till vanquish'd Nature yield up all her store.
And thou, Morality, whose sacred art
By virtuous precepts forms the human heart,
Teach me whate'er experience yet has found,
In all its curious search, and ample round;
And shew my wav'ring mind a certain course
To trace bright Beauty to her perfect source.
In vain you try to solve the thorny maze,
And guide my feet thro' error's devious ways,
Lost and bewilder'd midst her paths I rove,
Uncertain how to turn, or where to move.
But from the regions of celestial day,
Behold! a form etherial wings her way!
Meek-eye'd Religion, hail!—for well I know
Thy mild demeanor, and thy placid brow.
'Tis thine alone the wand'ring thought to bring
To fair perfection's bright, unsully'd spring:
'Tis thine, with firm, tho' modest look, to gaze
Upon th' empyreal heav'n, and sapphire blaze.
But hold, my Muse! nor rashly thus aspire,
With verse so mean, to join th' angelic choir,
Who glorify in ceaseless strains above,
The First Great Cause of harmony and love:
The awful praises of whose hallow'd Name
No heart can image, and no tongue proclaim,
Enough for thee his glorious works to trace
In earth, and skies, and man's imperial race;
To view in ev'ry clime, and ev'ry hour,
Th' omnipotent, and omnipresent Power,
To see all Nature's charms derive their force
From this eternal, universal Source,
And in mysterious silence wrap'd, to own
That Beauty's perfect grace is found in Him alone.

As when the stream by casual fountains fed
First gushes from the cavern's mossy bed,
Dashing from rock to rock, the scanty rill
With no luxuriant herbage clothes the hill;
Yet when increas'd the ampler current flows,
Each bordering mead with deeper verdure glows,
It's lingering waves through painted vallies glide,
And Health and Plenty deck it's verdant side;
Till swell'd by wintry storms and sweeping rains,
If chance it's rising deluge drown the plains,
The stagnate waters choke the sedgy soil,
And the fond hopes of future harvests foil:
So first Refinement in it's infant hour
Sheds o'er the savage tribe an useless power,
Nor can it's feeble energy impart
Or grace or softness to the human heart;
But when in Reason's moderate bounds confin'd
It's plenteous streams invigorate the mind,
The rising Arts their genial influence share,
And all the social Virtues flourish there;
Till Luxury's polluting torrents roll
A flood destructive o'er the enervate soul,
And to the flowers of generous growth succeeds
The baneful progeny of Vice's weeds.

Man, ere by rules of civil compact taught,
(Uncouth his form, and unimprov'd his thought,)
O'er the rude waste a selfish savage goes,
Nor mutual cares, nor mutual kindness knows,
How to subsist his Being's sole employ,
Strength all his art, and rapine all his joy;
And where a steril soil, and frowning heaven,
Are to his race by ruthless Nature given,
Compell'd by chace his scanty food to gain,
Pierc'd by sharp winds, or drench'd by chilling rain,
While from the assailing climate, rigid grown,
The alter'd fibres lose each nicer tone,
Long is the torpid soul by want oppress'd,
And dawning Reason slowly lights the breast.
But when his milder, happier portion, lies
In kindly regions, and more genial skies,
Where balmy sweets the ambient gales dispense,
And native Luxury enchants the sense,
Where Earth disdaining cultivation's care
Bids her free sons the luscious banquet share,
And the thick groves a roof sufficient spread
To shield from dews and heat the slumbering head;
Press'd by no want, in leisure's vacant hours
The expanding Mind perceives her latent powers,
And from the silken air the nerves derive,
To each sensation tremblingly alive,
Pleasures uncheck'd by labor's stern control,
And bear each finer feeling to the soul.

Then as reclining on the fertile soil,
Unknown the want of culture's stubborn toil,
His grazing charge the gentle herdsman tends,
And o'er the vale his eye delighted bends,
Ten thousand lovely images suggest
The dreams of Fancy to his tranquil breast,
The female form his soften'd heart inspires
With milder thoughts and more refin'd desires,
Sweet notes of rural courtship fill the grove,
And flow the tender strains of pastoral love:
Or as his eyes the nightly ether view,
And trace the heavenly concave's cloudless blue,
He learns to know what different signs appear
To guide and regulate the varied year;
Observes the changeful Moon alternate show
Her orb full-beaming, and her waning bow,
And marks the inferior Planets as they roll
In stated periods round the shining pole.

Hence every charm that polish'd Nature knows,
All that eludes or weakens human woes
First dawn'd in regions where the solar beam
Pours with superior force the effulgent stream,
And to our view the infant Arts arise
Beneath the warmth of Asia's fostering skies,
Or on Arabia's happier coasts inhale,
Loaded with sweets, the aromatic gale,
Or with attentive ear the fables learn
Of mystic lore, by Nile's redundant urn;
Till gently wafted by the favoring breeze
O'er the smooth surface of Ionian seas,
The smiling train their lovely offspring bore
To rise and flourish on the Grecian shore.

Inventive Fancy emulous to raise
For Worth deceas'd the monument of praise,
To bid Fame live beyond this transient breath,
And snatch heroic deeds from icy death,
With filial love the frail memorial rear'd,
And the heap'd fragment mark'd the tomb rever'd:
But vain the pious care!—Oblivion's sway
Soon swept each undistinguish'd name away,
The story of renown no breast retains,
And unexplain'd the mouldering pile remains.
Then ripening Genius sought the Muses aid,
And rustic Verse it's opening powers display'd;
Though no soft grace of polish'd diction shine,
Though harsh the cadence, and though rude the line,
Yet strengthen'd Memory felt the useful art
That fix'd the favorite legend in the heart;
The hoary Sage the sure advantage saw,
And in rough strains promulg'd his simple law,
In the short verse the moral rule compress'd,
And early form'd to truth the docile breast.
The infant warblings of the Muses lyre
Subdue the will perverse, and passion dire;
Their gloomy wilds the savage race forsook
As Orpheus sung, and milder manners took,
And charm'd to order by Amphion's lay
The forms of civil life mankind obey.

As bursts the beam of day through clouded skies
At length with light ethereal Letters rise,
To chain the fleeting sound their magic taught,
Portray'd the Idea, and embodied thought;
Blest, happiest, privilege to mortals given!
Which wings the aspiring soul from Earth to Heaven.
Whether progressive skill the art acquir'd,
Or power divine the sacred gift inspir'd;
Whether a mere invention of the Mind
As opening Science civiliz'd mankind,
Or a peculiar mark of heavenly grace
At first bestow'd on Israel's favor'd race
Though Reason doubt;—from morn to setting day
The various tribes of human-kind survey,
And own that all who following Wisdom's plan
Fulfil those duties that distinguish Man;
All who extend their penetrating sight
Beyond the reach of animal delight,
This blessing from one common fountain share,
Though ting'd with ignorance, or refin'd by care:
Even Greece where letter'd Science prosper'd best
It's oriental origin confess'd,
Fix'd by the fabled Author Asia's claim,
And mark'd it's source by Cadmus' mystic name.

As the ripe feed when sown with skilful toil
Soon feels the influence of a friendly soil,
With rapid shoots the planter's care repays,
And high in air it's waving boughs displays;
So Greece beheld the ingenuous Arts expand
In her congenial air, and kindly land,
While Freedom by the insulting despot driven
From Southern climes, and Asia's warmer heaven,
Fix'd with delight her European throne
Oe'r favor'd realms, and regions all her own.
Cheer'd by her sway each slumbering Muse awakes,
And from her smiles superior vigor takes:
Now Poesy with animating fire
Throws her bold fingers o'er the Epic wire,
And Lyric Extasy exulting sings
Borne on the Theban eagle's towering wings,
While the chaste Drama rising by degrees,
By care successive polish'd, learns to please,
From the rude outlines of the mimic art
First shewn by Thespis in his wandering cart,
To the fam'd Bards whose labor'd scenes engage
The dumb attention of the Attic stage.

Soon every Science, every Art succeeds,
Happy to follow where a Sister leads.
Charm'd from her seats on Egypt's watery plain,
And freed from fabling Error's mystic chain,
Through the still gloom of Academus' shade
Philosophy with solemn footstep stray'd;
Bold Imitation still to Nature true
The perfect form from perfect models drew,
For ne'er were equall'd Grecia's lovely race
Or for the faultless shape, or beauteous face.
Music devoid of each capricious art
Touch'd with her sweetest melody the heart:
And Architecture plann'd, in awful state
The Dome with just proportion simply great,
Or nobly plain the Doric pile appear'd,
Or her light column soft Ionia rear'd,
Or Corinth bade her polish'd Temples rise
With ornamental grandeur to the skies.
With force united this illustrious train
Grac'd the loud forum, and the holy fane,
But chiefly were their magic charms combin'd
When the lov'd Drama fix'd the Athenian mind:
Whether the drops of generous pity spring
At the sad fate of Thebes' unhappy King,
Or glows the exulting heart with patriot flame
To hear the tale of Grecia's ancient fame,
On this delightful source of virtuous joy
The lavish Arts their choicest skill employ,
And all their various powers at once convene
To dress in gorgeous pomp the attractive scene.

Encourag'd thus by Freedom's favoring smiles,
While every Muse the listening ear beguiles,
While Wisdom grave, and polish'd Grace combine,
At once to form the Virtues, and refine,
Improvement spreads to life's more humble cares,
And Industry the happy influence shares:
Down the steep cliff, and o'er the craggy brow
Strong Agriculture drives his laboring plow,
And to the currents of the rising gale
Adventurous Commerce trusts her swelling sail;
To the bleak rock the cultur'd glebe succeeds,
Where waves the harvest and the vintage bleeds,
And the fraught vessel with her woven wings
The wealth of nations to Piræus brings.

Rous'd by those honors cull'd by Glory's hand
To dress the Victor on the Olympic sand,
With active toil each ardent stripling tries
To bind his forehead with the immortal prize;
Hence strength and beauty deck the Grecian race,
And manly labor gives them manly grace.—

Yet while the scenes of Nature and of Art
The perfect forms of elegance impart,
While Wisdom's sacred lore the bosom warms,
And brighter Virtue boasts her moral charms,
The bliss in social intercourse that lies
Unknown they lose, or knowing they despise,
Illiberal folly 'midst their mirth we find,
And savage grossness taints the noblest mind,
The genial board licentious sports beguile,
And sages woo the harlot's venal smile.
For the soft Sex whose mild enchanting power
With gentle pleasure cheers the festal hour,
Denied the banquet's temperate joys to share,
Are the mere drudges made of houshold care;
Hence faint the force of that refin'd desire
Which modest Beauty only can inspire.
To other paths diverted passion turns,
And with enthusiast ardor Friendship burns.—

Far be it from the virgin Muse to try
O'er that mysterious scene to throw her eye.
Enough for her, while every manly breast
She sees in Virtue's purest radiance dress'd,
Sees every heart, with patriot Glory warm,
Check the proud war, or perish in the storm,
To cry like Philip on that fatal plain
Where Victory wept the sacred Thebans slain,
Curs'd be the slanderous tongue that worth like this would stain.

Though some prevailing characters we trace
Through every nation of the Grecian race,
Though Superstition, Manners, Speech, the same,
One common origin to all proclaim;
Though when the different states assembled stood
By Pisa's shades, or fair Castalia's flood,
Where each time-hallow'd rite conspir'd to draw
On the full festival religious awe,
By the mix'd forms of mutual converse taught
The separate tribes congenial features caught;
Yet Greece no general bond of empire found
Which all her sons in one firm compact bound,
But each republic as it's fabric rose
Peculiar laws, peculiar customs chose.
Sparta, where royal power's divided sway
Alternate knew to govern and obey,
Where Kings and People equal rule restrain'd,
And rigid Law the only tyrant reign'd,
Saw grave Politeness spread her sober grace,
And Modesty suffuse the warrior's face:
No subtle reasoning mov'd her steady throng,
But every sentence clear, concise, and strong,
In artless guise the speaker's mind convey'd,
And simple language simple truths display'd:
No Luxury debauch'd her frugal train,
For public glory there, was private gain.
While Athens, where alike with frantic zeal
All aim'd by turns to guide the general weal,
For wide her blessings ample Freedom threw,
And every voice an equal suffrage knew;
Athens' beheld her sons forego their claim,
The substance quitting for the shadowy name,
And noisy Faction at Ambition's call
Usurp'd that empire which belong'd to all,
While specious Demagogues seduced the sense
With all the flowery tropes of eloquence,
And the free audience polish'd, and severe,
Mark'd each oration with a critic ear.
In vain might Prudence raise her warning voice
If soft persuasion won the public choice,
In vain it's aims might patriot care pursue
If one mistaken accent censure drew.
Awaken'd thus to every thrill of joy
While arts of elegance their thoughts employ,
Borne by the tide of eloquence along,
Mov'd by a tale, a fable, or a song,
Of their own delegated powers afraid,
Despising laws by their own suffrage made,
The fickle race impatient of control
Rush headlong onward to Corruption's goal:
What patriot sage to turn the current tries
Is doom'd to exile, or by poison dies,
And him they raise who impudent and loud
Inflames the passions of the giddy croud:
And though Invasion with remorseless hand
Spread flame and carnage o'er the groaning land,
The Theatre employs their sole debate,
And more they prize the Drama than the state:
If the fond scene present some favorite theme,
Lull'd by sweet Fancy's vain delusive dream,
Of Persia check'd and Greece preserv'd they boast
Though conquering Philip ravages their coast,
And Marathon's victorious deeds display
On the dread eve of Chæronea's day.

Of human glory thus how short the date!
Expence and Pride, on Wealth and Freedom wait,
And from her burthen'd lap Profusion throws
The seeds of growing Vice, and future woes.—
The fervent zeal of public spirit dead,
And patriot Virtue's manly influence fled,
The daring bands of freemen who defied
In fields of blood the Median Tyrant's pride,
Purchas'd, betray'd, divided, and o'erthrown,
Bend to a state their sires had hardly known.

Yet Science lov'd to breathe her favorite air,
Though Liberty was fled still linger'd there.
Even of those Chiefs who shar'd the unjust command
Which Philip and his greater son had plann'd,
Some brave descendants felt the Muses charms,
And sooth'd with liberal Arts usurping Arms;
Warm Patronage awhile with partial ray
Supply'd the loss of Freedom's genuine day,
And Genius consecrates to deathless fame
With grateful voice her Philadelphus' name.

Though mad Ambition soon with impious blow
Laid every fence of civil Virtue low,
And sunk in sloth, or petrified by fear,
No daring arm oppos'd her wild career,
Yet ne'er did abject Luxury's domain
O'er Grecia stretch her universal reign,
Or Asiatic Indolence dispense
That blasting torpor to each blunted sense,
Chill'd by whose touch the generous Purpose flies,
Droops Emulation, faded Glory dies,
While the corrupted heart each vice imbibes
That sinks mankind below the bestial tribes.

Religion, Language, Manners, though we find
Give one strong tincture to the Grecian mind,
Yet different Interest each republic draws,
Divided Claims, and independent Laws,
The neighbouring states eternal war alarms,
And ease invaded yields to manlier arms;
Whence strict the rules of discipline remain,
And firm their courage on the embattled plain.
Though by compulsion strong, and stronger art,
Philip could temporary peace impart,
With potent gold a shameful union bought
Which public Wisdom oft had vainly sought,
Short was the race by his Ambition run,
And short the glory of his conquering son;
Then as the spoils of empire to divide
Contending chiefs with impious ardor tried,
And Freedom bade some bolder states unite
To guard with ancient zeal her sacred right,
The doubtful conflict for a time call'd forth
The dormant relics of heroic worth,
Till every weak distinction swept away
By the full tide of Rome's superior sway,
Whate'er the stores of Grecian art supplied,
Serv'd but to swell the happier Victor's pride;
And haughty Luxury asham'd to own
O'er tributary realms a partial throne,
Attends the rising power by Fate design'd
To fix her boundless empire o'er mankind.

Lo! in the regions whence Favonius blows
A hardy race Hesperia's vales disclose:
With sinews firm the rugged offspring rise
And brave the force of less auspicious skies,
For freezing winds had erst Campania known,
And yellow Tiber worn an icy zone.
The sons of Rome ne'er felt the soft control
Of milky kindness stealing o'er the soul,
Nor did their nerves to pleasure's touch awake
Of gentler thoughts the mild impression take;
The rigid texture of their rougher frame
The dangerous glories of the field inflame;
To wage with sure success the bloody fight
Their favorite care, and war their sole delight.
Victors, or vanquish'd, by the example taught
They found new paths to conquest as they fought.
Triumphant Carthage vaunts her powers in vain
And claims the exclusive empire of the main,
Rome to the sea her ductile Genius turns,
And from her foe the means of Victory learns;
Repairs with wiser toil the ruin'd fleet,
And gains superior art from each defeat,
Her naval care with perseverance plies,
Till, by the course of long experience wise,
The watery war her perfect gallies dare,
And Libya's ancient splendor melts to air.
In vain to check these unremitting foes
Their studied Tactics Grecia's sons oppose,
Whose force compelling countless hosts to yield,
With Persia's bleeding Myriads strew'd the field:
The Legions active, disciplin'd, and fierce,
With varied shock the close-wedg'd Phalanx pierce,
And Freedom's noblest sons are doom'd by fate
The servile subjects of a foreign state.

Their country vanquish'd, still the arts remain,
Still learned Athens boasts her polish'd train;
The flowery garlands there they weave to bind
In pleasures roseate wreaths the Roman mind,
The joys of peace the haughty Victors learn,
And Greece exulting triumphs in her turn.
Though first they view with undiscerning eyes
Sculpture's fair grace, and Painting's glowing dyes,
Though Consuls by the piece the marble rate,
And the wrought brass is valu'd by the weight;
Yet soon their hearts the Muses sway confess'd
And powerful numbers sooth'd the warlike breast,
Each swelling bosom caught the generous fire,
And Roman fingers struck the Grecian lyre:
Not with that fierce delight, that sudden glow
Which from the genuine beams of Nature flow,
That burst of Harmony which pour'd along
The full luxuriance of the Epic Song!—

Matur'd by time their ripening Genius rose,
From the harsh lines of Ennius' measur'd prose
To strains on which the Muse enamour'd hung,
And drank each dulcet note from Maro's tongue.

But ne'er shall Imitation's loveliest charm
Like native Grace the raptur'd bosom warm,
This bright and awful as the beam of day,
That like the paler moon's reflected ray.
By no fallacious hues does Nature please,
But boldly gives the manners that she sees,
Not Truth in Fiction's splendid garb arrays,
But with free stroke the living form portrays,
Her Bards divine the real actions sing
Of the stern Hero, or the warrior King,
Or paint the life the amorous Shepherd leads
In the rich verdure of Sicilian meads,
While with the verse their heated Fancy weaves
Each sacred tale Mythology believes:
But Imitation with correcter hand
Fills but the outline that Invention plann'd,
With care retrenches each superfluous part,
Or adds the tinsel ornaments of art,
Describes the manners that she never knew,
And faintly copies what her Mistress drew;
Hence with assiduous step the Latian Muse
The march sublime of elder Greece pursues,
Content to glean with unremitting toil
The scatter'd produce of her happier soil.

And now the improving sons of Rome behold
The scenes of Attic elegance unfold,
Admire the fane by sculptur'd Nature graced,
And catch from every glance congenial taste:
The Capitol by conquering Consuls trod
Receives with friendly rite each marble God,
In bend majestic swells the Parian arch
Through which in solemn pomp the Victors march;
Rome with delight the pleasing toil pursues,
And emulates the beauties that she views,
Exults in arts and artists of her own,
Bids the warm canvass breathe, and animates the stone.

Happy had Rome adorn'd by spoils like these
Been satisfied with Grecian Arts to please!
But Asia's subject regions now disclose
The fatal sources of unnumber'd woes.—
Each delegated chief who us'd of yore
To guide the thundering battle's furious roar,
Bind the green laurel round his conquering brow,
And then return contented to the plow,
Now proudly stretches with rapacious hand
O'er plunder'd provinces his harsh command;
Loaded with wealth the stern Proconsuls come,
And eastern splendor dazzles wondering Rome.
Caught with the lustre of the shining ore
The charms of Poverty can please no more,
The ancient fame of frugal heroes dies,
And venal hopes, and venal passions rise;
The honest boast of Democratic pride
Is drown'd in dark Corruption's swelling tide,
And Freedom's awful rights are basely sold
For the vile barter of barbaric gold.
No more Rome's venerable Senate flings
Dismay and terror o'er usurping kings;
No more the injur'd Nations grateful see
Oppression tremble at her just decree;
No more her sword is drawn in Glory's cause
For rights betray'd, or violated laws:
The Tyrant buys impunity for vice,
And every public outrage has it's price:
Avarice can fix a giddy people's choice,
And servile legions arm at Faction's voice.
In vain a few with steady courage stood,
To stem the torrent of the whelming flood,
The selfish passions with insidious force
Of patriot worth had poison'd every source;
Still lawless power uprear'd her hydra head,
And Freedom was no more though Cæsar bled.

Intent the aims of faction to compleat,
Now smoother Cunning seiz'd Ambition's seat.—
A Youth unmov'd by pity or by rage,
As Manhood firm, yet cold as palsied Age,
Hiding in specious guile his cruel views,
The impious scheme with ceaseless toil pursues.
His wiles, the work of ages to destroy,
Severity and ease by turns employ;
Death's stern decrees, or friendship's milder call,
Allure the timid, or the bold appal:
The enchanting Muses, whose delightful art
Can bend the stubborn purpose of the heart,
His voice invokes to charm the attentive mind,
And hide the fetters that inslave mankind.
The Muses hear!—forgetful that their sway
Was first produced in Freedom's happier day
They hear, and mindless of their ancient worth,
Betray the parent power that gave them birth,
Adore the Author of their country's doom,
And seal the fate of Liberty and Rome.

After a dreadful scene of war and woes,
The brazen gates of two-faced Janus close,
The sad effects of civil discord cease,
And all a restless world is wrapp'd in peace.
By Actium's Victory stopp'd the fatal strife,
No more the dire proscription threatens life,
No more the bloody scroll of Death appears,
But Mercy's snowy garb Augustus wears.
The gentler Arts each harsher care beguile,
And Science grows beneath his fostering smile:
Around his throne the laughing Loves resort,
And own the influence of a peaceful court.
Pleasures refin'd that Grecia never knew
Croud to the sight, and bless the raptur'd view:
To the pert quaintness of Socratic wit,
Or the rude jests that lower manners fit,
To feasts where sage disputes the hours employ,
Or the loose revels of licentious joy,
Succeeds that intercourse of sweet delight,
Though gay not vicious, and though free polite,
Their mingled gifts where ease and mirth dispense,
Ease void of roughness, mirth restrain'd by sense:
And lovely Woman, though not taught to know
That public homage later days bestow,
With modest smiles domestic converse graced,
And soften'd by her looks each ruder taste.
Even Freedom though her sacred power was fled
O'er Manners yet a parting radiance shed,
On the warm heart was Virtue's form impress'd,
And dauntless Courage fir'd the warrior's breast.
The generous youth in Mars' gymnastic field
By manly sports his hardy sinews steel'd,
Curb'd the bold steed, the dusty conflict stood,
Or plung'd his glowing limbs in Tiber's flood,
Science a milder charm to Valor gave,
And Empire seem'd to polish, not enslave,
Rome equal Arms, superior Arts could boast,
And hardly deem'd her ancient Glory lost.

But short the light of Pleasure's transient gleam!
Soon Nature starting from the illusive dream
Shrinks back affrighted as her eyes survey
The horrid form of arbitrary sway.—
Monsters who built on vice their dreadful joy,
Proud of their crimes and happy to destroy,
Seiz'd the vast power that Freedom's sons resign'd,
And shook the rod of vengeance o'er mankind;
Life hung alone upon a tyrant's breath,
And each capricious frown awarded death.
Amid the waste of years though haply shine
A Titus, Trajan, or an Antonine,
The short-liv'd interval more strongly shews
The striking contrast of despotic woes.
What force can free the mind that Vice has chain'd,
Or clear the current if the fountain's stain'd?—
No distant regions happier hopes afford
Beneath the empire of a milder lord;
Fear still beholds where'er her eye she flings,
Subjected states, and tributary kings;
And Power o'ertakes the exile as he goes
O'er Libyan deserts, or through Scythian snows.

Condemn'd the endless scenes of blood to see,
While looks are watch'd, and hardly thought is free,
In Rome's sad inmates, now a wretched race,
No more the marks of ancient worth we trace,
In the dull soul, a stupid, lifeless void,
Rous'd by no action, by no cares employ'd,
Each fading Energy of Virtue dies,
As droops the plant beneath inclement skies.
The cohorts from the frontier distant far
In slothful ease forget the toils of war,
Or from their camp with factious arms o'erawe
The weak remains of Freedom and of Law,
O'er Senates with tumultuous force prevail,
And set the Empire of the world to sale.
The Muse no more with native beauty warms
But tricks with art her meretricious charms:
Science in simple form, and semblance chaste,
Offends the alter'd times degenerate taste.
Each social Charity of private life,
The smiling offspring, and the tender wife,
Now cease the scene domestic to endear:
For who can wish a wretched race to rear
Slaves to a cruel tyrant's fickle gust,
Rods of his power, or minions of his lust?—
To the sweet joys that blushing Beauty gave
Succeeds the traffick of the female slave,
Till sated the perverted Fancy roves
To monstrous pleasures, and unseemly loves.
Debarr'd each just pursuit, the restless mind
Seeks in flagitious deeds relief to find,
In sensual cares grows exquisitely nice,
And only seeks variety of vice.

Their stores the tributary realms supply
To glut even Luxury's insatiate eye;
For Italy, while Rome no rival knew,
Ere yet Byzantium's sister empire grew,
Saw on her shores contending nations meet
To lay their various produce at her feet.
Commerce who independent states can draw
To equal compact by her general law,
Who weighs what nature gives and what denies,
While mutual barter mutual want supplies,
Exulting Rome contemn'd, who saw unfurl'd
Her conquering banners o'er a subject world,
And her proud offspring buoy'd by ancient fame,
Not gain by purchase, but by empire claim.
All that the warmer southern climes dispense
Fair to the eye, and grateful to the sense,
Whatever eastern regions can afford
To grace the mansion, or to deck the board,
In endless heaps the imperial seat supplied,
Her pleasure gratified, or sooth'd her pride,
At the full feast to indolence resign'd,
Lie the soft race on purple beds reclin'd,
And o'er the room in many a crimson fold
The arras hangs with ivory rough and gold:
Of massive plate the attentive slaves produce
The meanest vessels of domestic use,
And in rich mists the cooling odors shed
Ambrosial fragrance round the listless head,
Through the wide dome the fumes of incense roll,
And Grecia's purest vintage crowns the bowl.
A nation's wealth their lavish fancies waste
To furnish viands for one great repast;
And Luxury her bloated form so swells
We scarcely credit what th' Historian tells.
To load the table when the Tyrant fed,
Seas have been drain'd, and Hecatombs have bled;
The Euxine mourn'd her shores despoil'd of fish,
And woods unpeopled form'd one costly dish;
Even when the calls of appetite were o'er,
And Nature's loaded powers could act no more,
With brutal skill were shameful means pursu'd,
That blunted hunger's sickly force renew'd,
In the pall'd taste could false desires excite,
And goad the sated sense to fresh delight.

In constant scenes like these enervate grown,
The slaves of Lust and Gluttony alone,
No joy beyond voluptuous ease they deem,
And small exertions cruel hardships seem,
From Indolence, and Vice their pleasures flow,
And Fear's the only active power they know:
Too selfish e'er to think of public care,
Too weak the weight of manly arms to bear,
A Favorite's nod degenerate legions wait,
And servile Eunuchs regulate the state.
Firm discipline is lost by long neglect,
And mercenary hosts the throne protect.
Weaken'd by Constantine's misjudging pride
Whose vain designs the imperial strength divide,
Open and wide the extended frontier lay,
To each barbarian hord an easy prey:
On every side the ruffian bands contend,
By turns invade them, and by turns defend,
Till lur'd by wealth and splendor's tempting prize,
The warlike tribes such coward chiefs despise,
Against the trembling race their swords employ,
And spread destruction round with savage joy,
Pour o'er each region like a wintry flood,
And Rome's diminish'd empire sets in blood.
Of the long sway of twice six hundred years
Stupendous fabrick! scarce a wreck appears,
Save a poor remnant as the ruin falls
Preserv'd to languish in Byzantium's walls.

Now through the extent of Nature's wide domain
Once more the horrid powers of darkness reign,
Again Chaotic ignorance rears her head,
And o'er mankind her sable veil is spread.
What scatter'd arts survive the general doom
Retreat to wither in the cloister's gloom;
And if by chance from thence some sickly beam
Shoots faintly forth a transitory gleam,
It serves but like the meteor's lurid light
To add new horror to the shades of night.

Ye sylvan muses! as my step invades
The deep recesses of your hallow'd shades,
Say will ye bid your echoing caves prolong
The harsher cadence of your votary's song?
Not anxious now to strike the trembling wire,
Sweetly responsive to your vernal choir;
Or from the treasur'd stores of earth to bring
The fragrant produce of the roseate spring:
Mine the rude task, while summer's fading ray
To yellow autumn yields the shortening day,
And all the variegated woods appear
Clad in the glories of the withering year,
With dogs and fiery weapons to profane
The peaceful sabbath of your rural reign;
Your desolated regions to explore
'Mid the wild tempest, and the season frore;
Destruction on your feather'd race to pour,
And add new horrors to the wintry hour.

'Twas thine, immortal Somerville! to trace
The livelier raptures of the joyful chace,
O'er hills and dales to urge, with eager speed,
The hound sagacious, and the panting steed;
And guide the labors of the enthusiast throng
With all the extatic energy of song.—
Severer care these calmer lays demand,
And Fancy curb'd by sage Instruction's hand:
Yet, for the Muse some scatter'd charms shall gleam
'Mid the rich chaos of this copious theme;
Yet, here shall Glory view with generous aim,
The rising elements of martial fame.
As from the chace Britannia's youth shall learn
The docile steed with ready hand to turn;
O'er the rude crag his bounding steps to guide,
Or press his ardor down the mountain's side,
Till, rushing to the field with fierce delight,
She sends forth other Lindseys to the fight:
So shall the steady train, of careful eye,
Who wound th' aerial offspring as they fly,
Whose limbs unwearied keep the constant way,
From morn's first opening dawn, till parting day,
Manly and firm, an unexhausted race,
With hardy frames the shining phalanx grace;
With steps, by labor unsubdu'd, shall know
Incessant to pursue the fainting foe;
Shall, 'midst the rocks and woods, with active toil
Hang o'er his march, and all his movements foil;
Their close platoons, with cool and certain aim,
Shall send destruction forth in vollied flame:
Or o'er the field dispers'd, each shot they pour
Shall mark some hostile victim's fatal hour.

Of old, ere man with imitative skill,
Taught mimic thunders to obey his will,
Train'd by superior care, the elastic yew
With sinewy arm, our English bowmen drew:
The warlike art exulting Albion saw
Protected by the fostering hand of law;
Attentive senates watch'd, with anxious zeal,
This martial bulwark of the general weal;
The rules they order'd, or the prize they gave,
Compell'd the slothful, and inflam'd the brave;
And oft her archer-sons would trophies wear
From Gallia's cross-bow won, and Scotia's spear.

Nor let the frown of literary pride,
Or false refinement's sneer, my labors chide:
Not all are form'd with unremitting view
Pale study's restless labors to pursue:
Not all their hours are dull enough to waste
In the void round of fashionable taste;
Nor can the gentle airings, which engage
The fainter wish of languor, and of age,
From his pursuits the sanguine votary draw
Of wealth, of joy, of wisdom, or of law,
Till slow disease demands the leach's care,
Sad substitute for exercise and air!
The impatient youth, whom manly vigor fires,
Ruddy with health, and stung by wild desires;
By active sports alone can soothe to rest
The boiling fervors of his panting breast.
Nor shall Britannia's patriots blame the cause,
To woods and fields her wealthier chiefs that draws.
Let Gallia's sons to rural scenes resort
Only when exil'd from a partial court,
Whose dearest hopes a Monarch's favor crown,
Rais'd by his smile, or blasted by his frown;
But Albion's freer lords must try to gain
The unbiass'd suffrage of her rustic train.
And every tie that binds her nobler band,
With dearer love, to their paternal land,
Her yeomen shall behold with grateful eye,
A surer pledge of wealth and liberty.

Come then, ye hardy youths, who wish to save
By generous labor powers that nature gave!
Who fly from languor, hush'd in dread repose
Beneath the leaves of sloth's enchanting rose,
Glad on the upland brow, or echoing vale,
To drink new vigor from the morning gale;—
Come! and the Muse shall shew you how to foil
By sports of skill the tedious hours of toil;
The healthful lessons of the field impart,
And careful teach the rudiments of art.

When the last sun of August's fiery reign
Now bathes his radiant forehead in the main,
The panoply by sportive heroes worn
Is rang'd in order for the ensuing morn;
Forth from the summer guard of bolt and lock
Comes the thick guêtre, and the fustian frock;
With curious skill, the deathful tube is made
Clean as the firelock of the spruce parade:
Yet, let no polish of the sportsman's gun
Flash like the soldier's weapon to the sun,
Or the bright steel's refulgent glare presume
To penetrate the peaceful forest's gloom;
But let it take the brown's more sober hue,
Or the dark lustre of the enamell'd blue.
Let the close pouch the wadded tow contain,
The leaden pellets, and the nitrous grain;
And wisely cautious, with preventive care,
Be the spare flint, and ready turnscrew there;
While the slung net is open to receive
Each prize the labors of the day shall give.

Yet oft the experienc'd shooter will deride
This quaint exactness of fastidious pride;
In some old coat that whilom charm'd the eye,
Till time had worn it into slovenry,
His dusky weapon, all by rust conceal'd,
Through rainy service in the sportive field,
He issues to the plain, secure to kill,
And founds his glory on superior skill.

The night recedes, and mild Aurora now
Waves her gray banner on the eastern brow;
Light float the misty vapors o'er the sky,
And dim the blaze of Phœbus' garish eye;
The flitting breeze just stirs the rustling brake,
And curls the crystal surface of the lake;
The expectant sportsmen, urg'd by anxious haste,
Snatch the refreshment of a short repast,
Their weapons seize, their pointers call around,
And sally forth impatient to the ground.

Here where the yellow wheat away is drawn,
And the thick stubble clothes the russet lawn,
Begin the sport.—Eager and unconfin'd
As when stern Æolus unchains the wind,
The active pointer, from his thong unbound,
Impatient dashes o'er the dewy ground,
With glowing eye, and undulating tail,
Ranges the field, and snuffs the tainted gale;
Yet, 'midst his ardor, still his master fears,
And the restraining whistle careful hears.
So when Britannia's watchful navies sweep,
In freedom's awful cause, the hostile deep,
Though the brave warrior panting to engage,
And loose on England's foes his patriot rage,
The tempest's howling fury deems too slow
To fill his sails, and waft him to the foe;
Yet, 'mid the fiery conflict, if he spy
From the high mast his leader's signal fly,
To the command obedience instant pays,
And martial order martial courage sways.

See how exact they try the stubble o'er,
Quarter the field, and every turn explore;
Now sudden wheel, and now attentive seize
The known advantage of the opposing breeze.—
At once they stop!—yon' careful dog descries
Where close and near the lurking covey lies.
His caution mark, lest even a breath betray
The impending danger to his timid prey;
In various attitudes around him stand,
Silent and motionless, the attending band.
So when the son of Danae and Jove,
Crown'd by gay conquest and successful love,
Saw Phineus and his frantic rout invade
The festive rights by Hymen sacred made,
To the rude Bacchanals his arm outspread
The horrid image of Medusa's head;
Soon as the locks their snaky curls disclose,
A marble stiffness seiz'd his threatening foes;
Fix'd were the eyes that mark'd the javelin thrown,
And each stern warrior rear'd his lance in stone.

Now by the glowing cheek and heaving breast
Is expectation's sanguine wish express'd.—
Ah curb your headlong ardor! nor refuse
Patient to hear the precepts of the Muse.
Sooner shall noisy heat in rash dispute
The reasoning calm of placid sense confute;
Sooner the headlong rout's misguided rage
With the firm phalanx equal combat wage,
Than the warm youth, whom anxious hopes inflame,
Pursue the fleeting mark with steady aim.
By temperate thought your glowing passions cool,
And bow the swelling heart to reason's rule;
Else when the whirring pinion, as it flies,
Alarms your startled ear, and dazzled eyes,
Unguided by the cautious arm of care,
Your random bolts shall waste their force in air.

They rise!—they rise!—Ah yet your fire restrain,
Till the scar'd birds securer distance gain;
For, thrown too close, the shots your hopes elude,
Wide of your aim, and innocent of blood;
But mark with careful eye their lessening flight,
Your ready gun, obedient to your sight,
And at the length where frequent trials shew
Your fatal weapon gives the surest blow,
Draw quick!—yet steady care with quickness join,
Lest the shock'd barrel deviate from the line;
So shall success your ardent wishes pay,
And sure destruction wait the flying prey.

As glory more than gain allures the brave
To dare the combat loud, and louder wave;
So the ambition of the sportsman lies
More in the certain shot than bleeding prize.
While poachers, mindful of the festal hour,
Among the covey random slaughter pour;
And, as their numbers press the crimson'd ground,
Regardless reck not of the secret wound,
Which borne away, the wretched victims lie
'Mid silent shades to languish and to die.
O let your breast such selfish views disclaim,
And scorn the triumph of a casual aim:
Not urg'd by rapine, but of honor proud,
One object single from the scattering croud;
So, when you see the destin'd quarry down,
Shall just applause your skilful labor crown.

If your staunch dogs require no instant toil
To rescue from their jaws the fluttering spoil,
Re-load your fatal piece with prudent zeal,
While glows with recent flame the smoaking steel;
So the black grain shall kindling warmth acquire,
And take the flinty spark with readier fire;
Or if some scatter'd bird, that lay behind,
Sudden should rise, and fleet away on wind,
You check her rapid course, nor murmuring stand,
Your empty weapon useless in your hand.

Now some observant eye has mark'd their flight,
And seen dispers'd the weary'd covey light;
Soon to the spot the ranging pointer drawn,
Explores with tender nose the tainted lawn,
Where, to his nicer sense, their fumes betray
The secret ambush of the fearful prey.
With cautious action now, and stealthful pace,
His careful steps pursue the running race;
Now fix'd he stands, now moves with doubtful tread,
Stopp'd by their pause, or by their motion led,
Till, rooted by the sheltering hedge, his feet
Declare the trembling victim's last retreat.

But as, with beating breasts, on either side
The impatient youths the pleasing task divide,
And in the row between, the lurking game
Lies hid from sight, ah, careful be the aim!
Lest, skreen'd and parted by the thorny mound,
The erring shots should give a fatal wound,
And change the jocund sportsman's verdant wreath
For funeral weeds, for mourning, tears, and death.

In Lydian plains, where rich Pactolus roll'd
Through groves of perfume, and o'er sands of gold,
Crœsus, of Asia's lords the proudest name,
Shar'd every gift of fortune, and of fame;
So wide his empire, and so vast his store,
That avarice and ambition ask'd no more;
Though blest in these, the dearer bliss he knows
With which a parent's happy bosom glows,
For not the fairest image ever dress'd
In the fond wishes of a father's breast,
By flattery swell'd, could mate the virtuous praise
To Atys' worth that truth unbiass'd pays.
At war's loud clarion if the nations bled,
Conquest his armies crown'd if Atys led;
If the rude waves of civil discord broke,
Hush'd was the rising storm if Atys spoke;
His lenient voice bade loud rebellion cease,
And charm'd contending factions into peace:
Nor less his care domestic knew to bring
Joy to his sire, than safety to his king;
Nor was the patriot's glory priz'd above
The dearer charity of filial love.

While prosperous scenes the monarch's thoughts beguile,
Too little warn'd of Fortune's transient smile,
'Mid the dark moments of the boding night
A horrid vision seem'd to meet his sight,
With dying mien his Atys stood confess'd,
Transfix'd by horrid steel his bleeding breast.—
Swift from his couch he starts, while wild despair
Contracts his eye-balls, and uplifts his hair.
In vain the orient morn's reviving power
Chas'd the pale phantoms of the midnight hour;
The recollected scene his peace annoys,
Sinks in his heart, and poisons all his joys;
Around him visionary falchions gleam
In act to realize his dreadful dream;
And if by chance loud rumor wafts from far
Uncertain clamors of intended war,
His laboring breast foretels the fatal deed,
And sees in fancied fights his Atys bleed.

What shall his fears invent, or how control
The generous ardor of the hero's soul?—
His mind to gentler thoughts he tries to move,
And conquer strong renown by stronger love.
The fairest maid of Lydia's glowing dames,
Whose beauteous form the manly youth inflames,
With eastern roses crown'd, is blushing led
In Hymeneal pomp, to Atys' bed.
To cares of empire, and to toils of fight,
Succeed the festal day, and genial night:
Soft Pleasure spreads around her blooming flow'rs,
And wanton Cupid leads the laughing hours.

Amid these joys, from Mysia's subject plain,
Before the throne, behold a suppliant train!
‘O mighty prince!’ they cry, ‘we now repair
‘To claim the aid of thy paternal care;
‘A savage monster of portentous size,
‘Whose cruel strength our utmost force defies,
‘Ranges our fields, spreads devastation round,
‘And roots the unripen'd harvest from the ground.
‘O, let thy youths, to range the woods who know,
‘Attend with faithful dogs, and twanging bow;
‘In his dire haunts the fierce invader brave,
‘Repel his fury, and thy subjects save.
‘Perhaps the prince.’—The eager monarch, here,
Urg'd by the influence of parental fear,
Arrests their speech: ‘My arms, my youths shall go,
‘Your terrors quell, and check this savage foe;
‘But for my son, him other cares employ,
‘And the soft scenes of Hymeneal joy,
‘Nor must the rugged chace, or dubious fight,
‘Mar the sweet transports of the nuptial rite.’

He ceas'd; attentive round the Mysian band,
Pleas'd with the promis'd aid, submissive stand.
Not so the prince, his ardent bosom glows
To burst the silken bands of still repose.
‘Ah! what, my sire,’ he cries, ‘has Atys done?
‘What sad distrust awaits your hapless son,
‘That thus immers'd in sloth you keep him far
‘From fields of glory, and from toils of war?
‘For love's soft raptures though the hero burn,
‘Yet fame and danger claim their wonted turn.
‘How shall I meet, involv'd in this disgrace,
‘The indignant murmurs of your warrior race?
‘How will, with tears of silent scorn, my bride
‘Her alter'd lord's inglorious safety chide!
‘O give my wishes way, or let me hear
‘The hidden source of this injurious fear.’

This earnest prayer the smother'd secret draws,
And the sad Monarch owns the latent cause:
When Atys, smiling:—‘How shall I reprove
‘The fond excesses of paternal love,
‘Though for my undeserving life is shown
‘A nice regard you never paid your own?
‘But shall the heir of Crœsus' martial name
‘Inglorious life prefer to glorious fame?—
‘Life is a bliss, when crown'd by virtue's meed,
‘And death a prize, when honor bids us bleed;
‘Omens and dreams in vain the purpose stay
‘When duty calls, and glory points the way.
‘Or grant some god the vision sent, yet here
‘Vain are your cares, and useless is your fear;
‘Transfix'd by steel my bleeding breast you saw,
‘Not torn and mangled by a bestial jaw;
‘Then let me go, and when you meet your son
‘Clad in the shaggy spoils his arms have won,
‘The shadowy phantoms of the night shall cease
‘To haunt your slumbers, and disturb your peace.’

The Monarch hears, and with reluctant eyes
Gives the consent his boding heart denies;
His brow a placid guise dissembling wears,
While Reason vainly combats stronger fears.

It chanced a youth of Phrygia's royal train,
His hand polluted by a brother slain,
Exil'd by vengeance from his native ground,
In Crœsus' peaceful court a refuge found;
Where oft would Atys' gentler care impart
The balm of friendship to his wounded heart;
To him the wretched king in secret spoke,
While tears and sighs his faltering accents choke;
‘If, brave Adrastus, thy oppressive woes
‘In Sardis' sheltering walls have found repose,
‘If here the expiating rite renew'd
‘Has paid the forfeit for fraternal blood,
‘If pity's tear, if friendship's lenient balm
‘Have tried with studious zeal thy griefs to calm,
‘Go with my son, and by attentive care
‘Partake his labors, and his dangers share.
‘Shield him from peril that my soul alarms,
‘And bring him back in safety to my arms.’

To whom the youth: ‘Oft has my ready breast
‘Panted to ask the office you request,
‘As oft my conscious shame that wish restrain'd,
‘Disgraced by exile, and by murder stain'd:
‘Since you command, your Atys I'll attend,
‘Obey my patron, and protect my friend;
‘Watch o'er his safety in the doubtful strife,
‘Or ransom with my own his dearer life.’

Now to the Mysian fields elate and gay
The eager warriors bend their jocund way,
The echoing hills and forest walks resound
With shouts of men, and chidings of the hound.
Rous'd from his lair, and issuing on the plain,
Forth bursts the monster on the hunter train,
Around the circling youths impatient stand,
And launch their steely darts with ready hand.
Too rashly eager as the Phrygian threw,
With erring aim the pointed jav'lin flew,
In Atys' breast the quivering weapon stood,
And drank with fatal barbs his vital blood.—
The mournful shrieks that rent the ambient air,
The weeping troops, Adrastus' loud despair;
The silent agony, the gushing tide
Of the sad parent, and the widow'd bride,
The plaints they utter, and the woes they feel,
No heart can image, and no tongue reveal.
As the ill-fated youth is borne along,
All pale and bleeding, through the groaning throng,
By the cold corse Adrastus' frantic cries,
Death in his voice, and horror in his eyes;
‘Why have the gods in partial vengeance shed
‘Their choicest curses on my wretched head?
‘Fated the keenest strokes of wrath to prove,
‘And doom'd to murder those whom most I love!
‘O much wrong'd sire, let thy avenging hand
‘Expiate by guilty blood this weeping land:
‘Be on my heart thy instant fury hurl'd,
‘And save from future parricide the world!’

‘Alas, my son!' the wretched King replied,
‘'Tis awful Jove who thus corrects my pride,
‘Which, crown'd by conquest, and with power elate,
‘It's fortune deem'd beyond the reach of fate.
‘Alas! too late repentant, now I find
‘The fleeting happiness of human kind!
‘My hopes, my cares are past! this cruel blow
‘Has laid at once my vain ambition low;
‘The offended gods this chastisement have given,
‘Thou but the fatal instrument of heaven.’

Silent the youth withdrew, till sad were paid
The tributary rites to Atys' shade:
Then, as chill midnight's dreary hours return,
Weeping he sought the monumental urn:
‘Atys!’ he cried, ‘behold Adrastus come
‘A willing victim to thy hallow'd tomb!—
‘This erring hand, the fatal stroke that gave,
‘Shall lay thy murderer breathless on thy grave.’
Then pierced with sudden arm his struggling breast,
And on the blood-stain'd marble sunk to rest.

As more obliquely on autumnal skies
With milder force October's suns arise,
The purple pheasant tempts the youth to rove
With well-train'd spaniels through the faded grove.
See how with emulative zeal they strive,
Thrid the loose sedge, and through the thicket drive!
Not ranging lawless o'er the forest wide,
But close attendant on their master's side;
No babbling voice the bosom falsely warms,
Or swells the panting heart with vain alarms,
Till all at once their choral tongues proclaim
The secret refuge of the lurking game;
Loud on the breeze the chearful clamor floats,
And the high wood re-echoes with their notes.
Swift is their course, no lengthen'd warnings now
Space to collect the scatter'd thoughts allow,
No wary pointer shews the cautious eyes
Where from his russet couch the bird shall rise:
Perhaps light running o'er the mossy ground,
His devious steps your sanguine hopes confound;
Or, by the tangled branches hid from sight,
Sudden he wings his unexpected flight.
No open view along the uncumber'd field
To the cool aim will time and distance yield;
But the nice circumstance will oft demand
The quickest eye-sight and the readiest hand,
Swift as he rises from the thorny brake,
With instant glance the fleeting mark to take,
And with prompt arm the transient moment seize,
'Mid the dim gloom of intervening trees.
His gaudy plumage when the male displays
In bright luxuriance to the solar rays,
Arrest with hasty shot his whirring speed,
And see unblam'd the shining victim bleed;
But when the hen to thy discerning view
Her sober pinion spreads of duskier hue,
The attendant keeper's prudent warning hear,
And spare the offspring of the future year;
Else shall the fine which custom laid of old
Avenge her slaughter by thy forfeit gold.

Soon as the ready dogs their quarry spring,
And swift he spreads his variegated wing,
Ceas'd is their cry, with silent look they wait
Till the loud gun decides the event of fate;
Nor, if the shots are thrown with erring aim,
And proudly soars away the unwounded game,
Will the staunch train pursue him as he flies
With useless speed, and unavailing cries.

And now when cloudy skies and drizzling rains
Swell the full springs, and drench the moisten'd plains,
The extended space of land and ocean cross'd
From the bleak scenes of Hyperborean frost,
With active wing the unwearied Woodcocks fly
To southern climates, and a milder sky,
The osier'd borders of the brook explore,
And with deep bills the forest marshes bore.
Where now matur'd yon slender ashes stand,
Rise from their stools and tempt the woodman's hand,
Where the loose trunks admit the partial ray
Along the border take your cautious way.
Here let your care the shorten'd gun employ,
Lest the thick boughs the purpos'd aim annoy;
Let super-added steel with pressure sure,
From the dank drip the shelter'd pan secure:
And as the silent bird the stems among
Wheels slow his desultory flight along,
With steady eye his wavering motion watch,
And through the parting trees the advantage catch;
Though distant be the shot, the slightest wound
Shall lay the fluttering victim on the ground.

Rous'd by the spaniel, 'midst the forest shade,
Behold the trembling Leveret cross the glade!
If round the extended plains yield ample space,
Or for the rapid course, or chearful chace,
O, sacred be her steps! nor let thy hand
Blast the fair hopes of a congenial band,
Or for a transient pleasure meanly foil
The lengthen'd transport of the hunter's toil;
But where steep hills and spacious woodlands rise,
Or the long flight the frequent copse denies,
Blameless arrest her rapid flight, nor spare
The timid victim for the inglorious snare.

Where shining rills with copious moisture feed
The deeper verdure of the irriguous mead,
Or where between the purple heaths is seen
The mossy bosom of the low ravine,
The fearful Snipes, hid from the searching eye,
'Mid the dank sedge and nodding rushes lie.
With sudden turns oblique, when first they rise,
As from the weaver's arm the shuttle flies
They shape their wavering course: but patient stay
Till, with securer wing, they soar away:
Then as aloft their outstretch'd pinions sail,
Borne on the bosom of the buoyant gale,
The fatal shot sent forth with cautious sight,
Shall bring them wheeling from their towering height.

When winter now, a gloomy tyrant, reigns
In dreadful silence o'er the ravaged plains,
Involves in sheets of snow the bending woods,
And throws his icy mantle o'er the floods,
Close by the harden'd brook, whose sullen stream
No more soft murmuring aids the poet's dream,
Where, 'midst the matted sedge, the emerging flood
With air and life renews the finny brood,
The patient fowler stands with silent aim
To watch the station of the watery game:
Not like the gentle angler, careless laid,
In the cool shelter of the summer shade,
But train'd with hardy sinews to defy
The chilling keenness of a wintry sky;
While here the aquatic Wild-fowl's timid race
With wonted pinion seek the well known place;
Where rushes thick the Widgeon's haunt conceal,
The blue-wing'd Mallard, and the tenderer Teal;
Swift on the various race, in fiery shower,
The scattering shots unseen destruction pour,
With mingled slaughter strew the frost-bound flood,
And dye the sullied snow with gushing blood.

Such are the sports that fertile Albion yields,
Such the wing'd inmates of her milder fields;
But bounteous Nature, with diffusive hand,
Spreads wide her various produce o'er the land,
Each different region marks with nurturing care,
And bids a race congenial flourish there.
A tribe peculiar by her power is plac'd
On the drear mountain, and the howling waste,
Which art and industry would rear in vain,
Or in the shelter'd vale, or cultur'd plain.
Hence wandering far from England's gentler scene,
Her spacious champains, and her pastures green,
The hardy youth will Cambria's cliffs explore,
Or climb the heights of Caledonia hoar,
The Grouse and sable Heath-cock to pursue
Where moors unbounded tire the sated view,
And sullen silence reigns, save where the tide
Pours in swoln torrents from the mountain's side;
While summer suns in full effulgence shed
Their burning fervors on the throbbing head.

Thus has my verse in humble strains reveal'd
The various pleasures of the sportive field,
And shewn the different labors of the day
As the revolving seasons roll away:
But vainly shall preceptive rules impart
A perfect knowledge of this manly art;
Practice alone can certain skill produce,
And theory confirm'd by constant use.
As well the stripling of the gay parade,
Proud of his silken sash and smart cockade,
Though taught by wise instructors to explore
The martial depth of mathematic lore,
Might hope to drive Victoria's crimson car
Triumphant o'er the bleeding ranks of war,
Ere the long march, the early toil, and late,
The frequent scenes of danger and of fate,
The fervor of the glowing breast allay,
Change ardor's blaze for valor's temperate ray,
And teach the mind, unruffled and serene,
To keep her powers 'mid horrors wildest scene.

The hardy youth who pants with eager flame
To send his leaden bolts with certain aim,
Must ne'er with disappointed hopes recoil
From cold and heat, from hunger and from toil,
Must climb the hill, must tread the marshy glade,
Or force the passage through the opposing shade,
Must range untam'd by Sol's meridian power,
And brave the force of winter's keenest hour,
Till industry and time their work have wrought,
And honor crown the skill that labor taught.

Yet some, these harsher rudiments to spare,
And equal art with easier toil to share,
Or watch with careful aim and ready sight
The swallow-wheeling in her summer flight,
Or on some lofty cliff, whose chalky steep
Hangs with rude brow impending o'er the deep,
Where gulls and screaming sea-mews haunt the rock,
Pour fire incessant on the mingled flock.
But vain their hopes—presented to the eye
In such diversive lines the objects fly,
The dazzled sight unnumber'd marks pursues,
And shifts it's aim, uncertain which to chuse;
Decision quick and calm, the shooter's boast,
By frequent change, is check'd, confus'd, and lost,
And, guarded by irresolute delay,
Utouch'd shall future coveys fleet away.

More hurtful still to try with distant blow
To bring the percher from th' aerial bough.
How shall his thoughts the level that prepare
With all the caution of mechanic care,
Exact and steady as the sage's eye
Through Galileo's tube surveys the sky,
With ready view the transient object seize,
Swift as the motion of the rapid breeze,
Pursue the uncertain mark with swift address,
And catch the fleeting moment of success?

Ere yet the Muse her lay preceptive end
Ye eager youths these friendly rules attend:
'Tis not enough, that cautious aim, and sure,
From erring shots your brave compeers secure,
That prudence guard those ills which erst might flow
From the wing'd javelin, and the sounding bow;
For on the gun unnumber'd dangers wait,
And various forms of unexpected fate.
Drawn thro' the thorny hedge, the uncertain lock
May give with sudden spring, a deadly shock;
Or the loose spark the rapid flash may raise,
And wrap the sulphurous dust in instant blaze.

'Tis hence the military race prepare
The novice youth with such assiduous care,
And teach him with punctilious art to wield
The weighty fire-lock in the embattled field.
Though some may deem the attention urg'd too far,
As the mere pomp and circumstance of war;
When closely wedg'd the firm battalions stand,
Rank press'd on rank, and band impelling band,
Did not fastidious zeal with cautious plan
Define each act, and every motion scan,
Oft would the bullets 'mid the battles roar
The thirsty herbage die with friendly gore,
And oft the dangerous weapon's kindling breath
Change fields of exercise, to fields of death.

Behold yon' eager race who o'er the plain,
With stimulating heel and loosen'd rein,
Their panting coursers urge to leave behind
The rapid currents of the northern wind,
Though, as with headlong rage they rush along,
Impending dangers seem to wait the throng;
Though accident with more apparent face
Seem to attend the ardor of the chace;
Yet, 'mid these calmer sports, with ghastly mien
The pallid form of slaughter lurks unseen;
And while the hunter checks his bold career
To pour on Russel's tomb the sorrowing tear,
The sportive train who haunt the fatal glades
Where hoary Camus flows by Granta's shades,
Shall weep the unexpected blow that gave
Their much-lov'd Cotton to a timeless grave.
Lamented youth! when erst on Warley's plains
We led in radiant arms our rustic swains,
What time Britannia, friendless and forlorn,
Her shores expos'd, her naval trophies torn,
Bold in her native vigor dar'd oppose
Rebellious subjects, and combining foes;
In vain thy generous bosom burn'd to stand
The manly bulwark of an injur'd land,
Or nobly bleeding by the hostile ball,
In freedom's, and in Albion's cause to fall;
Doom'd by relentless fate, to press the ground,
The unhappy victim of a casual wound.

Votaries of rural joy! with mine while flow
Your kindred streams of sympathetic woe,
By salutary care, ah! learn to shun
The hidden dangers of the unguarded gun!
And, as in fields of pleasure you acquire
The soldier's manly toil and steady fire,
His cautious use of arms attentive heed,
Careful by no inglorious wound to bleed,
Nor lavish life, but in the sacred cause
Of Britain's injur'd rights, and violated laws.

ARGUMENT. Episode of Ceolph and Emmeline—March of the Army.—Battle of Eddington.


'Mid Selwood's sylvan walks, with martial care,
The king arrays his valiant troops for war.—
As when autumnal vapours dimly rise,
And load, with future storms, the misty skies,
From the surrounding hills and bordering main
The gathering clouds condense, then break in rain;
So, from each green retreat and bowering shade,
The eager warriors crowd to Alfred's aid.
Dark, on the plain, the thick battalion stands,
To burst, tempestuous, on the adverse bands.

As o'er the tented field the squadrons spread,
Stretch'd on the turf the hardy soldier's bed;
While the strong mound, and warder's careful eyes,
Protect the midnight camp from quick surprise,
A voice, in hollow murmurs from the plain,
Attracts the notice of the wakeful train.

'Soldiers! who prowling wide in ceaseless round,
Trace the fenced circuit of the embattled mound,
To Alfred's tent a wandering warrior bring,
Who knows what much concerns your martial king.'

From guard to guard the words in whispers pass'd,
And reach'd the monarch's watchful ear at last;
For on the leader's eye the ambrosial dews
Of balmy slumber scanty drops diffuse.—
Convey'd with caution through the silent bands,
Before the royal tent the stranger stands.—

'Warrior!' the monarch cries; 'whate'er thy birth,
Or Briton born, or rear'd on foreign earth,
Freely thy wish disclose, secure to find,
For pain, and care, a sympathizing mind,
Train'd in Misfortune's rugged school, I know,
A man myself, to pity human woe.'

'Yes, thou may'st pity those,' he stern replied,
'By error plunged in dark Misfortune's tide,
Even to thy proudest foe may'st mercy give,
Spare the fallen head, and bid the suppliant live;
But he, whose traitor heart, by Envy fired
Against his Prince, his Country, has conspired;
Who, to avenge Ambition's baffled aim,
Gave up his native land to sword and flame,
Can hope no guerdon from the brave and good,
But rage repaid by rage, and blood by blood;
Mercy in vain the suppliant's grief may feel,
When public Justice lifts her sacred steel.
Should generous Alfred feel a wretch's woe,
The patriot King must crush his country's foe.
Strike then a breast, whose arteries swell to pour,
To injured Albion's wrongs, a crimson shower,
And, to the manes of thy slaughter'd host,
Send tidings of revenge by Ceolph's ghost.'

He paused—and, as the traitor stood confess'd,
Alternate passions shook the monarch's breast:
Now, tugging at his heart, vindictive ire
Breathes through his heaving form a fatal fire,
While myriads of his bravest warriors slain,
Whose limbs, unburied, strew'd the empurpled plain,
While cries of infancy, and groans of age,
Unhappy victims of apostate rage,
Sit on his sword, and urge the instant blow
Of rigid justice on the treacherous foe.
And now the conscious dignity that leads
The undaunted soldier to heroic deeds,
Aware, though injured right the stroke demand,
That blood, thus shed, must stain the warrior's hand,
Who grasps a sword that never yet had sped
Its force resistless on a prostrate head,
Arrests his arm, by cruel wrongs though strung,
And checks the blow that o'er the victim hung.

Ceolph at once perceived the generous strife,
And thus pursued his tale.—'This forfeit life
Think not I wish to save—to carry hence
A conscience deeply stain'd by foul offence.—
Each avenue to fame and virtue cross'd,
A name dishonour'd, and a daughter lost;
A daughter, by a ruffian's venom'd breath
Condemn'd, alas! to horrors worse than death,
Can Ceolph, wretched Ceolph, wish to live?—
No!—all that he can ask, or thou canst give,
Are means of vengeance.—Set me once again
In the red vaward of the embattled plain.—
I seek not glory—from her radiant roll,
Envy's malicious demons snatch'd my soul;—
But let me hunt, amid the toils of fight,
The fiend who dragg'd me down from Virtue's height.
Perhaps this arm, amid the battle's roar,
With slaughter flush'd, and steep'd in Danish gore,
Through the protective shield and threatening dart,
May reach the foul abode of Oswald's heart:
Then shall, in peace, this tortured spirit fly,
Whose only wish is vengeance, and to die.

'O, Alfred!—coward tears! why dim my sight,
Where dire revenge should glare with lurid light?
O, Alfred! let thine ear my wrongs receive,
Pity that wretch even Mercy can't forgive.

'Short are the joys malignant passions yield.—
Scarce were the horrors cold of Wilton's field,
When, Envy's sanguinary frenzy o'er,
The pangs of conscious guilt my bosom tore.
I saw my pride had urged Destruction's band,
To sate their vengeance on my native land;
Saw Rapine, Lust, and Murder's furious brood,
Their footsteps drench in carnage and in blood;
Saw Innocence and Beauty plead, in vain,
To the wild license of a cruel train,
Who, scorning sweet Endearment's 'suasive breath,
The shrieking virgin woo with threats of death.
Vainly I strove, with ineffectual aim,
To damp wild Devastation's spreading flame;
They mock'd the worthless friend by Envy made,
And scorn'd the soldier who his Prince betray'd.—

Lives there a horde so rude as not to know
The ills from violated faith that flow?
As not to hate the wretch who arms the hand
Of foreign vengeance, 'gainst his native land?
Despised by those my treason fail'd to gain,
Reviled and hated by my feudal train,
Whom my base arts had lured, from virtuous fame,
To scenes of insult, misery, and shame,
Still was I doom'd by righteous Heaven to know
The biting anguish of a nearer woe.—
My Emmeline!—unbend that brow severe,
O, curse the traitor, but the parent hear!
My Emmeline—sweet as the opening rose,
Pure as the gale o'er violet banks that blows,
Attracted Oswald's eye; a chief allied
To Guthrum's line, his mate in power and pride.
The wretch whose specious breath, with fiend-like art,
Blew the dire embers lurking in my heart,
Raised to gigantic shape my fancied wrong,
And drew my recreant soul to Denmark's throng.
Of me he ask'd the maid,—my anxious thought
Saw his design with foul dishonour fraught.
With feign'd respect I strove to soothe his pride,
And undervalued what my fears denied.
Sullen he stalk'd away, nor deign'd reply;
I mark'd his lowering brow and fiery eye;
Full well I knew how, in the impatient heart,
Rankles of disappointed hope the smart.
Short the suspense—the hand of lawless power
Tore my sad daughter from her peaceful bower.
In vain to Guthrum's feet I suppliant came,
The sword of Justice in my cause to claim.
While tears, and prayers, and threats, alternate strove,
As the wild gust of veering passion drove.
Alas! a traitor's tears unpitied flow,
And weak the threats of a dishonour'd foe.
Then late Remorse, with all a Fury's tongue,
In my stunn'd ears ‘Woe to the vanquish'd,’ rung.

'Contemn'd, neglected, as an outcast vile
I pass'd, unnoticed, by the warder's file.—
Alfred, to thee I come!—on thy decree
Thy faithless vassal's fate depending see;
Give me, 'tis all I ask, with pitying breath,
The means of vengeance, or the stroke of death.'

'O, far from me,' replies the King, 'to tread,
Remoreseles, on repentant Misery's head,
Draw heavier vengeance from the thundering cloud,
And break the wretched heart that Heaven has bow'd.
Backward to trace Rebellion's path be thine,
To aid returning Virtue's effort mine.
Even now the troops, impatient of delay,
Chide night's slow march, and pant for rising day;
Already neigh their steeds, their banners fly,
While shouts, and shrill-toned clarions rend the sky.
Frowning through tears, indignant Mercia's host
Burn to avenge their prince, their leader, lost.
Now youthful Leofric guides them to the plain,
Breathing defiance 'gainst the treacherous Dane.
Amid their ranks the award of battle wait,
And vindicate an injured rival's fate.
Redeem, by manly vengeance on the foe,
The stroke that laid unhappy Burthred low.
Who, forced by fate, new climates to explore,
A wretched wanderer, sought the Italian shore;

Where, sunk by toil and grief, imperial Rome
Rear'd, o'er his sainted head, the hallow'd tomb.'
'And is he fall'n?—the virtuous and the brave!—
Sleeps Burthred?—sleeps he in a foreign grave?—
O, glorious martyr in thy country's cause!
O'er thee no veil of shame Reflection draws.—
With indignation o'er my recreant head
While every friend to patriot faith shall tread,
With grief eternal o'er thy sacred bier
Shall injured Albion shed the votive tear.
Yes!—in the foremost ranks of war I'll stand,
And point the path to thy avenging band,
First of thy squadron will I dare the plain,
Lead them o'er streams of blood, and hills of slain;
Dread as the baleful meteor of the night,
My sword shall guide them through the thickest fight:
No plated buckler's ample fold I need,
To guard a wretched breast resolved to bleed.
Yet, when returning from the fatal field,
Borne, a pale corse, upon the soldier's shield,
Even Ceolph shall be pardon'd when they tell
How brave he fought, how penitent he fell.'

Now in the east the morn's gray banner floats,
Loud breathe the inspiring clarion's martial notes.
The impatient warriors instant at the sound,
Spread, in refulgent phalanx, o'er the ground.—
Again the clarion blows—in bright array
The dazzling columns win their winding way.
As now the mountain's airy brow they scale,
Pace the smooth plain, or thrid the woodland dale,
From their refulgent helms, and glittering shields,
A flood of radiant glory gilds the fields.
From morn's first orient blush, till dewy eve,
Nor food nor rest the ardent host relieve.
But when, in rising Luna's silver beam,
The towering summits of Æcglea gleam,

The warriors' limbs, forespent with constant toil,
In needful slumber press the grassy soil,
Their march renewing with the morning light,
New strung their nerves, and panting for the fight.

Passing the borders of the forest drear,
A shriek of female anguish pierced the ear,
And, starting from the shade, a figure wan,
With piteous plaint arrests the wondering van.
Loose flow'd her careless robe, her streaming hair
Floated, in ruffled tangles, to the air,
And on her livid cheek and haggard eye,
Throned in imperial state, sat misery.

With voice by weeping choked, convulsed her breast,
The woe-lorn form the passing host address'd.
'O, see before you, humbled to the dust,
A victim sad of cruelty and lust.—
When in the battle's doubtful shock ye join,
Think of the horrors of a fate like mine;
The curses of a violated maid
Shall nerve each arm, shall sharpen every blade.
For me—conceal'd my lineage and my name—
Ah, once my country's glory! now its shame!—
One only way remains from deep disgrace
To clear the offspring of a noble race.'—
She ceased—and instant in her struggling breast
Her fatal poniard sheath'd, and sunk to rest.

Half petrified around the warriors stand,
When, sudden darting from the astonish'd band,
Rush'd Ceolph forth—and as his eye survey'd
The breathless reliques of the murder'd maid,
'My Emmeline!'—with frantic tone, he cried,
Then sunk in death-like torpor by her side.—
Now starting from the trance,—his maniac eye
Fix'd on the pale remains that bleeding lie.—

From the pierced heart he drew the reeking blade,
With frantic look the ensanguined point survey'd,
While from his eye-balls darts, with horrid glare,
The enfuriate wildness of supreme despair.—
The impulse checking, ere he gave the wound,
Furious he dash'd the weapon to the ground,
And, clasping to his breast, with frenzied force,
The mangled bosom of the beauteous corse,
'O, injured Emmeline!—O, ill-starr'd maid!
Sad victim of a father's crimes;' he said,
'Awhile this loath'd existence I endure,
To make the deadly blow of vengeance sure.
Ye ruthless ministers of hell! I come,
The author of my own and Oswald's doom!'

While grief and rage in every bosom strove,
Breathing revenge, the generous warriors move.
Conceal'd by forests deep, whose ample shade

Spread gloom impervious o'er the twilight glade,
Through many a silvan glen the silent throng,
Unseen, unheard, vindictive march along,
Till, issuing on the plain, the verdant height
Of Eddington breaks sudden on their sight;
Conspicuous waving on whose breezy brow,
Proud Scandinavia's threatening banners flow,
Wide spreads the dread array, with ruddy gleam
Their bright arms glittering in the evening beam.

Fired at the view, instinctive ardour runs
Through every band of Britain's mingled sons;
On England's plains the flash of foreign arms
By Conquest crown'd, the coldest bosom warms;
While the brave leader of the British name,
With kindling accents fans the rising flame.

'My faithful subjects, and my brave allies,
All equal heirs of Albion's fostering skies,
Nor peace, nor liberty, can Britain know,
But from the fall of yon injurious foe.
The paths through yon embattled barrier lie,
That lead to freedom and to victory.—

On civil strife what horrid ills await,
Of foreign servitude the grievous state,
No words of mine need paint—for lo! it stood,
Drawn in the red charactery of blood
Full in your sight—what time the hapless maid,
Sad victim! fell, self-murder'd, on the glade.—
Is there a father, lover, husband, here,
Holds female charms, and female honour dear?
Let indignation urge each fatal blow,
With more than mortal vengeance on the foe.
Is there a warrior, 'mid this valiant train,
Who mourns a parent, son, or brother slain?
O, let him speak the sorrows of his breast
In strokes of thunder on the Danish crest.
If there be one, by guilty wiles misled,
Who 'gainst his native land his force has sped,
O, let him expiate now the dire disgrace,
By tenfold vengeance on yon hostile race;
And, in the blood of Scandinavia's horde,
Wash off the stain from his polluted sword.

'And ye from Cambria's hills who join our band,
From Caledonia's rocks, and Erin's strand,
Generous and brave compeers! O, now be shewn
The only strife that future times shall own.
A glorious strife of Britain's isles the pride,
The friendly contest ne'er may time decide;
Eternal be the conflict which shall fight,
First in their monarch's, and their country's right!'

Though now, in mellower tint, the orb of day
Sheds o'er the hostile camp a golden ray,
Yet each bold leader of the associate bands
The expected sign of instant war demands;
But Alfred checks their zeal, till morning's light,
Dispelling all the vapoury shades of night,
Shall pour new ardour through the warrior's breast,
Gay, as the laughing hour, and fresh from rest.
Long was the march, and all the rugged way
Through thorny brakes, and tangled thickets lay.
Conscious that soft repose their limbs require,
The prudent chief restrains their generous fire;
For though, when high the flames of battle rise,
Valour's impatient fury strength supplies;
Firm and unfailing sinews must sustain
The lengthen'd labours of the bloody plain.

But while the soldiers, on the tented ground,
The sweets of slumber and reflection found,
The balmy cordial of refreshing rest
Ne'er soothed to peace the princely leader's breast.
Now through the silent camp his footsteps steal,
To wake the wearied centry's drooping zeal;
Now anxious on his sleepless couch reclined,
He calls forth all the treasures of his mind,
His thoughts the various forms of battle weigh,
And plan the conflict of the coming day.

Though each resource of martial art he tried,
Not on his skill alone the chief relied;
Not on his host, though every bosom, fired
With patriot zeal, a patriot soul inspired.
Not always in the lists of life belong
The wreaths of conquest to the swift and strong;
A Power beyond the span of human souls,
The wisest plans of erring man controuls.
To that tremendous Power, whose awful will
Swells the loud storm, bids the wild roar be still,
Fires the red bolt, or moulds the crystal hail,
Or breathes soft fragrance in the vernal gale;—
Who, o'er the wretched outcast's houseless head,
His adamantine shield can favouring spread;
The cause forlorn of suffering Virtue own,
Or hurl Oppression from his guilty throne;
To that dread Power he bows, with heart sincere,
'And, fearing Heaven, despises earthly fear.'
Nor was exempt from nearer, humbler grief,
The pious votary and the royal chief.
Too oft of selfish pride the poisonous taint,
Rankling, infects the patriot and the saint.
Not Alfred such—his generous feelings prove
Each charity of friendship and of love;
From warm benevolence each germ that sprung,
With shoot congenial, round his bosom clung:
And that divine ambition fill'd his mind
Which grasps the happiness of human kind.

Soon as the harbinger of morn, on high
Beat Heaven's blue vault, and caroll'd through the sky;
When now the first pale streaks of rising day
Oped, on the steaming hills, their eyelids gray,
Collected from the tents, the impatient band,
Waiting the word, in listening silence stand.
Then, as his eye along the embattled van,
Fill'd with the pleasing hope of conquest, ran,
A pensive languor in the monarch's breast
Damp'd fame's keen ardour, and that hope repress'd.—
Full many a youth, in manhood's prime, he knew,
Who now the balmy breath of morning drew,
Would, ere the dewy shades of eve descend,
On Earth's cold breast a lifeless corse extend:
O'er them, of Glory's amaranthine flowers,
Their country's hands shall shed perennial showers,
Secure alike of honour's purest meed,
For her who conquer, or for her who bleed.—
And now before the warrior's melting eyes,
The peerless beauties of Elsitha rise,—
While round him float the clarion's loud alarms,
He clasps the lovely matron in his arms;
With manly fondness chides her anxious cares,
Or sportive mocks the sorrows that he shares,
Nor quits the endearing fold with tearless eye,
Though war's vindictive clangor rends the sky.—
When threatening round the fearless warrior's head,
The rising thunders of the battle spread,
When clouds of iron-tempest o'er him lower,
And pour unnumber'd deaths in arrowy shower,
Unmoved he stands, in zeal heroic warm,
A breathing bulwark 'gainst the furious storm;
As the firm-rooted oak the tempest braves,
As the steep cliff defies the angry waves;
But the soft magic of Affection's tear
Wakes in the bravest heart a transient fear:
Though love, heroic ardour may inspire,
Its object weeping damps the hero's fire;
O'er Valour's cheek, Affliction's moisture steals,
A chief he combats, but a man he feels.

From fair Elsitha's chaste, and fond embrace,
The monarch speeds, to join the warrior race.
Darting his eye along the radiant files,
The firm array he views, with cheerful smiles;
Breathes bold resolve through every soldier's breast,
And ardent zeal by discipline repress'd.
Sudden the ensigns move.—As in the vale,
When from the irriguous marsh the dews exhale,
The floating mists from eve's dank breath that spread,
In whitening volume, o'er the level mead,
Appearing, through the glimmering shades of night,
A waste of waters to the traveller's sight,
At morn roll up the mountain steep, and crown,
With clouds of dim expanse, the upland down;
So, from the hollows of the winding dale,
Slow, the ascent the British warriors scale;
So, wide extended on the breezy height,
Tremendous frown the threatening clouds of fight,
Where the wan twilight of the opening dawn
Shews, throng'd with hostile spears, the aërial lawn.

Loud blows the clarion shrill!—with thundering sound
Roars the tremendous peal of battle round.
Full in the front the English archers stand,
The bent bow drawing home with sinewy hand,
Scarcely the shining barbs the tough yew clear,
The ductile nerve stretch'd to the bowman's ear.
Not from the foe by sheltering ranks conceal'd,
Boldly they dare the foreward of the field;
With deadly point the levell'd arrows shine,
Pierce the cuirass, and check the close-wedged line:
Here Caledonia's hardy mountaineers
Lift the broad targe, there mark her lowland spears;
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors brave,
With lighter arms, the war's destructive wave;
Spread o'er their agile limbs the osier shield,
The shorten'd sword, and biting pole-axe wield;
Strike, with swift aim, the desultory blow,
And tire, with varied shock, the wavering foe.
Clad in rich panoply, each high-born knight
Impels his barbed courser to the fight;
The burnish'd arms a bright refulgence shed,
White waves the plumage o'er the helmed head;
And on the ample shield, and blazon'd crest,
Shines, of each chief, the known device impress'd.
Swift as the rapid bird of Summer flies,
Cleaving, with agile wing, the tepid skies,
The warlike squadrons on the spur advance,
With seat unshaken, and protended lance.—
Ampler in numbers, Denmark's sons oppose
The dreadful onset of their rushing foes:
With lowering front the northern warriors stand,
In deep array, a firm, and fearless band:
And, as where Scandinavia's mountains rear
The accumulated snows of many a year,
The enormous masses undissolved remain,
And summer suns roll over them in vain;
So the unshaken squadrons, firm, defy
The lightnings of the war that round them fly.—
Loud blows the brazen tube's inspiring breath,
With shouts of triumph mix'd, and groans of death;
With horrid shock the infuriate hosts engage,
And Slaughter stalks around with fiend-like rage.

Fierce Ceolph views the field with fiery eye,
And marks where haughty Oswald's banners fly:
Then swift and dreadful, as the whirlwind's force
Speeds o'er the ruin'd fields its fatal course,
Through all the horrors of the raging fray
He cuts, with furious arm, his eager way;
Before the Danish chief his circling train,
Their spears and sheltering shields oppose in vain;
Breathless and bleeding, onward still he press'd
Through groves of iron pointed at his breast;
'Gainst Oswald's heart his rapid sword he drives,
The thundering stroke the solid corslet rives;
Prone falls the injurious tyrant on the ground,
His life-blood streaming from the fatal wound;
Pierced by a thousand spears, on earth laid low,
The expiring victor spurns his prostrate foe;
O'er the warm corse in fatal triumph lies,
And, sated with revenge, exulting dies!

Around the banners of their bleeding lords,
With shock impetuous, close the adverse hordes,
Each squadron emulous to bear away
The blazon'd trophies of the doubtful fray.

While here the war in equal balance hung,
And loud the peal of death terrific rung,
With happier fortune Albion's force was sped
His veteran bands where royal Alfred led.
There, like a torrent, o'er the yielding Dane,
With force resistless, pour the Saxon train,
For every soldier, in his monarch's sight,
With all a hero's ardour dared the fight.
The rising shout of triumph Guthrum hears,
His chiefs receding from the English spears,
Then gathers round him all his scatter'd force,
Points to the spot, and urges on their course;
The increasing numbers, by his summons drawn,
In swift career pour o'er the dusty lawn.
As on the deep, when driving winds afar,
Swell the blue surge, and rouse the billowy war,
The wary mariner the ocean sees
Scowling and black before the approaching breeze;
As o'er the champaign wide the dark clouds sail,
The ripen'd harvest waving in the gale;
So watchful Alfred saw, condensed and strong,
The threatening storm of battle sweep along;
His scatter'd files, by instant order closed,
To the fierce foe a steady front opposed:
In vain the troops, by rage impetuous arm'd,
In numbers strong, by recent conquest warm'd,
Press round on every side—with eagle glance
Alfred beholds the intrepid band advance.
The furious onset checks with martial care,
And stems the fiery deluge of the war,
While swifter than his eye his fatal sword
Strikes from his courser many a Danish lord.
The troops, dismay'd, behold their chieftains bleed,
Turn in amaze, and from the fight recede;
Indignant Guthrum views the recreant train,
And chides them to the front of war in vain.

'Dastards!' he cries, 'is this your vaunted boast?—
Flies from a single sword your coward host?
Mine be the task to wipe away your shame,
And vindicate the sullied Danish name.'

He said, and stung at once by rage and grief,
Impels his courser toward the British chief;
With sinewy arm, and rising to the blow,
His ponderous spear he aims against his foe;
Opposed, the king his shield oblique extends,
On the wide orb the thundering stroke descends,
But, from the polish'd surface sidelong cast,
The steely point with erring fury pass'd;—
Not innocent of blood—for Mercia's pride,
Leofric the brave, who fought by Alfred's side,
Leofric of youthful bloom, and royal race,
From Burthred sprung, and Ellen's chaste embrace,
Who braved the combat, urged by generous fire,
Pious avenger of his exiled sire,
Received the lance, and life its purple showers,
Down his white vest and shining armour, pours;
His nerveless arm forsakes the useless rein,
And low he sinks, war's victim, on the plain.

In Alfred's breast the fires of vengeance rise,
Red glows his cheek, and ardent flash his eyes.
'Gainst Guthrum's heart, the ample shield above,
His weighty spear the royal Briton drove;
But from the corslet's plated scales rebounds
The blunted weapon, nor the bosom wounds;
By the strong fury of the ponderous stroke
Shiver'd, the strong-grain'd ash to atoms broke,
And the stunn'd warrior, tottering with the force,
Stoop'd from the blow, and scarce retain'd his horse;
On rush'd the hero, shining in his hand
The broad refulgence of his threatening brand;
Full on the Danish crest the blow descends,
Beneath the mighty shock the warrior bends,
Though the proved helm the trenchant steel disarms,
Prone on the dust he falls, with clanging arms;
Then o'er the extended chief as Alfred stood,
Soon had he paid the forfeit price of blood,
Or, led in triumph by the victor's side,
Changed, for a captive's chains, a tyrant's pride;
When generous Hardiknute rush'd through the strife,
And ransom'd, with his own, his monarch's life.
Quitting his courser, while the attending horde
Placed on the steed their bruised and vanquish'd lord,
Opposed to Alfred's sword, he dauntless stands
A rampire to the chief of Denmark's bands,
Victim of true allegiance' generous call,
By Alfred's arm ennobled in his fall.
Now to the close-fenced camp, with needful care,
Their wounded prince the Danish chieftains bear.
Mix'd with the flying rout, the Saxon horse,
With bleeding warriors, mark their fatal course;
Give to vindictive rage the loosen'd rein,
And the wide field with hostile carnage stain.

Different the scene where, o'er the extended field,
The Danish squadrons to the auxiliars yield;
In swift pursuit the ranks their order lose,
The turning foes again their columns close;
And while of ebbing fight the refluent course,
Checks, in its mid career, the victor's force,
Increasing numbers from the encampment near,
Hang on his scatter'd flank, and sever'd rear:
Press'd on each side, Scotia's bold sons in vain
The rising labours of the war sustain;
Fierce as the Danes in loose array, advance,
Useless the ample targe, and lengthen'd lance,
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors pour
Of feathery darts an ineffectual shower:
Not like the shaft sent from the English bow,
The corslet riving with resistless blow,
As the dread fury of the thunder's stroke
Shivers, with fearful shock, the mountain oak;
The missile reed that lightly flies along,
Thrown from the cross-bow, or the sounding thong,
Bounds, with vain effort, from the temper'd mail,
As from the rocky cliff the pelting hail.

Around the field, as with attentive gaze,
Alfred the fortune of the day surveys,
He marks where Caledonia's banner flows
At distance, circled by a cloud of foes;
With eagle swiftness o'er the crimson'd glade,
He leads his victor squadrons to their aid,
The chase forsaking of a flying foe,
To rush where bold resistance deals the blow.
More pleased the shock of adverse hosts to dare,
And the proud wreath from Valour's helmet tear,
Than snatch a trophy from a yielding crowd,
Unbought by peril, and unstain'd by blood.
The cautious Danes behold the approaching storm,
Close their loose files, and firm their battle form.
Swift as the arrow from the elastic yew,
To youthful Donald's aid, the hero flew,
With sudden shock he breaks the opposing bands,
And by his side an aid terrific stands,
His guardian shield extends, and scatters far,
With godlike arm, the threatening ranks of war.
As lightning swift around his faulchion flies,
At every stroke a Danish warrior dies.
In vain fresh numbers to the fight succeed,
Trembling they fly, or combating, they bleed.

Brave Donald, fired by emulative pride,
Spurs on his steed, contending by his side:
Such emulation as the generous feel,
Such contest as is roused by warlike zeal;
Which only in the virtuous bosom glow,
Nor jealous hatred raise, nor envy know:
The active springs that Donald's bosom move,
Are steady friendship and unsullied love.
Friendship that, fearless, in the battle's strife,
Would sacrifice his own for Alfred's life;
Love, that no hope of selfish bliss would buy
With one sad tear from chaste Elsitha's eye.

Press'd and confused, recede the Danish bands,
To where their camp a rampired fortress stands.—
It chanced that wintry rains, with constant force,
Through the resisting mound had worn a course;
This the proud race, of strength and courage vain,
Unheeding pass, or, heeding, they disdain,
But 'scaped not Alfred's wary search, when round

The midnight camp he raised the minstrel's sound;
Hither his arm the storm of battle guides—
Loud roar, of closing fight, the straiten'd tides.
When Hinguar, brother of the imperious lord,
Hubba, who fell by valiant Oddune's sword,
Against the King, with spear protended, flies
Swift, and unheeded by the monarch's eyes.
Young Donald saw, and met his subtle foe,
His shield presenting to the threat'ning blow.
Passing the buckler, on the prince's breast
Lights the fell stroke, with skilful arm address'd,
Rives, with dire force, the plated corselet's joint,
And drinks his vital blood with fatal point;
On his wan cheek the rose of beauty dies,
And swimming vapours dim his closing eyes;
Drops from his hand his unavailing sword,
And his sad train receive their dying lord.

''Tis past,' he cried, 'the toil of war is o'er,
This heart, at Glory's call must beat no more;
Yet, ruthless tyrant of the darksome grave,
Thy form terrific ne'er alarms the brave!
But, O! my friends, a father's grief control,
Speak comfort to his agonizing soul.
Tell him, though swift his Donald's earthly race,
Yet not inglorious was its short-lived space;
One hour of Fame more lasting trophies rears,
Than wait on coward Sloth's protracted years.
Mature he dies, who dies when Glory calls,
Who falls with honour ne'er untimely falls,
Graced in my obsequies, since Alfred's tear
Will shed its kindly dew o'er Donald's bier.
O, glorious prince! my leader and my friend,
On me the eye of virtuous pity bend;
In me, extended on this fatal plain,
You see, alas! a wretched rival slain.—
Start not—for though, in youthful fancy warm,
My heart drank love from chaste Elsitha's form,
Yet was that more than angel form enshrined
With sanctimonious reverence in my mind.
No pilgrim e'er, with toil and watching faint,
Paid purer homage to his patron saint.—
A flame, from aught of grosser passion free,
Dying, I boast, and dying boast to thee,
O, should thy virtuous consort deign to throw,
On Donald's fate, one drop of pitying woe,
Tell her I glorious fell, in battle's pride,
Stemming her Alfred's foes, and by his side.—
And, ah! with Kindness' lenient balm, assuage
My father's grief, and smooth the couch of age.
Childless, unfriended,—should Rebellion raise
Its bloody storms to cloud his closing days,
My dying breath points out, in Alfred's care,
His people's guardian, and his Donald's heir.'

He ceased, and as along the lucid rill,
When wintry Eurus shoots his arrows chill,
The icy rigour spreads with stiffening force,
Dims its clear surface, and arrests its course;
So through his veins Death's freezing languor steals,
And the closed eye a leaden slumber seals;
Aloft his spirit mounts the viewless wind,
And leaves his form a lifeless corse behind.

Around their bleeding prince, the mournful band
Of Caledonian heroes weeping stand;—
While o'er his youthful charge, who breathless lies,
As England's monarch hangs with pensive eyes,
To his swoll'n bosom Fancy's tablets bring
A groaning country, and a childless King;
And sad Reflection in its mirror shows,
Alfred the source of Caledonia's woes,
Shows, for his life, the life of Donald paid,
A great, a glorious, but a dreadful aid.

But soon the rising tempest of the field
Bids useless grief to bold exertion yield;
For Scandinavia's sons once more engage,
Renew the fight, and closer combat wage.
They mark'd confusion mid the conquering host,
And Valour hoped to win what Flight had lost.
O'er their thrice-vanquish'd foes they thought again
To spread the horrors of Oppression's reign.
They deem'd that race by mightier force dismay'd,
Whom Guile had sever'd, and whom Fraud betray'd;
Nor knew, when join'd beneath their legal lord,
How dread, of Albion's sons, the avenging sword.

'Enough of woe,' exclaims the royal chief,
'The soldier's sword should speak the soldier's grief.
See, of yon baffled host, the last essay,
The 'vantage valour gain'd to tear away.
Ye native bands! the boon of parent Heaven!
Ye brothers of the war, by Donald given!
Dear, as my brave, my dying friend's bequest,
Dear, for your inborn worth, to Alfred's breast,
Joint heirs of Britain's injured shores, combine
To vindicate, with me, the British line.'

They hear—and, dreadful as the wintry gale,
Their congregated powers the foe assail,
Who peering o'er the field, in loose array,
Yet strive to turn the fortune of the day.
In haughty guise, exulting, mid the rest,
Known by his gilded arms, and waving crest,
Proud of his recent act, stern Hinguar stood,
His pointed javelin red with Donald's blood.

Soon as the King the insulting chief descries,
Dread flames vindictive valour from his eyes;
Through the thick press, and all the rage of fight,
He seeks, with ceaseless course, the Danish knight.
Intrepid, Hinguar views the foe advance,
Grasps his broad shield, and shakes his threat'ning lance.
Then, proudly, thus:—'Chief of a vanquish'd race,
Scaped from defeat, by fraud, and foul disgrace,
The hour of vengeance comes;—Your tribe again
Shall crouch beneath the rod of Denmark's reign.
Struck by this arm, lo! youthful Donald paid
His worthless life to Hubba's angry shade.
Base and unequal vengeance! to destroy,
For an illustrious chief, a beardless boy.
But Alfred! thou, shalt tread the dreary coast
Of Hela's black abode, a wandering ghost.'

Scorning reply, against the vaunting foe
The indignant Briton drives the avenging blow;
Nor shield, nor corselet, stay the javelin's force,
Through the strong mail it speeds its deadly course:
Low on the earth the injurious boaster lies,
And cursing adverse Heaven, remorseless dies.

Fired by the example of the godlike man,
Redoubled ardour through the squadrons ran.
Dreadful in grief, brave Caledonia's band,
With beating bosom, and with eager hand,
In threat'ning phalanx 'gainst the foe advance,
The fate of Donald pointing every lance.
Here Oddune's mail-clad foot, in firm array,
Force, through the waves of war, their steady way.
Swift and resistless, as the whirlwind's course,
There thunder by their side the Mercian horse.—
Lost each brave leader of the warlike Dane,
Forced from the fight, or breathless on the plain;
The floating ranks, confused, and crowded, yield,
And measure back, in faint retire, the field.
As the strong mole, by labour rear'd to brave
The stormy inroad of the mountain wave,
Though firm, through many a circling year, it stood,
A steady barrier 'gainst the encroaching flood,
If sapp'd by chance, or time's revolving hour,
Dread, through the flaw, the rushing waters pour,
Ride o'er the deluged lands in wasteful sway,
And sweep the labours of an age away.
Such, and so fierce, through Denmark's wavering force,
The impetuous Britons urge their furious course.—

The line is forced—nor camp nor trenches show
A safe asylum to the astonish'd foe.
Wild in dismay, across the extended plain,
They fly with bloody spur, and sounding rein.
Decisive Victory o'er Alfred's head,
With chearing shout, her crimson pennons spread.
Eager and fierce the conquering bands pursue,
O'er hill, and dale, the desultory crew,
Till Night her sable curtains wide display'd,
And wrap'd the vanquish'd rout in welcome shade.

ARGUMENT. Episode of Ceolph and Emmeline—March of the Army.—Battle of Eddington.


'Mid Selwood's sylvan walks, with martial care,
The king arrays his valiant troops for war.—
As when autumnal vapours dimly rise,
And load, with future storms, the misty skies,
From the surrounding hills and bordering main
The gathering clouds condense, then break in rain;
So, from each green retreat and bowering shade,
The eager warriors crowd to Alfred's aid.
Dark, on the plain, the thick battalion stands,
To burst, tempestuous, on the adverse bands.

As o'er the tented field the squadrons spread,
Stretch'd on the turf the hardy soldier's bed;
While the strong mound, and warder's careful eyes,
Protect the midnight camp from quick surprise,
A voice, in hollow murmurs from the plain,
Attracts the notice of the wakeful train.

'Soldiers! who prowling wide in ceaseless round,
Trace the fenced circuit of the embattled mound,
To Alfred's tent a wandering warrior bring,
Who knows what much concerns your martial king.'

From guard to guard the words in whispers pass'd,
And reach'd the monarch's watchful ear at last;
For on the leader's eye the ambrosial dews
Of balmy slumber scanty drops diffuse.—
Convey'd with caution through the silent bands,
Before the royal tent the stranger stands.—

'Warrior!' the monarch cries; 'whate'er thy birth,
Or Briton born, or rear'd on foreign earth,
Freely thy wish disclose, secure to find,
For pain, and care, a sympathizing mind,
Train'd in Misfortune's rugged school, I know,
A man myself, to pity human woe.'

'Yes, thou may'st pity those,' he stern replied,
'By error plunged in dark Misfortune's tide,
Even to thy proudest foe may'st mercy give,
Spare the fallen head, and bid the suppliant live;
But he, whose traitor heart, by Envy fired
Against his Prince, his Country, has conspired;
Who, to avenge Ambition's baffled aim,
Gave up his native land to sword and flame,
Can hope no guerdon from the brave and good,
But rage repaid by rage, and blood by blood;
Mercy in vain the suppliant's grief may feel,
When public Justice lifts her sacred steel.
Should generous Alfred feel a wretch's woe,
The patriot King must crush his country's foe.
Strike then a breast, whose arteries swell to pour,
To injured Albion's wrongs, a crimson shower,
And, to the manes of thy slaughter'd host,
Send tidings of revenge by Ceolph's ghost.'

He paused—and, as the traitor stood confess'd,
Alternate passions shook the monarch's breast:
Now, tugging at his heart, vindictive ire
Breathes through his heaving form a fatal fire,
While myriads of his bravest warriors slain,
Whose limbs, unburied, strew'd the empurpled plain,
While cries of infancy, and groans of age,
Unhappy victims of apostate rage,
Sit on his sword, and urge the instant blow
Of rigid justice on the treacherous foe.
And now the conscious dignity that leads
The undaunted soldier to heroic deeds,
Aware, though injured right the stroke demand,
That blood, thus shed, must stain the warrior's hand,
Who grasps a sword that never yet had sped
Its force resistless on a prostrate head,
Arrests his arm, by cruel wrongs though strung,
And checks the blow that o'er the victim hung.

Ceolph at once perceived the generous strife,
And thus pursued his tale.—'This forfeit life
Think not I wish to save—to carry hence
A conscience deeply stain'd by foul offence.—
Each avenue to fame and virtue cross'd,
A name dishonour'd, and a daughter lost;
A daughter, by a ruffian's venom'd breath
Condemn'd, alas! to horrors worse than death,
Can Ceolph, wretched Ceolph, wish to live?—
No!—all that he can ask, or thou canst give,
Are means of vengeance.—Set me once again
In the red vaward of the embattled plain.—
I seek not glory—from her radiant roll,
Envy's malicious demons snatch'd my soul;—
But let me hunt, amid the toils of fight,
The fiend who dragg'd me down from Virtue's height.
Perhaps this arm, amid the battle's roar,
With slaughter flush'd, and steep'd in Danish gore,
Through the protective shield and threatening dart,
May reach the foul abode of Oswald's heart:
Then shall, in peace, this tortured spirit fly,
Whose only wish is vengeance, and to die.

'O, Alfred!—coward tears! why dim my sight,
Where dire revenge should glare with lurid light?
O, Alfred! let thine ear my wrongs receive,
Pity that wretch even Mercy can't forgive.

'Short are the joys malignant passions yield.—
Scarce were the horrors cold of Wilton's field,
When, Envy's sanguinary frenzy o'er,
The pangs of conscious guilt my bosom tore.
I saw my pride had urged Destruction's band,
To sate their vengeance on my native land;
Saw Rapine, Lust, and Murder's furious brood,
Their footsteps drench in carnage and in blood;
Saw Innocence and Beauty plead, in vain,
To the wild license of a cruel train,
Who, scorning sweet Endearment's 'suasive breath,
The shrieking virgin woo with threats of death.
Vainly I strove, with ineffectual aim,
To damp wild Devastation's spreading flame;
They mock'd the worthless friend by Envy made,
And scorn'd the soldier who his Prince betray'd.—

Lives there a horde so rude as not to know
The ills from violated faith that flow?
As not to hate the wretch who arms the hand
Of foreign vengeance, 'gainst his native land?
Despised by those my treason fail'd to gain,
Reviled and hated by my feudal train,
Whom my base arts had lured, from virtuous fame,
To scenes of insult, misery, and shame,
Still was I doom'd by righteous Heaven to know
The biting anguish of a nearer woe.—
My Emmeline!—unbend that brow severe,
O, curse the traitor, but the parent hear!
My Emmeline—sweet as the opening rose,
Pure as the gale o'er violet banks that blows,
Attracted Oswald's eye; a chief allied
To Guthrum's line, his mate in power and pride.
The wretch whose specious breath, with fiend-like art,
Blew the dire embers lurking in my heart,
Raised to gigantic shape my fancied wrong,
And drew my recreant soul to Denmark's throng.
Of me he ask'd the maid,—my anxious thought
Saw his design with foul dishonour fraught.
With feign'd respect I strove to soothe his pride,
And undervalued what my fears denied.
Sullen he stalk'd away, nor deign'd reply;
I mark'd his lowering brow and fiery eye;
Full well I knew how, in the impatient heart,
Rankles of disappointed hope the smart.
Short the suspense—the hand of lawless power
Tore my sad daughter from her peaceful bower.
In vain to Guthrum's feet I suppliant came,
The sword of Justice in my cause to claim.
While tears, and prayers, and threats, alternate strove,
As the wild gust of veering passion drove.
Alas! a traitor's tears unpitied flow,
And weak the threats of a dishonour'd foe.
Then late Remorse, with all a Fury's tongue,
In my stunn'd ears ‘Woe to the vanquish'd,’ rung.

'Contemn'd, neglected, as an outcast vile
I pass'd, unnoticed, by the warder's file.—
Alfred, to thee I come!—on thy decree
Thy faithless vassal's fate depending see;
Give me, 'tis all I ask, with pitying breath,
The means of vengeance, or the stroke of death.'

'O, far from me,' replies the King, 'to tread,
Remoreseles, on repentant Misery's head,
Draw heavier vengeance from the thundering cloud,
And break the wretched heart that Heaven has bow'd.
Backward to trace Rebellion's path be thine,
To aid returning Virtue's effort mine.
Even now the troops, impatient of delay,
Chide night's slow march, and pant for rising day;
Already neigh their steeds, their banners fly,
While shouts, and shrill-toned clarions rend the sky.
Frowning through tears, indignant Mercia's host
Burn to avenge their prince, their leader, lost.
Now youthful Leofric guides them to the plain,
Breathing defiance 'gainst the treacherous Dane.
Amid their ranks the award of battle wait,
And vindicate an injured rival's fate.
Redeem, by manly vengeance on the foe,
The stroke that laid unhappy Burthred low.
Who, forced by fate, new climates to explore,
A wretched wanderer, sought the Italian shore;

Where, sunk by toil and grief, imperial Rome
Rear'd, o'er his sainted head, the hallow'd tomb.'
'And is he fall'n?—the virtuous and the brave!—
Sleeps Burthred?—sleeps he in a foreign grave?—
O, glorious martyr in thy country's cause!
O'er thee no veil of shame Reflection draws.—
With indignation o'er my recreant head
While every friend to patriot faith shall tread,
With grief eternal o'er thy sacred bier
Shall injured Albion shed the votive tear.
Yes!—in the foremost ranks of war I'll stand,
And point the path to thy avenging band,
First of thy squadron will I dare the plain,
Lead them o'er streams of blood, and hills of slain;
Dread as the baleful meteor of the night,
My sword shall guide them through the thickest fight:
No plated buckler's ample fold I need,
To guard a wretched breast resolved to bleed.
Yet, when returning from the fatal field,
Borne, a pale corse, upon the soldier's shield,
Even Ceolph shall be pardon'd when they tell
How brave he fought, how penitent he fell.'

Now in the east the morn's gray banner floats,
Loud breathe the inspiring clarion's martial notes.
The impatient warriors instant at the sound,
Spread, in refulgent phalanx, o'er the ground.—
Again the clarion blows—in bright array
The dazzling columns win their winding way.
As now the mountain's airy brow they scale,
Pace the smooth plain, or thrid the woodland dale,
From their refulgent helms, and glittering shields,
A flood of radiant glory gilds the fields.
From morn's first orient blush, till dewy eve,
Nor food nor rest the ardent host relieve.
But when, in rising Luna's silver beam,
The towering summits of Æcglea gleam,

The warriors' limbs, forespent with constant toil,
In needful slumber press the grassy soil,
Their march renewing with the morning light,
New strung their nerves, and panting for the fight.

Passing the borders of the forest drear,
A shriek of female anguish pierced the ear,
And, starting from the shade, a figure wan,
With piteous plaint arrests the wondering van.
Loose flow'd her careless robe, her streaming hair
Floated, in ruffled tangles, to the air,
And on her livid cheek and haggard eye,
Throned in imperial state, sat misery.

With voice by weeping choked, convulsed her breast,
The woe-lorn form the passing host address'd.
'O, see before you, humbled to the dust,
A victim sad of cruelty and lust.—
When in the battle's doubtful shock ye join,
Think of the horrors of a fate like mine;
The curses of a violated maid
Shall nerve each arm, shall sharpen every blade.
For me—conceal'd my lineage and my name—
Ah, once my country's glory! now its shame!—
One only way remains from deep disgrace
To clear the offspring of a noble race.'—
She ceased—and instant in her struggling breast
Her fatal poniard sheath'd, and sunk to rest.

Half petrified around the warriors stand,
When, sudden darting from the astonish'd band,
Rush'd Ceolph forth—and as his eye survey'd
The breathless reliques of the murder'd maid,
'My Emmeline!'—with frantic tone, he cried,
Then sunk in death-like torpor by her side.—
Now starting from the trance,—his maniac eye
Fix'd on the pale remains that bleeding lie.—

From the pierced heart he drew the reeking blade,
With frantic look the ensanguined point survey'd,
While from his eye-balls darts, with horrid glare,
The enfuriate wildness of supreme despair.—
The impulse checking, ere he gave the wound,
Furious he dash'd the weapon to the ground,
And, clasping to his breast, with frenzied force,
The mangled bosom of the beauteous corse,
'O, injured Emmeline!—O, ill-starr'd maid!
Sad victim of a father's crimes;' he said,
'Awhile this loath'd existence I endure,
To make the deadly blow of vengeance sure.
Ye ruthless ministers of hell! I come,
The author of my own and Oswald's doom!'

While grief and rage in every bosom strove,
Breathing revenge, the generous warriors move.
Conceal'd by forests deep, whose ample shade

Spread gloom impervious o'er the twilight glade,
Through many a silvan glen the silent throng,
Unseen, unheard, vindictive march along,
Till, issuing on the plain, the verdant height
Of Eddington breaks sudden on their sight;
Conspicuous waving on whose breezy brow,
Proud Scandinavia's threatening banners flow,
Wide spreads the dread array, with ruddy gleam
Their bright arms glittering in the evening beam.

Fired at the view, instinctive ardour runs
Through every band of Britain's mingled sons;
On England's plains the flash of foreign arms
By Conquest crown'd, the coldest bosom warms;
While the brave leader of the British name,
With kindling accents fans the rising flame.

'My faithful subjects, and my brave allies,
All equal heirs of Albion's fostering skies,
Nor peace, nor liberty, can Britain know,
But from the fall of yon injurious foe.
The paths through yon embattled barrier lie,
That lead to freedom and to victory.—

On civil strife what horrid ills await,
Of foreign servitude the grievous state,
No words of mine need paint—for lo! it stood,
Drawn in the red charactery of blood
Full in your sight—what time the hapless maid,
Sad victim! fell, self-murder'd, on the glade.—
Is there a father, lover, husband, here,
Holds female charms, and female honour dear?
Let indignation urge each fatal blow,
With more than mortal vengeance on the foe.
Is there a warrior, 'mid this valiant train,
Who mourns a parent, son, or brother slain?
O, let him speak the sorrows of his breast
In strokes of thunder on the Danish crest.
If there be one, by guilty wiles misled,
Who 'gainst his native land his force has sped,
O, let him expiate now the dire disgrace,
By tenfold vengeance on yon hostile race;
And, in the blood of Scandinavia's horde,
Wash off the stain from his polluted sword.

'And ye from Cambria's hills who join our band,
From Caledonia's rocks, and Erin's strand,
Generous and brave compeers! O, now be shewn
The only strife that future times shall own.
A glorious strife of Britain's isles the pride,
The friendly contest ne'er may time decide;
Eternal be the conflict which shall fight,
First in their monarch's, and their country's right!'

Though now, in mellower tint, the orb of day
Sheds o'er the hostile camp a golden ray,
Yet each bold leader of the associate bands
The expected sign of instant war demands;
But Alfred checks their zeal, till morning's light,
Dispelling all the vapoury shades of night,
Shall pour new ardour through the warrior's breast,
Gay, as the laughing hour, and fresh from rest.
Long was the march, and all the rugged way
Through thorny brakes, and tangled thickets lay.
Conscious that soft repose their limbs require,
The prudent chief restrains their generous fire;
For though, when high the flames of battle rise,
Valour's impatient fury strength supplies;
Firm and unfailing sinews must sustain
The lengthen'd labours of the bloody plain.

But while the soldiers, on the tented ground,
The sweets of slumber and reflection found,
The balmy cordial of refreshing rest
Ne'er soothed to peace the princely leader's breast.
Now through the silent camp his footsteps steal,
To wake the wearied centry's drooping zeal;
Now anxious on his sleepless couch reclined,
He calls forth all the treasures of his mind,
His thoughts the various forms of battle weigh,
And plan the conflict of the coming day.

Though each resource of martial art he tried,
Not on his skill alone the chief relied;
Not on his host, though every bosom, fired
With patriot zeal, a patriot soul inspired.
Not always in the lists of life belong
The wreaths of conquest to the swift and strong;
A Power beyond the span of human souls,
The wisest plans of erring man controuls.
To that tremendous Power, whose awful will
Swells the loud storm, bids the wild roar be still,
Fires the red bolt, or moulds the crystal hail,
Or breathes soft fragrance in the vernal gale;—
Who, o'er the wretched outcast's houseless head,
His adamantine shield can favouring spread;
The cause forlorn of suffering Virtue own,
Or hurl Oppression from his guilty throne;
To that dread Power he bows, with heart sincere,
'And, fearing Heaven, despises earthly fear.'
Nor was exempt from nearer, humbler grief,
The pious votary and the royal chief.
Too oft of selfish pride the poisonous taint,
Rankling, infects the patriot and the saint.
Not Alfred such—his generous feelings prove
Each charity of friendship and of love;
From warm benevolence each germ that sprung,
With shoot congenial, round his bosom clung:
And that divine ambition fill'd his mind
Which grasps the happiness of human kind.

Soon as the harbinger of morn, on high
Beat Heaven's blue vault, and caroll'd through the sky;
When now the first pale streaks of rising day
Oped, on the steaming hills, their eyelids gray,
Collected from the tents, the impatient band,
Waiting the word, in listening silence stand.
Then, as his eye along the embattled van,
Fill'd with the pleasing hope of conquest, ran,
A pensive languor in the monarch's breast
Damp'd fame's keen ardour, and that hope repress'd.—
Full many a youth, in manhood's prime, he knew,
Who now the balmy breath of morning drew,
Would, ere the dewy shades of eve descend,
On Earth's cold breast a lifeless corse extend:
O'er them, of Glory's amaranthine flowers,
Their country's hands shall shed perennial showers,
Secure alike of honour's purest meed,
For her who conquer, or for her who bleed.—
And now before the warrior's melting eyes,
The peerless beauties of Elsitha rise,—
While round him float the clarion's loud alarms,
He clasps the lovely matron in his arms;
With manly fondness chides her anxious cares,
Or sportive mocks the sorrows that he shares,
Nor quits the endearing fold with tearless eye,
Though war's vindictive clangor rends the sky.—
When threatening round the fearless warrior's head,
The rising thunders of the battle spread,
When clouds of iron-tempest o'er him lower,
And pour unnumber'd deaths in arrowy shower,
Unmoved he stands, in zeal heroic warm,
A breathing bulwark 'gainst the furious storm;
As the firm-rooted oak the tempest braves,
As the steep cliff defies the angry waves;
But the soft magic of Affection's tear
Wakes in the bravest heart a transient fear:
Though love, heroic ardour may inspire,
Its object weeping damps the hero's fire;
O'er Valour's cheek, Affliction's moisture steals,
A chief he combats, but a man he feels.

From fair Elsitha's chaste, and fond embrace,
The monarch speeds, to join the warrior race.
Darting his eye along the radiant files,
The firm array he views, with cheerful smiles;
Breathes bold resolve through every soldier's breast,
And ardent zeal by discipline repress'd.
Sudden the ensigns move.—As in the vale,
When from the irriguous marsh the dews exhale,
The floating mists from eve's dank breath that spread,
In whitening volume, o'er the level mead,
Appearing, through the glimmering shades of night,
A waste of waters to the traveller's sight,
At morn roll up the mountain steep, and crown,
With clouds of dim expanse, the upland down;
So, from the hollows of the winding dale,
Slow, the ascent the British warriors scale;
So, wide extended on the breezy height,
Tremendous frown the threatening clouds of fight,
Where the wan twilight of the opening dawn
Shews, throng'd with hostile spears, the aërial lawn.

Loud blows the clarion shrill!—with thundering sound
Roars the tremendous peal of battle round.
Full in the front the English archers stand,
The bent bow drawing home with sinewy hand,
Scarcely the shining barbs the tough yew clear,
The ductile nerve stretch'd to the bowman's ear.
Not from the foe by sheltering ranks conceal'd,
Boldly they dare the foreward of the field;
With deadly point the levell'd arrows shine,
Pierce the cuirass, and check the close-wedged line:
Here Caledonia's hardy mountaineers
Lift the broad targe, there mark her lowland spears;
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors brave,
With lighter arms, the war's destructive wave;
Spread o'er their agile limbs the osier shield,
The shorten'd sword, and biting pole-axe wield;
Strike, with swift aim, the desultory blow,
And tire, with varied shock, the wavering foe.
Clad in rich panoply, each high-born knight
Impels his barbed courser to the fight;
The burnish'd arms a bright refulgence shed,
White waves the plumage o'er the helmed head;
And on the ample shield, and blazon'd crest,
Shines, of each chief, the known device impress'd.
Swift as the rapid bird of Summer flies,
Cleaving, with agile wing, the tepid skies,
The warlike squadrons on the spur advance,
With seat unshaken, and protended lance.—
Ampler in numbers, Denmark's sons oppose
The dreadful onset of their rushing foes:
With lowering front the northern warriors stand,
In deep array, a firm, and fearless band:
And, as where Scandinavia's mountains rear
The accumulated snows of many a year,
The enormous masses undissolved remain,
And summer suns roll over them in vain;
So the unshaken squadrons, firm, defy
The lightnings of the war that round them fly.—
Loud blows the brazen tube's inspiring breath,
With shouts of triumph mix'd, and groans of death;
With horrid shock the infuriate hosts engage,
And Slaughter stalks around with fiend-like rage.

Fierce Ceolph views the field with fiery eye,
And marks where haughty Oswald's banners fly:
Then swift and dreadful, as the whirlwind's force
Speeds o'er the ruin'd fields its fatal course,
Through all the horrors of the raging fray
He cuts, with furious arm, his eager way;
Before the Danish chief his circling train,
Their spears and sheltering shields oppose in vain;
Breathless and bleeding, onward still he press'd
Through groves of iron pointed at his breast;
'Gainst Oswald's heart his rapid sword he drives,
The thundering stroke the solid corslet rives;
Prone falls the injurious tyrant on the ground,
His life-blood streaming from the fatal wound;
Pierced by a thousand spears, on earth laid low,
The expiring victor spurns his prostrate foe;
O'er the warm corse in fatal triumph lies,
And, sated with revenge, exulting dies!

Around the banners of their bleeding lords,
With shock impetuous, close the adverse hordes,
Each squadron emulous to bear away
The blazon'd trophies of the doubtful fray.

While here the war in equal balance hung,
And loud the peal of death terrific rung,
With happier fortune Albion's force was sped
His veteran bands where royal Alfred led.
There, like a torrent, o'er the yielding Dane,
With force resistless, pour the Saxon train,
For every soldier, in his monarch's sight,
With all a hero's ardour dared the fight.
The rising shout of triumph Guthrum hears,
His chiefs receding from the English spears,
Then gathers round him all his scatter'd force,
Points to the spot, and urges on their course;
The increasing numbers, by his summons drawn,
In swift career pour o'er the dusty lawn.
As on the deep, when driving winds afar,
Swell the blue surge, and rouse the billowy war,
The wary mariner the ocean sees
Scowling and black before the approaching breeze;
As o'er the champaign wide the dark clouds sail,
The ripen'd harvest waving in the gale;
So watchful Alfred saw, condensed and strong,
The threatening storm of battle sweep along;
His scatter'd files, by instant order closed,
To the fierce foe a steady front opposed:
In vain the troops, by rage impetuous arm'd,
In numbers strong, by recent conquest warm'd,
Press round on every side—with eagle glance
Alfred beholds the intrepid band advance.
The furious onset checks with martial care,
And stems the fiery deluge of the war,
While swifter than his eye his fatal sword
Strikes from his courser many a Danish lord.
The troops, dismay'd, behold their chieftains bleed,
Turn in amaze, and from the fight recede;
Indignant Guthrum views the recreant train,
And chides them to the front of war in vain.

'Dastards!' he cries, 'is this your vaunted boast?—
Flies from a single sword your coward host?
Mine be the task to wipe away your shame,
And vindicate the sullied Danish name.'

He said, and stung at once by rage and grief,
Impels his courser toward the British chief;
With sinewy arm, and rising to the blow,
His ponderous spear he aims against his foe;
Opposed, the king his shield oblique extends,
On the wide orb the thundering stroke descends,
But, from the polish'd surface sidelong cast,
The steely point with erring fury pass'd;—
Not innocent of blood—for Mercia's pride,
Leofric the brave, who fought by Alfred's side,
Leofric of youthful bloom, and royal race,
From Burthred sprung, and Ellen's chaste embrace,
Who braved the combat, urged by generous fire,
Pious avenger of his exiled sire,
Received the lance, and life its purple showers,
Down his white vest and shining armour, pours;
His nerveless arm forsakes the useless rein,
And low he sinks, war's victim, on the plain.

In Alfred's breast the fires of vengeance rise,
Red glows his cheek, and ardent flash his eyes.
'Gainst Guthrum's heart, the ample shield above,
His weighty spear the royal Briton drove;
But from the corslet's plated scales rebounds
The blunted weapon, nor the bosom wounds;
By the strong fury of the ponderous stroke
Shiver'd, the strong-grain'd ash to atoms broke,
And the stunn'd warrior, tottering with the force,
Stoop'd from the blow, and scarce retain'd his horse;
On rush'd the hero, shining in his hand
The broad refulgence of his threatening brand;
Full on the Danish crest the blow descends,
Beneath the mighty shock the warrior bends,
Though the proved helm the trenchant steel disarms,
Prone on the dust he falls, with clanging arms;
Then o'er the extended chief as Alfred stood,
Soon had he paid the forfeit price of blood,
Or, led in triumph by the victor's side,
Changed, for a captive's chains, a tyrant's pride;
When generous Hardiknute rush'd through the strife,
And ransom'd, with his own, his monarch's life.
Quitting his courser, while the attending horde
Placed on the steed their bruised and vanquish'd lord,
Opposed to Alfred's sword, he dauntless stands
A rampire to the chief of Denmark's bands,
Victim of true allegiance' generous call,
By Alfred's arm ennobled in his fall.
Now to the close-fenced camp, with needful care,
Their wounded prince the Danish chieftains bear.
Mix'd with the flying rout, the Saxon horse,
With bleeding warriors, mark their fatal course;
Give to vindictive rage the loosen'd rein,
And the wide field with hostile carnage stain.

Different the scene where, o'er the extended field,
The Danish squadrons to the auxiliars yield;
In swift pursuit the ranks their order lose,
The turning foes again their columns close;
And while of ebbing fight the refluent course,
Checks, in its mid career, the victor's force,
Increasing numbers from the encampment near,
Hang on his scatter'd flank, and sever'd rear:
Press'd on each side, Scotia's bold sons in vain
The rising labours of the war sustain;
Fierce as the Danes in loose array, advance,
Useless the ample targe, and lengthen'd lance,
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors pour
Of feathery darts an ineffectual shower:
Not like the shaft sent from the English bow,
The corslet riving with resistless blow,
As the dread fury of the thunder's stroke
Shivers, with fearful shock, the mountain oak;
The missile reed that lightly flies along,
Thrown from the cross-bow, or the sounding thong,
Bounds, with vain effort, from the temper'd mail,
As from the rocky cliff the pelting hail.

Around the field, as with attentive gaze,
Alfred the fortune of the day surveys,
He marks where Caledonia's banner flows
At distance, circled by a cloud of foes;
With eagle swiftness o'er the crimson'd glade,
He leads his victor squadrons to their aid,
The chase forsaking of a flying foe,
To rush where bold resistance deals the blow.
More pleased the shock of adverse hosts to dare,
And the proud wreath from Valour's helmet tear,
Than snatch a trophy from a yielding crowd,
Unbought by peril, and unstain'd by blood.
The cautious Danes behold the approaching storm,
Close their loose files, and firm their battle form.
Swift as the arrow from the elastic yew,
To youthful Donald's aid, the hero flew,
With sudden shock he breaks the opposing bands,
And by his side an aid terrific stands,
His guardian shield extends, and scatters far,
With godlike arm, the threatening ranks of war.
As lightning swift around his faulchion flies,
At every stroke a Danish warrior dies.
In vain fresh numbers to the fight succeed,
Trembling they fly, or combating, they bleed.

Brave Donald, fired by emulative pride,
Spurs on his steed, contending by his side:
Such emulation as the generous feel,
Such contest as is roused by warlike zeal;
Which only in the virtuous bosom glow,
Nor jealous hatred raise, nor envy know:
The active springs that Donald's bosom move,
Are steady friendship and unsullied love.
Friendship that, fearless, in the battle's strife,
Would sacrifice his own for Alfred's life;
Love, that no hope of selfish bliss would buy
With one sad tear from chaste Elsitha's eye.

Press'd and confused, recede the Danish bands,
To where their camp a rampired fortress stands.—
It chanced that wintry rains, with constant force,
Through the resisting mound had worn a course;
This the proud race, of strength and courage vain,
Unheeding pass, or, heeding, they disdain,
But 'scaped not Alfred's wary search, when round

The midnight camp he raised the minstrel's sound;
Hither his arm the storm of battle guides—
Loud roar, of closing fight, the straiten'd tides.
When Hinguar, brother of the imperious lord,
Hubba, who fell by valiant Oddune's sword,
Against the King, with spear protended, flies
Swift, and unheeded by the monarch's eyes.
Young Donald saw, and met his subtle foe,
His shield presenting to the threat'ning blow.
Passing the buckler, on the prince's breast
Lights the fell stroke, with skilful arm address'd,
Rives, with dire force, the plated corselet's joint,
And drinks his vital blood with fatal point;
On his wan cheek the rose of beauty dies,
And swimming vapours dim his closing eyes;
Drops from his hand his unavailing sword,
And his sad train receive their dying lord.

''Tis past,' he cried, 'the toil of war is o'er,
This heart, at Glory's call must beat no more;
Yet, ruthless tyrant of the darksome grave,
Thy form terrific ne'er alarms the brave!
But, O! my friends, a father's grief control,
Speak comfort to his agonizing soul.
Tell him, though swift his Donald's earthly race,
Yet not inglorious was its short-lived space;
One hour of Fame more lasting trophies rears,
Than wait on coward Sloth's protracted years.
Mature he dies, who dies when Glory calls,
Who falls with honour ne'er untimely falls,
Graced in my obsequies, since Alfred's tear
Will shed its kindly dew o'er Donald's bier.
O, glorious prince! my leader and my friend,
On me the eye of virtuous pity bend;
In me, extended on this fatal plain,
You see, alas! a wretched rival slain.—
Start not—for though, in youthful fancy warm,
My heart drank love from chaste Elsitha's form,
Yet was that more than angel form enshrined
With sanctimonious reverence in my mind.
No pilgrim e'er, with toil and watching faint,
Paid purer homage to his patron saint.—
A flame, from aught of grosser passion free,
Dying, I boast, and dying boast to thee,
O, should thy virtuous consort deign to throw,
On Donald's fate, one drop of pitying woe,
Tell her I glorious fell, in battle's pride,
Stemming her Alfred's foes, and by his side.—
And, ah! with Kindness' lenient balm, assuage
My father's grief, and smooth the couch of age.
Childless, unfriended,—should Rebellion raise
Its bloody storms to cloud his closing days,
My dying breath points out, in Alfred's care,
His people's guardian, and his Donald's heir.'

He ceased, and as along the lucid rill,
When wintry Eurus shoots his arrows chill,
The icy rigour spreads with stiffening force,
Dims its clear surface, and arrests its course;
So through his veins Death's freezing languor steals,
And the closed eye a leaden slumber seals;
Aloft his spirit mounts the viewless wind,
And leaves his form a lifeless corse behind.

Around their bleeding prince, the mournful band
Of Caledonian heroes weeping stand;—
While o'er his youthful charge, who breathless lies,
As England's monarch hangs with pensive eyes,
To his swoll'n bosom Fancy's tablets bring
A groaning country, and a childless King;
And sad Reflection in its mirror shows,
Alfred the source of Caledonia's woes,
Shows, for his life, the life of Donald paid,
A great, a glorious, but a dreadful aid.

But soon the rising tempest of the field
Bids useless grief to bold exertion yield;
For Scandinavia's sons once more engage,
Renew the fight, and closer combat wage.
They mark'd confusion mid the conquering host,
And Valour hoped to win what Flight had lost.
O'er their thrice-vanquish'd foes they thought again
To spread the horrors of Oppression's reign.
They deem'd that race by mightier force dismay'd,
Whom Guile had sever'd, and whom Fraud betray'd;
Nor knew, when join'd beneath their legal lord,
How dread, of Albion's sons, the avenging sword.

'Enough of woe,' exclaims the royal chief,
'The soldier's sword should speak the soldier's grief.
See, of yon baffled host, the last essay,
The 'vantage valour gain'd to tear away.
Ye native bands! the boon of parent Heaven!
Ye brothers of the war, by Donald given!
Dear, as my brave, my dying friend's bequest,
Dear, for your inborn worth, to Alfred's breast,
Joint heirs of Britain's injured shores, combine
To vindicate, with me, the British line.'

They hear—and, dreadful as the wintry gale,
Their congregated powers the foe assail,
Who peering o'er the field, in loose array,
Yet strive to turn the fortune of the day.
In haughty guise, exulting, mid the rest,
Known by his gilded arms, and waving crest,
Proud of his recent act, stern Hinguar stood,
His pointed javelin red with Donald's blood.

Soon as the King the insulting chief descries,
Dread flames vindictive valour from his eyes;
Through the thick press, and all the rage of fight,
He seeks, with ceaseless course, the Danish knight.
Intrepid, Hinguar views the foe advance,
Grasps his broad shield, and shakes his threat'ning lance.
Then, proudly, thus:—'Chief of a vanquish'd race,
Scaped from defeat, by fraud, and foul disgrace,
The hour of vengeance comes;—Your tribe again
Shall crouch beneath the rod of Denmark's reign.
Struck by this arm, lo! youthful Donald paid
His worthless life to Hubba's angry shade.
Base and unequal vengeance! to destroy,
For an illustrious chief, a beardless boy.
But Alfred! thou, shalt tread the dreary coast
Of Hela's black abode, a wandering ghost.'

Scorning reply, against the vaunting foe
The indignant Briton drives the avenging blow;
Nor shield, nor corselet, stay the javelin's force,
Through the strong mail it speeds its deadly course:
Low on the earth the injurious boaster lies,
And cursing adverse Heaven, remorseless dies.

Fired by the example of the godlike man,
Redoubled ardour through the squadrons ran.
Dreadful in grief, brave Caledonia's band,
With beating bosom, and with eager hand,
In threat'ning phalanx 'gainst the foe advance,
The fate of Donald pointing every lance.
Here Oddune's mail-clad foot, in firm array,
Force, through the waves of war, their steady way.
Swift and resistless, as the whirlwind's course,
There thunder by their side the Mercian horse.—
Lost each brave leader of the warlike Dane,
Forced from the fight, or breathless on the plain;
The floating ranks, confused, and crowded, yield,
And measure back, in faint retire, the field.
As the strong mole, by labour rear'd to brave
The stormy inroad of the mountain wave,
Though firm, through many a circling year, it stood,
A steady barrier 'gainst the encroaching flood,
If sapp'd by chance, or time's revolving hour,
Dread, through the flaw, the rushing waters pour,
Ride o'er the deluged lands in wasteful sway,
And sweep the labours of an age away.
Such, and so fierce, through Denmark's wavering force,
The impetuous Britons urge their furious course.—

The line is forced—nor camp nor trenches show
A safe asylum to the astonish'd foe.
Wild in dismay, across the extended plain,
They fly with bloody spur, and sounding rein.
Decisive Victory o'er Alfred's head,
With chearing shout, her crimson pennons spread.
Eager and fierce the conquering bands pursue,
O'er hill, and dale, the desultory crew,
Till Night her sable curtains wide display'd,
And wrap'd the vanquish'd rout in welcome shade.

ARGUMENT. Success of Oddune, Earl of Devon, against a new Danish Armament from Ireland.—Irish join Oddune.—Measures of Alfred to profit from the turn of Fortune.—Alfred's difficulties, and extraordinary Adventure to obviate them.—Relief of the Queen Elsitha.—Fortunate junction of Donald, and the Scotish Troops, with Alfred.—Assistance from Wales.


And now the westering sun's declining ray,
Shot faintly forth the fading light of day,
Shed o'er the waving trees a golden gleam,
And the high mountains tinged with mellower beam;
When, near the rock, emerging from the wood,
Clad in refulgent arms, a warrior stood.—
As firmly stood the king, his ready sword
Shone in his hand, a safeguard to its lord.
When thus the bard.—'Your threats of war forbear;—
With pious reverence breathe this hallow'd air.
No arms of mortal temper triumph here,
Heaven's mighty aid, protects Heaven's chosen seer.'

'I come,' the stranger said, 'from fields of fame,
A Saxon born, and Aribert my name.
I come from Devon's shores, where Devon's lord
Waves o'er the prostrate Dane the British sword.—
Freedom might yet revisit Britain's coast,
Did Alfred live to lead her victor host.'

'He lives,' the prophet cries, 'lo, here he stands!
Alfred! preserved from Denmark's conquering bands;
Preserved from scenes where England's warriors yield,
And all the bleeding woes of Wilton's field;
From the pursuit of Treason's fiend-like train,
From warring tempests, and a dangerous main.
Preserved by Heaven, in this propitious hour,
To save his country from the oppressor's power.'

'O, moment of delight!' the youth replies;
'Again the Genius of the land shall rise;
Again shall Albion's dauntless warriors fight
For Glory's guerdon, in their monarch's sight.—
I will not Expectation's ear delay;
Short be my tale, though glorious was the day.—
By Hubba led, from Erin's subject coast,
In barks unnumber'd, came the invading host,
For, o'er each breezy hill and fertile plain,
There spread the tyrant empire of the Dane.
Shut up in Kenwith's towers, the indignant Earl
Saw Rapine wide its harpy vengeance hurl:
Saw, far as Fear could throw her trembling eye,
The region round one smoking ruin lie;
Circling the fortress, with insulting boast,
The stern invader draws his numerous host.
From the embattled summit's craggy brow
We mock awhile his idle rage below.—
Short was our triumph,—soon the warrior's breast
Shrunk from the toil, by famine dire oppress'd.
The exulting Danes, by fancied victory crown'd,
With bitter taunts their prey devoted wound.
‘Perish by want, or fall beneath our swords,
‘Or kneel,’ they cry, ‘submissive, to your lords.’

Silent, and sad, we stand.—Our gallant chief
Heaves the deep groan of mingled rage and grief;
Points to the scene of ruin, stretch'd afar,
Adds not a word, but gives the sign for war.
Not with more fury down the rock's steep side,
Rolls the wide cataract its thundering tide,
Than Devon's hardy sons resistless pour'd
War's fiery torrent on the barbarous horde.
Hosts following hosts, in vain our band engage,
With giant sinews, and with lion rage;
Through their thinn'd files our arms despairing force,
While piles of carnage mark our crimson course.
Hubba, in vain, his scatter'd ranks unites,
Prone, on the plain, the ensanguined dust he bites.
And that famed standard which the accursed loom
Of hags malignant wove in midnight gloom,
The sable raven, weiard art imbues
With drops distill'd from Hell's unwholesome dews,
Which often o'er the enthusiast troops had hung,
And, 'mid the foe, infernal horror flung;
For, in the magic folds, terrific glare
Pale Fear, and shameful Flight, and black Despair;
Torn, and defaced, amid the victor bands,
A monument of rescued freedom stands.

'Yet Erin's sons their banners still display,
Firm stand their squadrons, and dispute the day.—
Connel, the gallant chief, whose arms, of yore,
From the fierce Pict the spoils of conquest bore,
I mark'd conspicuous 'mid the warlike band,
Elate, and graced with ensigns of command.
With social voice, my ancient friend I sought,
And, in mild speech, with gentle chidings fraught,
I shew'd of broken faith the foul disgrace,
And base submission to an alien race;
Shew'd how it dimm'd Ierne's wonted fame,
Sullied the former honours of her name,
To aid the inroad of a foreign brood,
Of spoil rapacious, prodigal of blood.
Rising in warmth, of Alfred's deeds I told,
And Albion's friendly force, in days of old.—
I saw the glow of shame ingenuous rise,
Paint the flush'd cheek, and bend to earth the eyes.—
‘Enough, my friend! thy warning voice,’ he cried,
‘Shall bring Ierne's sons to Alfred's side.
‘Easy their hearts, in Honour's cause, to gain,
‘Manly and kind a brave and artless train.’
Instant along the line, from man to man,
With lightning speed, the generous impulse ran,
Each long'd to draw, on Albion's side, his sword,
Each vow'd destruction on the Danish horde;
Whose baleful sway had warp'd their kindred band,
And 'gainst a brother aim'd a brother's hand.

'At once the spears, with hostile arm address'd,
In stern defiance, at the opposing breast,
Lift high their steely points, and social join'd,
The mingling ensigns wanton in the wind.

'By recent victory warm'd, and Erin's aid,
Now plans of bold emprize the chief essay'd:
At his command, to Wessex' southmost shore
I go, the wasted region to explore,
If haply still some valiant breasts remain,
To arm, and vindicate their suffering reign;
When lo, the guidance of protecting Heaven,
More than a host in Alfred's name has given.'

'Bless'd omen! hail!' exclaims the seer divine,
'O, hail, of happier fate the unerring sign!
Alfred, to thee a pledge the Immortal Power
Gives, of approaching Glory's radiant hour.
As the event of this auspicious day
Fulfils the promise of my closing lay,
So shall each wondrous scene my verse foretold,
Its gorgeous tints, in lapse of time, unfold,
And mighty ages, as they roll along,
Shall spread thy name, shall realize my song.
Go forth, my Prince, at Fame's, at Duty's call,
Before thy sword shall Rage and Treachery fall;
Thy victor march, while favouring angels guide,
And Heaven approving, thunders on thy side.'

Confirming what the Bard prophetic spoke,
O'er the blue vault the distant thunder broke;
With awe and pleasure mix'd, the monarch heard,
And, 'rapt, his silent orisons preferr'd.

Down through the gloomy shade, along the stream,
Whose silver waves, in the dim twilight gleam,
To Athelney the king his course directs,
Where anxious love his wish'd return expects,
Whence many an eager look, at setting day,
Thrown o'er the waters, chides his tedious stay.

The night in council, and in slumber, worn,
Soon as the ruddy streaks of rising morn
Glow in the east, toward Kenwith's rescued towers
They march, to join victorious Oddune's powers.
With hasty step the exulting band advance,
Wave high the plumed crest, and shake the lance;
For little reck they now the baffled Dane,
His vanquish'd numbers scatter'd o'er the plain,
Eager the war with Albion's foes to wage,
Fired by reviving hope, and stung with generous rage.

Onward they move, o'er many a barren field,
Her stores where Plenty once was wont to yield;
Alas! neglected lay the weedy soil,
Untouch'd by ploughs, or aught of human toil,
'Mid empty cotes, and ruin'd hamlets round,
The stagnant marsh usurps the uncultured ground.
Touch'd with the scene, now Pity melts in tears,
Now the stern arm avenging Valour rears.

When, with meridian force, the orb of day
Hung high in Heaven's blue vault his sultry ray,
In pleasing prospect to the warriors' eyes,
The embattled heights of trophied Kenwick rise.
Here, proudly waving in the noontide beam,
Triumphant Oddune's Saxon banners stream;
There, on each painted fold, and blazon'd shield,
A golden harp shines on an azure field.

Meanwhile, in Kenwith's towers, the chiefs debate
Of Albion's better hopes, and happier fate;
Doubtful if Fortune, to her sea-girt shore,
Would Freedom's sway, and Concord's smiles, restore,
Or that her wayward fancy but beguiles
Their sanguine wish, with transitory smiles.
When lo, the warder's bugle loudly calls
The attentive warriors to the topmost walls,
Whence, far advancing o'er the extended glade,
They see a band in radiant arms array'd.
Speeding before the rest, a knightly train,
Spurring their fiery steeds, devour the plain.
And now the floating pennons meet their eyes,
Where, in bright fold, the Saxon courser flies.
Of friendly greeting now the shouts they hear,
And Alfred! Alfred! pierces every ear;
Now, lighting from his steed, before his bands,
Full in their sight their long-lost monarch stands.
Eager, as clustering bees on sounding wing
Pour from their hive around their idol king,
So crowd the impatient Saxons round their lord,
To life, to liberty, to arms, restored.

With generous transport godlike Alfred press'd
The happy victor to his grateful breast,
Nor did he grasp with cold or thankless hand,
The gallant leader of Ierne's band.

'Friends, brothers of the war,' the hero cried,
'Of these freed plains the bulwark and the pride,
Though, by your arms, to fame, to virtue true,
Much has been done, yet much remains to do.—
From those far borders where pellucid Tweed
Laves, with his silver stream, Northumbria's mead,
To where Sabrina's virgin waves divide
The neighbouring confines with their amber tide.
O'er all the breezy hills and fruitful plains,
The ruthless foe in power tyrannic reigns,
While, in sad exile from their native home,
Wretched, and bare, the houseless wanderers roam;
Or to the earth bent down in servile awe,
Receive, from cruel lords, oppressive law.—
Yet when they see our prosperous ensigns fly,
Hear our victorious shouts ascend the sky,
While England's and Ierne's sons unite,
To wage the war in England's monarch's right,
Soon shall rekindling Valour's embers burn,
The slave be free, the fugitive return.

'Where Druid Coitmaur spreads its leafy zone,

Now by the Saxon name of Selwood known,
To the steep site where, o'er the vale below,
Ægbryhta rears aloft the rocky brow,
Shape we our course, while, with inspiring sound,
Returning Freedom swells her pæan round.'

Not slow the generous train the path to tread,
Where Fame and Duty call'd, and Alfred led.
Soon on Ægbryhta's steep, 'mid Selwood's shade,
Flow'd Alfred's banner to the wind display'd.
Not in the midnight storm (no starry ray
To guide his vessel through the watery way,)
Feels the chill'd mariner more keen delight,
When the bright Pharos blazes to the sight,
Than Albion's sons now feel, to view on high,
This loadstar shine, of peace and victory.

By recent sufferings fired, the indignant train,
Who dragg'd inglorious Slavery's galling chain,
Or, from their home, to wilds and forests driven,
Beneath the inclement cope of Albion's heaven,
Croud, with impatient ardour, to efface
By manly hardihood, their late disgrace;
Prompt to avenge their own, their country's woes,
On the crush'd helmets of their vanquish'd foes.
All who can grasp a sword, for fight prepare,
While age and woman bend in fervent prayer.
From tongue to tongue the animating sound,
Was wafted to remotest Albion's bound,
That Alfred lived again, to dare the fight,
Undaunted champion of his country's right.
From Somerton's wide meads and verdant hills,
Where the rich vat the milky current fills;
From Wilton's champaigns wide, and chalky bourns,
Her slaughter'd sons where weeping Albion mourns;
From fair Berrochia's hills, and uplands green,
Of Saxon conquest late the splendid scene;
Berrochia—deck'd with rural pride her plains,
Lovely and chaste her maids, and brave her swains,
By royal favour graced, her fostering earth
The trophied seat of godlike Alfred's birth,
Her regions still by royal footsteps trod,
Of heroes, and of kings, the loved abode.—
From mild Hantona's soft and genial air,
Her spreading forests, and her pastures fair,
Save, on her southmost borders, where the main
Affords a refuge to the flying train,
All round the monarch crowd in loyal swarms,
Breathing revenge, and sheath'd in threatening arms.
Even from sad Mercia's subjugated seat,
Of Perfidy and Shame the dire retreat,
The gallant Leofric leads a generous few,

True to their banish'd prince, to England true;
Even from the chalky bourn of Cantium's shore,
To Alfred's aid, the favouring billows bore
Bertie, whose daring sires, in search of fame,

To Albion's coasts, from far Boruscia came,
What time his hardy warriors Hengist led
From Elba's brink to Thames' redundant bed;
Whose daring sons 'gainst Norman William stood,
Their Saxon rights maintaining with their blood.—
His trusty bow each manly yeoman draws,
Or bares his shining brand in Freedom's cause;
Freedom, resounds from each determined voice,
Freedom, the first, and death, the second choice.—

Proud of his subjects' faith, the warrior King
Stands forth, encircled by the attentive ring,
While long repeated shouts of rapture prove
That bless'd, unsullied crown, a people's love,
Emerging from Affliction's pale disguise,
His form majestic, to their gazing eyes
Shone, in terrific vengeance awful dress'd,
And all the English Hero stood confess'd.
But soon the dignity of sovereign sway
To Kindness' milder attributes gave way;
Alfred, surrounded by his gallant bands,
A long-lost parent 'mid his children stands,
Who hail, with Transport's tributary tear,
The man they love, the monarch they revere!

Yet, 'mid the squadrons spreading o'er the plain,
Looking for Caledonia's sons in vain,
In mournful tint pourtray'd, his fancy draws,
Blooming in youth, and warm in Virtue's cause,
The brave and generous Donald's hapless doom,
His warlike fire quench'd in a watery tomb;
From his full eye the tears of sorrow start,
And sighs of sever'd friendship swell his heart.

Remorseless War! and harsh Adversity!
Rude and severe instructors though ye be,
Yet, by the precepts of your rugged school,
Imperial greatness learns itself to rule;
'Tis your unflattering mirror that displays
A faithful image to the monarch's gaze.
In Fortune's prosperous hour the silken tribe,
Whose venal reverence hopes of favour bribe,
The sons of selfish Luxury and Guile,
Bask in the sunshine of the royal smile;
But let Misfortune's iron tempest beat,
The insect minions from the storm retreat.
Then Truth and Honour round the insulted throne,
Stand—Loyalty's impenetrable zone,
Unconquer'd guardians of their monarch's cause,
Palladium of their country's rights and laws.—
True Friendship thrives in war's unkindly soil,
Nurtur'd by mutual cares, and mutual toil.
Stern Independence there,—too proud to stand,
Obsequious bowing, 'mid the courtier band—
Flames in the foreward of the embattled field,
His bleeding breast his honour'd sovereign's shield.
And modest Diffidence, whose dazzled eye
Shrinks from the glance of scepter'd majesty,
On the refulgent glare of mail-clad foes
The eagle-look of bold defiance throws;
Presses before him in the battle's strife,
And ransoms, with his own, his monarch's life.
Then, while to union common dangers draw,
Lost in the soldier's love, the subject's awe,
O'er the respect that true allegiance feels,
The kindlier hue of warm affection steals,
And as their tints the social passions blend,
The sword that serves the prince, protects the friend.

Now burning to avenge his country's woes,
On scenes of war his thoughts the hero throws.
Guthrum the strong, of northern kings the heir,
To martial toil inured, and martial care,
Whose giant arm, in War's destructive field,
Scatter'd the files, and made the mighty yield;
Whose veteran skill the storm of fight could guide,
Check its wild rage, or loose its furious tide,
Proud, cruel, fierce, now held the sceptre-sword,
O'er conquer'd Albion, delegated lord.—
Alfred, revolving deep, what future fate
On Albion's persecuted shores must wait,
Should all her foes their scatter'd force combine,
Ruled by one chief, and bent on one design,
With firm demeanour, but with anxious breast,
Thus the brave leaders of his host address'd.

'Strong are our ruthless foes, their station strong,
And warlike skill informs their numerous throng;
Urged by rude force alone, we know too well
How fierce the tempest of their battle fell.—
What now their power, when temperate Valour leads,
And Wisdom guides the blow that Fury speeds?
Flush'd with success, while every bosom glows,
Secure of victory o'er vanquish'd foes;
And the slight 'vantage of the present hour,
Inflames their rage, nor aught impairs their power.
Not ours, with thoughtless confidence, to dare
The venturous shock of such unequal war,
Or, on the hazard of one doubtful day,
Throw the last remnant of our hope away.—
No—let some generous warrior, in whose breast
High courage beats, by prudence calm repress'd,
Unshock'd by peril, unsurprised by change,
Keen to observe, and skilful to arrange,—
If such there be,—with bold, yet wary eye,
The latent station of the foe descry;
Seek, in the guarded camp, the adverse band,
And trace each scheme by hostile cunning plann'd.
His life to fame a people's shouts shall call,
A people's tears immortalize his fall.'

The monarch ceased.—Around, in doubtful mood,
Irresolute and mute, the warriors stood.—
When thus again the King:—'I must not blame
The deep suspense that damps your generous flame.
As to my conduct, by the award of Heaven,
Of Albion's fate the sacred charge is given;
As me it most concerns of all mankind,
That Albion's sons enthrall'd, deliverance find;
As all the joys this bosom e'er can feel
Are solely center'd in my country's weal,—
Mine be the enterprize—'tis mine to go,
And search the secret councils of the foe.
As, to his ranks, this arm your march must guide,
Be, by these eyes, his warlike plans descried.
Following the line which Fame, which Duty draws,
I here devote me to my Country's cause,
Resolved to execute the perilous deed,
To live her guardian, or her martyr bleed.'

He paused.—A murmur spread through all the train,
When thus his words their rising zeal restrain:
'Fix'd as the will of Fate, my purposed course,
I deem him not my friend who checks its force.'

Sudden he quits the band, to thought resign'd,
The venturous scheme revolving in his mind.
In meditation deep, as through the shade,
Devious, his undirected footsteps stray'd,
Straight, from a distant harp, the warbling note,
Across the impervious forest, seem'd to float.
As, through the darkling mist, a transient beam
Of setting day oft throws a golden gleam,
So, o'er the pensive gloom that wrap'd his soul,
A sudden ray of consolation stole.
Well was he skill'd the song sublime to raise,
Or steep the impassion'd soul in melting lays.
Fair Leothete, of Gallia's dames the pride,

Led to his father's couch, a blooming bride,
Oft to his youthful fancy would unfold,
What ancient bards of Anglia's chiefs had told,
What time brave Hengist, from the Cimbrian shore,
To Britain's drooping sons their succour bore;
Hence caught his infant breast the mingled flame,
Of Heaven-descended song, and martial fame,
And, 'mid the toils of empire, still his mind
Had arts of peace, with deeds of prowess join'd.

'This be my guard,' reflecting, Alfred cried;
'This, through the adverse camp, my steps shall guide,
The sternest bosom, and the rudest arm,
Their savage aim forego, if music charm.'

Through the thick covert of the tangled wood
His listening ear the leading sound pursued,
Till, opening sudden on a verdant glade,
Stretch'd on the turf, he saw the minstrel laid;
Edwin, whose youthful ear, 'mid mountains hoar,
Had learn'd, of Cambrian bards, the tuneful lore,
And, high Plinlimmon's echoing rocks among,
Drunk the bold strains of Thaliessin's song.
From him the monarch ask'd the sacred lyre,
The minstrel's mystic wreath, and loose attire.

In this array, by danger unappal'd,
Onward he moves where Albion's safety call'd;
Yet, cautious of the perils that might rise
Round his lone march, and mar his bold emprise,

From scatter'd squadrons of the adverse power,
Who, bent on spoil, the bordering regions scour,
Brave Ethelwood, and a selected few,
Chiefs of tried virtue, resolute and true,
His course from midnight wanderers to defend,
Array'd in arms, their monarch's steps attend.

Through many a bosky dell their way they keep,
To the green foot of high Æcglea's steep.
When thus the King:—'Here, friends, your task is done,
What else remains to act, I act alone.
Should, from the hostile camp, some vagrant eye
Your plume-crown'd helms and gleaming arms descry,
Inglorious death our lot, or shameful thrall,
England's last hope extinguish'd in our fall.

'For two successive days, beneath this bourn
Conceal'd, with caution wait your friend's return.
If these elapse, conclude your Alfred lost,
The station quit, and seek my faithful host;
There, with our valiant peers, and Erin's chief,
Explore the means of succour and relief:
Either with desperate arm resolve to dare
Again, the bold uncertainty of war;
Or if, alas, fair Albion's shores must bow
Beneath the insults of a cruel foe,
Let him not boast o'er Albion's sons to reign,
But only sway a waste unpeopled plain.
Or verdant Erin's sea-encircled lands
Shall yield a refuge to your exiled bands,
Or Scotia's heights, indented by the wave,
Or Cambria's mountain-rocks your powers may save;
As erst, to Britain's native sons, their seat
Gave, from our conquering sires, a safe retreat;
So may they to their ancient foes afford
A sure asylum from the Danish sword.'

He said, and warmly press'd each friendly hand,
Assumed his minstrel garb, and left the band.

Now, unmolested by the scouts, he pass'd,
For o'er the bard a sacred shield is cast,
Graced, and revered, even by the fiercest throng,
In conscious safety moves the man of song.
By wasted fields and ruin'd farms he hies,
Till, full in sight, the Danish tents arise;
There, fearless mingling with the hostile train,
He pours sweet Melody's enchanting strain;
Entranced, around the listening Pagans stand,
And transient rapture soothes the savage band,
While, with attentive look, amid his foes
A soldier's eye the royal minstrel throws,
Surveys the trenches' depth, the turf-raised bar,
And, as he warbles, meditates the war.

Amid the banquet's glee proud Guthrum heard
The strain melodious of the scepter'd bard.
Summon'd to grace the royal tent he stands,
And sweeps the thrilling strings with skilful hands.
His ardent mind, as struggling passions fire,
Indignant thus to prostitute his lyre,
He pour'd such fervid energy of song,
As roused the fierceness of the boisterous throng:
For fancied fights the tipsy rout prepare,
And grasp imagined arms, and beat the empty air.
Till, as the fumes of foul debauch arise,
With limbs enervate, and with swimming eyes,
To feverish rest the reeling train retire,
And drown in sleep the visionary fire.

With joyful look the wary hero view'd
Stern Vigilance, by long success, subdued;
Saw daring Courage turn'd to frantic heat,
And Victory prepare her own defeat;
But, as along the noisy camp he pass'd,
Listening to Riot's roar in every blast,
Startled with horror and amaze, he hears
The whisper'd sound of 'Alfred!' strike his ears.
Instant he turns, alarm'd—his warlike hand
The useless harp quits for the shining brand,
When thus the voice—'My King! my master! say,
What fiend has tempted here thy dangerous way,
'Mid scenes where ruthless Hate and envious Strife,
Lurk, in dread ambush, for thy sacred life?
O, fly this fatal place, weak all disguise
To hide thy well-known form from Treason's eyes.
Many are here, like me, of Saxon race,
The servile ministers of foul Disgrace,
Prompt to betray, for Treachery's base reward,
That prince whose life my dying arm would guard.'

Soon as these accents reach'd the monarch's ear,
'Edgar!' he cried, 'my faithful Edgar here?
Edgar, to whom, on that destructive day,
Which tore my every hope and joy away,
Elsitha, and my infant son, I gave,
From death, or insult worse than death, to save.
Torture no words can paint, my bosom rives.'—
'She lives, my prince! my friend! Elsitha lives.'

Oft Death's pale image in the battle's storm
Had met the hero in its direst form,
Nor did he e'er in ghastlier shape appear,
Than, when in Edgar's voice, a traitor near,
Show'd him a fate that Valour might appal,
Slain in disguise, unhonour'd in his fall.
Yet, in those scenes, to Duty's claims resign'd,
Nor doubt, nor terror, shook his mighty mind.
Amid distress and danger firm he stood,
As Albion's cliffs defy the stormy flood,
Frown on the raging surf with haughty brow,
And view the idle breakers chafe below.
That mind, nor danger nor distress could tame,
In every hour, and every scene, the same,
Tumultuous trembled at Elsitha's name.
Now, that she lived, was wild impetuous joy;
Now fears and doubts the springing hope destroy.
For she the woes of slavery might prove,
Disgraceful chains, or more disgraceful love.

'Rescued from death, from shame,' the youth exclaims,
'The first and fairest of our English dames,
Deep, in a cloister's holy shelter veil'd,
In safety rests from human search conceal'd,
Where, in pellucid current, Avon laves
The irriguous meadows with her silver waves.—
Precarious safety! for the victor Dane
Awes, with surrounding hosts, the neighbouring plain;
No mansion sacred, no retreat secure,
If plunder tempt, or beauty's charms allure.'

The warrior heard—at once his throbbing breast,
A thousand joys, a thousand fears possess'd.
The glowing image of Elsitha's charms,
With rapturous hope the lover's bosom warms;
The baneful thoughts of former pain subside,
Lost in wild Extacy's tumultuous tide.—
Now torturing Fancy paints the sacred fane,
Forced by the unbridled fury of the Dane,
While Indignation's fiery currents roll,
And all the warrior rushes on his soul.
'My friend! my better genius, come!' he cries,
The avenging hero flashing from his eyes;
'Alone, unfriended, though I seem to stand,
Arms, grasp'd by Faith and Valour, are at hand,
Soldiers resolved to conquer or to fall,
Their succouring force if outraged Virtue call.'

Through the still camp, in sleep lethargic bound,
They pass, and reach, unseen, the turf-raised mound;
Unseen, they guard the pass, for slumbers deep,
In death-like rest, the drunken warders steep.
Through the thick shade they bend their silent way,
Where Ethelwood, and England's warriors lay:
With joy and gratitude they saw restored,
Crown'd with success, and safe, their much-loved lord.
With kind and friendly zeal the faithful train
Heap the full board, and spread the couch in vain;
No thought has he of hunger or of rest,
While fair Elsitha's image fills his breast;
Even with diminish'd lustre Glory shined,
And love, with England, shared the monarch's mind.
Not the wild blaze by feverish passion blown,
For chaste Affection's pure unsullied throne,
Is Alfred's breast, whence those true virtues spring,
Which form a people's friend, a patriot king.

With all their leader's wrongs enflamed, the band,
Elate in arms, a radiant phalanx stand.
By Edgar guided, through the waning night,
Through the first orient streaks of dawning light,
Onward they press,—but when the mounting ray
Profusely pour'd the golden flood of day,
Cautious, and wary, of the neighbouring foe,
Beneath the shade their wearied limbs they throw:
But soon as Eve distills her balmy dew,
Again the chiefs their silent march renew,
Till, urging on the sable noon of night,
As the bright stream reflects a feeble light,
On its green edge, by contrast dim, display'd,
The holy turrets rise in glimmering shade.—
Sudden they halt—when, with terrific clang
Of martial shouts, the echoing arches rang;
Blazes with sudden light the solemn pile,
And torches glide along each fretted ile.
With female shrieks the vaulted roofs resound,
By the loud bell's tremendous pealing drown'd.
The notes of horror strike the valiant train,
Thrill in their ears, and harrow every vein.
Not so their chief—at once his active mind,
In passion cool, each circumstance combined.—
That one neglected moment might destroy
The treasury of all his promised joy
He saw—and bade the clarion's warlike breath
Swell the vindictive strain of war and death;
Through every cell the martial thunder broke,
To each astonish'd Dane defiance spoke.—

Rushing before his troops, with ardent breast,
Full on the foe the gallant Alfred press'd.
The clouds of grief that o'er his exiled head,
So long their melancholy shadow spread,
Now vanish to the winds—he sees once more,
Opposed in arms, the invaders of his shore,
Clad in his people's spoils, and red with Albion's gore.
Amid the ranks, with whirlwind speed he drives,
Unnumber'd breasts the sword of vengeance rives.
Now rushing on, the Saxon troops pursue
The daring line their leader's faulchion drew.
Before the gathering storm the oppressive band,
Already scatter'd by the monarch's hand,
With broken ranks recede, and, vanquish'd, yield
To Alfred, and to England's sons, the field!

The holy inmates of the lone abode,
Virgins, and matrons, consecrate to God,
As with pure zeal, for this unlook'd for aid,
The grateful orison of thanks they paid;
The intrepid warrior bless'd, whose arm was given
To guard the hallow'd votaries of Heaven.

But who the agonies of bliss can paint
When Alfred clasp'd again his widow'd saint!
Clasp'd her, with transport, to a breast adored,
To life, to love, to happiness restored;
Rescued from savage insults, rude alarms,
To joy and safety, by a husband's arms,
The first, sole, passion of her opening youth,
Mirror of constancy, and soul of truth;
Dreadful in fight as Heaven's red bolts of death,
Gentle in peace as May's ambrosial breath;
For whom her brightest laurels Conquest wove,
Twined with the myrtle wreaths of nuptial love.—
Could one condemn'd, alas! to weep in vain,
Virtues he ne'er must hope to meet again,
Behold, for him reversed, the general doom,
And love connubial rescued from the tomb;
As fond Admetus clasp'd Alcestes' charms,

As Eleonora bless'd her Edward's arms,
His mind, to Fancy's eye, might picture well,
Transports which few have felt, which none can tell.

And now his arms his smiling infant press'd,
Now drew his blushing consort to his breast;
From her soft eyes, which chasten'd fondness speak,
A lucid tear steals down her lovely cheek;
So the mild sun-beam of the vernal hour,
Oft watry shines through April's crystal shower.
He read the enquiring thought that tear express'd,
And thus in accent bland his queen address'd.

'Of many a valiant chief, since last we met,
Glory's bright beams in shades of death are set.
Even he, my dear ally, of Mercia's line,
Than brother more, Elsitha, since he's thine,
Burthred, from native Albion wandering far,
The sacrifice of Treason and of War,
On distant shores has breathed the expiring sigh,
No friend to tend his couch, or close his eye.'

'O witness, Heaven!' the royal Dame replied,
'To thee I speak, my husband, and my pride,
That, thus again to thy dear arms restored,
Saved and protected by thy victor sword,
This bosom swells alone with Rapture's sigh,
No tears but those of Transport fill this eye;
Bowing, in gratitude, for favours given,
Shall this weak mind arraign the will of Heaven?'

Here stopp'd her faultering voice, while copious flow
The mingled tides of Pleasure and of Woe.
For while she raised her eye in praise, the tear
Of anxious diffidence still trembled there,
Till her loved consort, with affection true,
Kiss'd, from its lovely source, the pearly dew.—
By mutual fondness every doubt allay'd,
And years of pain in one short moment paid.

When thus brave Ethelwood—'My warning voice
Breaks on this happy scene against my choice—
Short is, alas! the insidious calm;—around
Soon shall again the storm of conflict sound,
Soon the returning foe, in morning's hour,
O'er this retreat his numerous bands will pour.
A troop in arms, so valiant, and so near,
Will wake, at once, his vengeance and his fear.
Toward Selwood's shade, and high Ægbryhta's bourn,
To meet your friends and brave allies, return,
Who many an anxious look impatient fling,
Far o'er the horizon's verge, to seek their king.'

The Monarch heard, and Glory's kindling flame
Shot, with redoubled ardour, through his frame.
When selfish passion clouds the warrior's breast,
Dim shine her mouldering flames, by sloth depress'd,
But from chaste Love, and faithful Beauty's arms,
With heighten'd radiance blaze her heavenly charms.

Instant he gives the sign;—in bright array
The troops obedient measure back their way;
Not as when wild Dismay, and pallid Fear,
Hang on the vanquish'd squadron's flying rear.
With slow and steady foostep they recede,
Yet in retreat look back to Victory's meed,
With eager hope of future conflict burn,
And lingering go, more dreadful to return.—

Now, as in pleasing prospect, to their eyes
The tented summits of Ægbryhta rise,
Wondering they see, upon the aerial brow,
Cambria's and Caledonia's banners flow.
Young Donald's bands, saved from the waves and wind,
On Cambria's coast, by Mervin's warriors join'd,
Mervin, who ruled Dimeta's western plains,
The princely leader of Silurian swains,
March'd, with united squadrons, to his aid,
Their ensigns each in friendly folds display'd.
Here, crown'd with recent conquest, to the skies
The snow-white steed in Saxon banners flies,
There Cambria's griffin, on the azure field,
In snaky volumes writhes around the shield;
And Scotia's lion, proud, erect, and bold,
Rears high his irritable crest in gold.
Gold too her harp, and strung with silver wire,
Erin her arms displays with kindred fire,
And Britain's sister isles in Alfred's cause conspire.

Proud of his native chiefs and brave allies,
In Alfred's breast new hopes of victory rise.
Sincere he clasps, in Friendship's warm embrace,
The warlike chief of each congenial race;
But when he saw the Scotish prince restored,
Donald, whose timeless doom he oft deplored;
Donald, who urged with more than friendly zeal,
Scotia's free sons to arm for England's weal;
Donald, whom oft his pensive thought would form,
Floating, a corse, before the enfuriate storm,
His hoary locks while wretched Gregor tore,
Devoting Alfred's cause, and England's shore,
With love unfeign'd, and gratitude, he press'd
A rescued brother to his throbbing breast,
Anxious to learn what potent arm could save
Him and his gallant warriors from the wave.

When thus the Prince:—'Forced by the billowy roar,
With dreadful impulse, on the craggy shore,
Where rose abrupt the mountain from the tide,
The wild wave dashing on its rugged side,
Onward we rush'd to fate;—when in our sight,
Shewn by the lurid tempest's forked light,
Flash'd sudden gleam of hope,—beneath the brow
Whence high Dimeta's glittering turrets show,
There opes a spacious bay, where Milver's steep

Guards the still harbour from the howling deep,
In peaceful calm, there gently heaves the main,
And round, the angry whirlwind raves in vain.
Keneth, whose watchful eyes the advantage mark,
Steers, through the severing rocks, his shatter'd bark,
The flaming torch then rears aloft, to guide
Our labouring vessals through the placid tide.
The wave-worn bands assembling on the coast,
As anxious we survey our scatter'd host,
That ship alone our sorrowing eyes deplore,
Which royal Alfred through the surges bore.—
What empty rites of funeral woe we paid
To thee, my friend; the generous Cambrian's aid;
And how, when Fame declared that Albion's lord,
From the dire storm to Albion's fields restored,
Waved high the crest, and shook the avenging sword,
By valiant Mervin join'd, from Milver's bay,
To join the bold emprize we sped our way,
Some fitter time shall show—these hours demand
The leader's counsel, and the soldier's hand.'

The generous King now to his consort's charms
Courteous presents his new compeers in arms.
With manly firmness, and with martial tread,
Advancing, Mervin bows his helmed head.
Connal avows himself chaste Beauty's knight,
Her slave in peace, her champion in the fight.
In doubtful awe young Donald's steps advance,
And as his eye, abash'd, with sidelong glance
Caught fair Elsitha's form, with glowing hue,
Low on the ground, a downcast look he threw,
While, in Confusion's blushing tint array'd,
His faultering voice his inward thoughts betray'd.

In royal Burthred's hospitable court,
Of valour and of wit the famed resort,
Ere Scandinavia's sons, with felon sway,
Swept every polish'd charm of life away;
Where many a chief, to win Elsitha's eye,
The manly skill display'd of chivalry,
As once, in friendly sojourn, Donald staid,
He view'd, with passion'd eye, the royal maid;
Though but a stripling, fated then to prove
The inevitable tyranny of Love.
Vain were his vows, his fond pretensions vain,
Nor vows nor prayers her favouring smile could gain;
Already valiant Alfred's courteous art,
Had fix'd his image in her virgin heart,
While deeds of generous worth and high renown,
Virtue's true meed, and laurell'd Glory's crown,
Recorded by a people's general voice,
Fire her pure breast, and consecrate her choice.

Leaving the Mercian court, he sought to foil
His hopeless love, by hardihood and toil;
Till well, he deem'd, that time and absence join'd,
Had chaced the soft invader from his mind.
For when his sire led back from Erin's coast,
By Triumph graced, the Caledonian host,
Drinking each warlike tale with greedy ears,
He burns to emulate the deeds he hears,
Secure that Love had lost his faded flame,
Quench'd in the brighter blaze of martial fame.
Even when he learn'd from Alfred's dreadful tale,
What perils dire his hapless queen assail,
Though in her cause to arm he eager sought,
Fame only edged his sword, he fondly thought.
Love, so he vainly deem'd, had wing'd his flight,
And Fame and Friendship charm'd him to the fight;
For friendship still remain'd when passion fell,
And still he wish'd the fair Elsitha well;
Her image bright, yet cold as Dian's ray,
Through toil and hardship led his venturous way;
Around his bark when roar'd the wintry storm,
Mild Friendship cheer'd him in Elsitha's form;
Elsitha's friendship, like the leading star,
Guided his footsteps through the paths of war.

But as the dew, which oft, at early dawn,
In wintry whiteness, clothes the summer lawn,
Melts, when the orb of day new gilds the plain,
And verdure reassumes its genial reign;
So, from the lustre of Elsitha's eye,
The cold resolves of frozen friendship fly;
The vainly smother'd passion stands confess'd,
And all the lover glows in Donald's breast.
Yet to his heart he shudders to declare,
The thoughts his reason reads indignant there.
On Virtue's solid rock his conduct placed,
By Duty guarded, and by Honour graced,
O'er him the fiery floods of passion roll,
Consume his frame, but ruffle not his soul.
Hence, though his mind her steady seat maintains,
A subtle poison steals through all his veins;
While, in his languid eye, his sorrows speak,
And tear Health's ruddy blossoms from his cheek.
So o'er the early bloom of opening spring,
When Eurus harshly waves the ungenial wing,
Though, rooted deep, the vigorous plant defies
The chilling blasts of unpropitious skies,
Yet the green germs that bursting first appear,
The vernal prelude of the youthful year,
Shrink from the breeze—and Maia's gentle hours
Mourn the bare spray despoil'd of leaves and flowers.