The dewy morn her saffron mantle spreads
High o'er the brow of yonder eastern hill;
Each blooming shrub a roseate fragrance sheds,
And the brisk sky-lark sings his carol shrill.
Not all the sweets that scent the morning air,
Not all the dyes that paint the vernal year,
Can from my breast divert it's weighty care,
Can from my pale cheeks charm the trickling tear.
Here, where the willows to the rivulet bend,
That winds it's channel thro' the enamell'd mead,
I'll o'er the turf my waining form extend,
And rest on sedges dank my listless head.
In vain the stream o'er pebbles glide along,
And murmurs sweetly-lulling as it flows;
In vain the stock-dove chaunts her gurgling song,
Inviting slumber soft and calm repose.
How at the fragrant hour of rising morn
Would eager transport throb in ev'ry vein,
To hear the swelling shout and jocund horn
Invite the hunter to the sportive plain!
But, ah, the gay delights of youth are fled!—
In sighs and tears my fading life I wear;
So the pale lily hangs it's drooping head,
When frosts untimely blast the opening year.
Philosophy, thou guardian of the heart,
O come in all thy rigid virtue dress'd!
With manly precept ease my killing smart,
And drive this tyrant from my wounded breast.
Oft would my eyes, disdaining balmy sleep,
The awful labors of thy sons explore,
Fathom with restless toil each maxim deep,
And hang incessant o'er the sacred lore:
Alas! oppos'd to love how weak, how frail
Is all the reasoning of the unfeeling sage!
No forceful arm can o'er his power prevail,
No lenient hand the wounds he gives assuage.
Yes, tyrant, yes; thou must retain thy power,
Till my torn bosom yields to stronger Death:
Still must I love, even in that fatal hour,
And call on Delia with my latest breath.
And when all pale my lifeless limbs extend,
And fate has seal'd the irrevocable doom,
May then my memory find a faithful friend,
To write these votive numbers on my tomb:
‘Here rests a youth, who Love and Sorrow's slave,
‘Gave up his early life to pining care,
‘Till worn with woe he sought, in this calm grave,
‘A safe retreat from comfortless Despair.’
So, when the stone lays o'er my clay-cold head,
If chance fair Delia to the place draw near,
With one sad sigh she may lament me dead,
And bathe the senseless marble with a tear.

The Fading Gleam Of Parting Day

I.
1.
The fading gleam of parting day
Forsakes the western sky,
Now shines Diana's chaster ray
With virgin majesty;
Her face with milder glory bright
Pales o'er the dusky shades of night,
And brings the varied scene to view:
The glassy lake, the bubbling stream,
Again reflect the borrow'd beam,
And take the silver hue.

2 .
From the deep shade of yonder trees
The screaming night-birds call,
While floats in Zephyr's balmy breeze
The distant water-fall;
Sad Philomela's warbling throat
Pours forth the sweetly-mournful note,
And charms the lay-resounding grove,
Where, trembling at the gentle gale,
The bending fir, and poplar pale,
In rushing murmurs move.

3 .
What joyful sounds arise!—
These strains of rural music sink,
And shrill-ton'd clarions rend the skies,
The air a voice of triumph chears—
Behold, an awful form appears
On Cherwell's sedgy brink!
His azure length of robe behind
Loosely wantons in the wind,
Glowing like the vernal morning
Beams benign his eye-balls shed,
Ceres' wealth his brows adorning
Shades his venerable head.
Say, heav'nly Vision, what these notes portend;
Sits white-wing'd Vict'ry on Britannia's arms?
Does proud Iberia to our legions bend,
Or flies the Gaul at Granby's dread alarms,
Or stalks on India's sun-burnt plains afar
The force of Conflict keen, and giant rage of War?

II.
1.
‘Far hence, he cried, the tumult's roar
‘To distant climes shall fly,
‘Mirth revels now on Albion's shore,
‘And blithe Festivity.
‘Ye Muses, twine each fragrant flower
‘To crown with roseate braids the hour
‘Which gave to George a blooming Heir;
‘Ye guardians of this favour'd isle,
‘With graceful pleasure kindly smile,
‘Ye Nymphs your wreaths prepare.

2.
‘Come happy babe! delight the lands
‘Which time shall make thy own;
‘Come happy babe! whom Heav'n commands
‘To fill a future throne.
‘And when the sacred lore of truth
‘Shall gently form thy ripening youth,
‘May ev'ry grateful Briton find
‘The soul of George's godlike race,
‘With lovely Charlotte's softer grace,
‘Attemper'd in thy mind.

3 .
‘For thee on Afric's burning coast
‘Aloft the British ensign waves;
‘For thee by rattling tempests tost
‘Their navies awe the Gallic pride,
‘On every realm, whose hostile side
‘The boundless ocean laves;—
‘With nobler skill and fiercer fire
‘Strike the rapture-breathing lyre!
‘Hark!—on Cambria's cloud-topt mountains
‘Music winds her streams along:
‘As they flow, the crystal fountains
‘Listen to the jocund song!
‘Lo! glorious shades and halcyon days appear
‘Fair as the Morn in saffron mantle dight,—
‘But sounds divine ill suit the human ear,
‘And fleeting visions mock the mortal sight.’
He said: and rushing from my wond'ring eyes,
On rapid light'ning borne, he sought his native skies.

Ode On The Birth Of The Prince Of Wales

I.
1 .
The fading beam of parting day
Forsakes the western sky,
Now shines Diana's gentler ray
With virgin majesty;
Her face with milder glory bright
Illumes the dusky shades of night,
And brings the varied scene to view.
The glassy lake, and bubbling stream,
Again reflect the borrow'd beam,
And take a silver hue.

2 .
From the deep shade of yonder trees
The screaming night-birds call,
While floats on Zephyr's balmy breeze
The distant waterfall:
Sad Philomela's warbling throat
Pours to the moon her plaintive note
And charms the lay-resounding grove,
Where, trembling at the gentle gale,
The verdant beech, and poplar pale,
With rustling murmurs move.

3 .
What dreadful sounds arise?—
These notes of rural music sink
And shrill-ton'd clarions rend the skies;
The air a voice of triumph chears,
And lo! a form divine appears
On Cherwell's sedgy brink.
His azure length of robe behind
Loosely wantons in the wind;
Glowing like the vernal morning
Beams benign his eye-balls shed;
Ceres' wealth his brows adorning
Shades his venerable head.
Say heavenly vision what these notes portend?
Sits white-wing'd Victory on Britannia's arms?
Does proud Iberia to her legions bend,
Or flies the Gaul at Granby's dread alarms,
Or stalks on India's sun-burn'd coasts afar
The force of conflict keen, and giant rage of war?

II.
1.
‘Far hence,’ he cried, ‘the tumult's roar
‘To distant realms shall fly:
‘Mirth revels now on Albion's shore
‘With blythe festivity.
‘Ye Muses twine each fragant flower
‘To crown the day, to crown the hour,
‘Which gave to George a blooming heir;
‘Ye Guardians of this favor'd isle
‘On this your future monarch smile,
‘Ye Nymphs your wreaths prepare.

2 .
‘Come happy child! delight the land
‘Where time shall fix thy throne:
‘O come, and take from Freedom's hand
‘A sceptre all her own:
‘And when the sacred lore of truth
‘Display'd, shall form thy ripening youth,
‘May every joyful Briton find
‘The soul of George's godlike race,
‘With lovely Charlotte's softer grace,
‘Attemper'd, in thy mind.

3 .
‘For thee on Afric's sultry coast
‘The British ensign proudly waves;
‘For thee by distant tempests tost
‘Our navies awe the Gallic pride
‘On every shore, whose hostile side
‘The boundless Ocean laves.—
‘With nobler skill, and fiercer fire,
‘Strike the rapture-breathing lyre.—
‘Hark!—from Cambria's cloud-top'd mountains
‘Music winds her stream along,
‘As they flow the crystal fountains
‘Listen to the jocund song,
‘Lo radiant forms and glorious shades appear,
‘Fair as the morn in saffron mantle dight;
‘But strains divine ill suit the human ear,
‘And fleeting visions mock the mortal sight.’—
He said, and rushing from my wondering eyes,
On volley'd lightening borne, he sought his native skies.

Beauty. Part I.

A POETICAL ESSAY.


The various powers by Nature's hand combin'd
To fill with harmony the raptur'd mind;
Whose forms, as diff'rent lustre they impart,
Or strike the senses, or exalt the heart,
My daring Muse unfolds;—resolv'd to trace
The glorious theme thro' ev'ry path of space;
Till borne aloft on Truth's triumphant wings
Boldly she rise, and soaring as she sings,
By Fancy urg'd, she shape her vent'rous flight
To those blest regions of supreme delight,
Where Beauty pours her noblest, brightest ray,
Amidst the mansions of eternal day.

Daughters of Albion; ye whose eyes dispense
The mildest beams of virgin innocence,
Whose charms by all the Graces are design'd,
Each the fair emblem of a fairer mind,
To you I dedicate this votive lay:—
With kind applause the pleasing labour pay:
Crown with your myrtle wreaths my artless lyre,
Nor scorn the numbers which yourselves inspire:
So shall my Muse the Poet's bay disclaim,
And prize your smiles, beyond the breath of Fame.

Come, sacred Nature! Nymph divinely bright!
Unfold thy prospects to my eager sight,
O'er flow'ry lawns, with thee, O, let me rove,
And tread the devious lab'rinth of the grove.
Come in the garb of simple grandeur dress'd,
And by thy precepts form my docile breast;
Clear ev'ry mist, and give my eyes to see,
That Beauty only is deriv'd from thee.
Teach me that ev'ry art in ev'ry age
Is but a transcript from thy perfect page,
Where imitation ever charms us most,
And the best model, is the noblest boast.
When the discerning sons of Greece and Rome
Bent the proud arch, and swell'd the stately dome,
E'er gothic structures idly pleas'd the heart,
With all the nice perplexities of art,
The glorious architects rever'd thy name,
And following Nature, found the road to fame.
While Gallic artists proud to shine alone
Amidst a new creation of their own,
Boast too refin'd a taste to suffer thee
To guide a riv'let, or to rear a tree;
But art, expence, and labour have combin'd,
To draw th' attention of the trifling mind,
That senseless crowds may view with ideot stare,
The watry column, and the spruce parterre.
Yet tho' Le Notre bade on ev'ry side
The dazzling garden spread its flow'ry pride,
While the unvaried lawn, and vista'd shade,
In lines, and squares were regularly laid;
Tho' proud Versailles, thro' marble fountains, play
Her tortur'd waters to the face of day,
Such scenes, which only charm us by surprize,
O! may I never view, but to despise:
My wand'ring footsteps rather deign to lead
Thro' the dark forest, or th' enamel'd mead;
Where winding streams divide the verdant vale,
And artless music floats in ev'ry gale.

Ye Nymphs of Pindus! who have still possess'd
From earliest infancy my raptur'd breast,
And thou, celestial Fancy, matchless maid!
Descend propitious to your vot'ry's aid,
Bear me to happier regions far away,
From whence Hyperion darts his ev'ning ray,
Where Beauty's native form was ne'er defac'd
By servile ignorance, and barb'rous taste,
But thro' luxuriant fields, and fragrant groves,
In innocence the peaceful savage roves:
Where lofty mountains lift their piny heads,
Where its green lap the vast savannah spreads,
Or where the congregated waters sweep
With foaming lapse, down Niagara's steep,
Can all the pride of tasteless artists vie
With objects vast as these!—in Reason's eye?
Where Beauty dwells amidst the spacious plains,
Dress'd in her richest pomp, for Nature reigns.

But say, to scenes of humbler grace unknown,
Dwells Beauty with magnificence alone?
And from Britannia's pleasing prospects hurl'd,
Deigns she alone to bless the western world?
Not so,—her lovely form is here display'd
In ev'ry leaf that forms the summer shade,
And ev'ry blooming flower, that paints the vernal glade.

Who stretch'd upon the green hill's breezy brow
Can see the various landscape spread below,
The village spire—the wreathing smoke ascend,
The forest wave, the thymy downs extend,
The shining river roll its silver stream
Thro' woods, impervious to the solar beam,
Or 'midst the meads in smooth mæanders glide,
While bending oziers stoop to kiss the tide,
Till in th' horizon faintly ting'd with blue,
The distant mountains close the pleasing view,
And not in ev'ry tint of Nature's hand,
See Beauty's form, and own her mild command?

When from the East the glorious orb of day
Pours on the burnish'd cliff a golden ray,
While pearly dew-drops, sprinkled by the morn,
Shine in the turf, or glitter on the thorn;
When splendid in meridian light array'd,
His piercing beams the woodland gloom pervade,
When wrap'd in misty ev'ning's silent reign,
Th' encreasing darkness steals across the plain,
Or when in virgin state, the Delian Queen
Drives her bright chariot thro' the blue serene,
While scatter'd round in fair confusion lie
The inferior glories of the vaulted sky:
When gently o'er the flower-empurpled vale,
The vernal zephyrs breathe a genial gale,
When as fierce summers sultry rays descend,
With blushing fruit the loaded branches bend,
When autumn crowns the hills with waving corn,
And pours profusion from his twisted horn,
While deep'ning shade on shade, the woods are seen
From the full crimson, to the faded green:
Or when the trees their leafy honours yield,
And chearless russet clads the dreary field;
When the cascade by wintry fetters tied,
Must cease to murmur, and the stream to glide;
While blows the storm, or falls the delug'd rain,
Or fleecy snows o'erspread the whiten'd plain,
And Nature, tho' her meanest garb she wears,
Majestic ev'n in misery appears.
In ev'ry season, ev'ry hour, I trace
Imperial Beauty! thy transcendent grace;
Behold each scene thy lovely form display,
And wond'ring, own thy universal sway.

Blest is the youth! on whose high-favour'd head
The sacred Nine their happy influence shed;
Inspir'd by them, his raptur'd eyes explore
The choicest objects of thy charming store.
For him their strains the sylvan warblers breathe,
For him fair Maia twines her flow'ry wreath,
Fragrant for him the morning breezes blow,
The poplar trembles, and the fountains flow,
Each charm of Nature strongly strikes his breast,
And Beauty shines supreme, by young ey'd Fancy dress'd.

Alfred. Book Iii.

ARGUMENT. Measures against the Danes.—Prophecy of the future Fortunes of Alfred and his Posterity.


Along the borders of the silver Thone,
With alders dank, and matted sedge o'er-grown,
Led by the guidance of the shepherd swain,
Unseen, and silent, pass the cautious train,
Till, mid the conflux of the mingling streams,
A deep morass the emerging island seems.

Across the ford the guide directs their course,
Each stemming, with his arms, the current's force,
They pass, with toil, the dangerous traject o'er,
For, swoll'n by showers, the angry waters roar.
Then, Alfred, did thy generous bosom know
A pride nor pomp, nor luxury, can bestow,
When thy firm limbs, with nerve superior strung,
And active strength, the endowment of the young,
With abler effort gave thee force to guide,
The old and feeble through the threatening tide.
Nor did that arm, which oft in Glory's field
Had taught the might of giant foes to yield,
Disdain, by many a vigorous stroke, to save
A peasant's household from the whelming wave;
Nor did that voice, which oft, with martial breath,
Had roused the soldier's heart to war and death,
Disdain, with words of mild reproof, to cheer
A woman's weakness, and an infant's fear.—
Then, as Benignity's consoling breast
The real source of patriot zeal express'd,
Fame, from the warrior turns awhile, the eye,
To hail the hero of humanity.

Fix'd on the arid spot, whose scanty bounds
On every side the deep morass surrounds,
The monarch, and his martial friend, with care,
'Gainst close surprise and bold attack prepare;
Exert each art their safety to ensure,
And every pass, with wary eye, secure.

Oft from the isle, beneath the twilight shade,
By Ethelwood attended, Alfred stray'd,
And many a chief conceal'd, of gentle blood,
They found, and tempted o'er the sheltering flood;
Hence of fair Athelney the glorious name
Shall flourish still, the favourite theme of Fame,
The Isle of Nobles live, recorded long
In each historian's page, and poet's song.

Not to inglorious ease can be confined
The sanguine efforts of the hero's mind;
Valour, when devastation spreads around,
Sits not in Safety's rosy fetters bound:
Oft issuing from the marsh, their midnight arms
Harass the scatter'd Danes with new alarms.
Reckless of vanquish'd foes, the victor lay,
To bloated sloth, and foul excess, a prey;
Hence oft the Saxons, from the slumbering horde,
Seize their own flocks to store the genial board;
While Slaughter stalks amid the astonish'd foe,
The vengeance dreadful, though unseen the blow.
Oft too the monarch, stealing from the cares
Of present councils, and of future wars,
Through the lone groves would pace, in solemn mood,
Wooing the pensive charms of Solitude.
While, deep revolving in his fancy's range
Of human deeds, the desultory change,
By Hope encouraged, or by Fear depress'd,
Contending passions shook his mighty breast.

It chanced one stormy morn, as forth he sped,
The rude blast whistling round his listless head,
For equal rise, if care engross the mind,
The breeze of summer, or the wintry wind;
While through the wood, in pensive musing lost,
He stray'd,—his path a lucid streamlet cross'd:
Aside he turn'd, and traced the rivulet's course,
With pace reverted, toward its mountain source.
Onward, with heedless aim, his footsteps move
Along the dell, through many a tangled grove,
Till, issuing sudden from the gloomy shade,
He trod the verdure of a grassy glade,
Where shines the expanded water, clear and bright,
A lucid mirror to the tranquil sight,
Smooth as the chrystal's polish'd surface; save
Where, from the shrubby heights, the sparkling wave,
Dashing from rock to rock in frothy wreath,
Ruffles the border of the lake beneath.
The drooping willows fringe the edge, and seem
To drink fresh verdure from the passing stream.
Here mossy cliffs, with mountain plants o'ergrown,
The wild goat browsing from the pendant stone,
Their rifted sides echoing the sea mew's clang,
With threatening summits o'er the valley hang.
While, from the dell, receding gently, there
The rising upland softly melts to air;
Whose bowering forests round the placid flood,
Wave to the eye, a theatre of wood;
There the bright beech its silver bole displays,
And giant oaks their massy foilage raise,
The trembling poplar's humbler leaf beneath
Whispers responsive to the rude wind's breath;
And, with the woodbine mix'd, and sylvan rose,
In scarlet pride the mountain service glows.

In foaming eddy, where the lucid tide
Pours headlong down the high clift's rugged side,
A grove of dusky pines athwart the glade
Shoot, with projected limbs, a solemn shade;
And as aloft the quivering branches play,
Shut from the soil the garish eye of day.
Deep in the dark recess, with briars o'er-grown,
A cavern opens in the mossy stone:
O'er its dank mouth the flexile ivy grows,
Where an aged yew funereal shadows throws;
Scath'd oaks their knotty branches fling around,
With mystic misseltoe their summits crown'd;
While, echoing to the torrent's distant shock,
Howls the dread whirlwind through the creviced rock.—
Albeit unused to fear, the monarch's breast
Pants, with an awe, unfelt before, impress'd,
And, o'er his better reason, sudden spread
Terrific chills of superstitious dread.

The tempest's voice that usher'd in the day,
In distant murmurs faintly dies away,
The screaming birds their boding carol cease,
And even the torrent's roar seems hush'd to peace.
While, from the rock's deep bosom, notes so sweet,
Of such enchanting strain, the hero greet,
Entranced he stands, the lay divine to hear,
And all Elysium opens on his ear.

The dulcet numbers ceased; with awe-struck breast
Alfred the Genius of the place address'd:
'Whoe'er thou art, whether of mortal line,
Bless'd with celestial gifts, and song divine,
Or some attendant of the angelic host,
The holy guardian of this favour'd coast,
Before whose voice obedient tempests fly,
Whose lays melodious calm the troubled sky;
To me propitious be thy powers inclined,
To me most lost, most wretched, of mankind.'

A hollow murmur check'd him as he spoke,
And, from the rock, a voice tremendous broke.—
'O, King of England! not to man is given
To fathom or arraign the will of Heaven!
Oft in the bright serene of prosperous days,
Unseen, the Demon of Destruction plays;
Oft through Misfortune's drear and bleak abode,
To power and greatness lies the rugged road,
'Tis man's to bow beneath the chastening rod,
Virtue's true meed lies in the hand of God.'

With sudden horror rock'd the trembling ground,
And distant thunder shook the vast profound;
When, from the cave, a venerable form
Stalk'd forth, announced by the preluding storm.
About his limbs a snowy garment roll'd
Floats to the wind in many an ample fold;
His brow serene a rich tiara bound,
And loose his silver tresses stream'd around.
In his right hand a golden harp declared
The sacred function of the Druid bard.—
Soon as the royal chief the vision saw,
To earth he bent, in reverential awe.

'Rise, son of regal dignity,' he said,
'Nor bow to human dust thy laurel'd head!
Mortal like thee, I draw precarious breath,
Subject to pain, to sorrow, and to death.
'Tis thine o'er mighty nations to preside,
Command their armies, and their councils guide;
'Tis mine to look beyond Time's passing date,
And read the page obscure of future fate,
Strike, with bold hand, the free prophetic lyre,
And wake to distant years the warbling wire:
Our powers alike, by power supreme, are given,
Each but the feeble minister of Heaven.—
'Mid famed Cornubia's rocks, wash'd by the main,
Oft have I listen'd to the mystic strain,
What time on old Bellerium's topmost height

Aerial visions swam before my sight,
And lays divine, by voice immortal, sung,
In heavenly cadence o'er my senses hung.
Nor is to me unknown the sacred lore
Of Mona's Druid caves, and Arvon's shore.—
Even now I feel the enthusiast flame arise,
And unborn ages burst upon my eyes;
Visions of distant times before me roll,
And all the Godhead rushes on my soul.'

His eye-balls, as he spoke, with rapture glow'd,
His snowy robes in ampler volume flow'd,
The radiant fillets that his temples bind,
Burst—looser float his tresses to the wind;
His form expands, he moves with firmer tread,
And lambent glories play around his head:—
With rapid hand he strikes the sacred lyre,
To strains of rapture wakes the thrilling wire,
And, to the sound responsive, pours along
The fervid energy of mystic song.

'As the dark clouds whose vapoury mantles spread
A dusky veil round Camelet's dreary head,
Roll down his steepy sides,—and ether blue
Gives all the gorgeous landscape to the view,
So the dim shades o'er future scenes that lie,
Disperse, and Fate lies open to my eye.
As purer skies to transient storms succeed,
And happier hours the auspicious seasons lead,
So yields the gloom that hangs o'er Albion's isle,
To brighter hopes, and prosperous Fortune's smile.
Invasion haunts her rescued plains no more,
But hostile inroad flies the dangerous shore;
Where'er her armies march, her ensigns play,
Fame points the course, and Glory leads the way.
Her fleets o'er Ocean's tributary throne,
Rear vast, and wide, an empire of their own,
Supreme from where the radiant lord of day,
Shoots o'er the glowing wave his orient ray,
To where their fires his burning axles steep
In the blue bosom of the Atlantic deep:
Alike in arts and arms illustrious found,
Proudly she sits with either laurel crown'd.

'Yet what avail the trophies Conquest brings,
If Power oppressive, from her hovering wings,
Baleful she shake?—or what the victor's wreath,
If raised in blood from baleful seeds of death?—
Hail England's favour'd Monarch!—round thy head
Shall Freedom's hands perennial laurels spread;
Fenced by whose sacred leaves, the royal brow
Mocks the vain lightnings aim'd by Faction's blow.

'Beyond the proudest germ of Fame that springs,
Rear'd by the Muse, to grace victorious kings;
Above the forms of Liberty, that raise
The sons of Greece and Rome to deathless praise;
Above the labour'd scenes that sages draw,
Ideal forms of polity and law,
By thee a glorious fabric be design'd,
The noblest effort of a patriot mind.—
On a firm basis shall the structure stand,
Defying Time's, deriding Faction's, hand.—
Not a frail pile that mad Ambition rears
On Folly's hopes, or Guilt's repulsive fears;
Where specious Sophistry persuades the crowd
To adulate the selfish, and the loud;
Or, by some fawning demagogue address'd,
To lift a people's minion o'er the rest,
Bending to idol power the servile knee,
The worst of slaves, yet boasting they are free.
Thy code, arranged by Nature's purest plan,
Shall guard the freedom, and the rights of man,—
Man's real right's—not Folly's maniac dream,
Senseless Equality's pernicious theme;
But that true freedom, where all orders draw
Equal protection from an equal law,
And by that equal law restrain'd alone,
Nor fear the noble proud, or prouder throne.
Nobles, the people's shield, the monarch's arm,
Powerful to aid, but impotent to harm;
A sacred throne on Mercy's basis rear'd,
By Virtue foster'd, by Oppression fear'd;—
To which thy guardian laws shall boast they gave
One power by aught uncheck'd, the power to save.
No tyrant here the public weal can harm,
Unheard his mandate, and unnerved his arm,
While the imperial patriot is endued
With unresisted energy of good.
O happiest state on earth, to mortal given,
Pure right divine, true delegate of Heaven,
To whom its happiest attributes belong,
The bless'd impossibility of wrong.—
Each rank supported, firm, by mutual aid,
Each state in Wisdom's equal balance weigh'd;
Say, can the mighty fabric ever fall,
Raised on the weal, the liberty of all?
Still shall it mock, to Time's remotest hour,
The mine of Treason, and the shock of Power.

'Now, in yon visionary scene, behold
Thy future sons their shadowy forms unfold,
What various glories on thy offspring wait,
And learn of heroes yet unborn, the fate.
Full many an inroad of the hostile Dane
Shall yet, with native gore, die England's plain,
Alternate each shall sink, or each prevail,
As wavering Fortune lifts her dubious scale,
Till the bold sons of either warlike line
Their mingled blood in social compact join.
Even now are moor'd, near Isca's sandy bed,
A Danish host, by valiant Rollo led.

Heaven's awful mandates to the chieftain's sight,
Reveal'd in boding visions of the night,
Warn him to quit Danmonia's fertile shore,
Plough the blue wave, and Gallia's realms explore,
There shall a mighty province long proclaim,
Conquer'd by northern arms, the Norman name.
Their swords the southern regions shall subdue,
And fame, and power, through milder climes pursue,
Fields which Ilissus' hallow'd current laves,
And regions wash'd by Tiber's yellow waves;
Awe the proud tyrant of the turban'd host,
And rule, in peaceful sway, Sicilia's coast,
Reserved, in Heaven's appointed time, again
To lead their squadrons to Britannia's plain,
By victor armies destined to fulfil
Of Alfred's sainted heir the sacred will;

Till Albion views her Alfred's line restored,
And hails Plantagenet her Saxon lord.
'Freedom's perennial scyon, that defies
The ungenial blasts of Hyperborean skies,
Which, when its roots the savage warrior tore
From Græcia's isles, and mild Hesperia's shore,
Struck its strong fibres in the frost-bound glade,
Which black Hercynia's piny forests shade,
To Albion's happier soil transplanted, found
A fostering climate, and congenial ground.

'Even from the change the Norman race shall bring,
The feudal vassal, and the warrior king,
Though one vast army seem to meet the eyes,
Shall public safety, public freedom, rise;
Hence, on Britannia's plains, the rural lord
Grasps, with a freeman's arm, the freeman's sword;
'Mid senates hence, his independent voice
Speaks the free suffrage of a people's choice,
Teaches the servile minion fear to own,
Or crushes factions that besiege the throne.

'Behold, where Thames, through Runny's fertile meads,
Placid, and full, his wave pellucid leads
To England's swains, and England's chiefs, his brow
Prone on the earth, the baffled tyrant bow,
Imperial Freedom, waving in her hand
Her charter, fixing rights by Alfred plann'd,
Careful to foster, with protective wing,
The sacred pandects of a patriot king.

'And see, ascending from his winding shore,

Aloft heroic Honour proudly soar
O'er the plumed host, in blazon'd trophies dight,
Won from the vanquish'd Gaul in many a fight,
A warlike son of thine, by Conquest crown'd,
For knighthood twines the garter's mystic round;
Reviving deeds, of ancient Honour born,
Heroic wreaths by British Arthur worn;
What time, at Freedom's call, his dauntless host,
Against thy sires, defended Albion's coast.
Rears Fame's bright guerdon o'er the waving crest,
Spreads Faith's true cross o'er every pious breast,
While Europe's kings, and Rome's imperial lord,
Sit, glad companions, round the equal board,
And Virtue, to a people's general gaze,
The unsullied wreath of Chivalry displays.

'But many a cloud of horror and dismay
The horizon shades of Albion's brightest day.
Though dress'd in halcyon smiles, with ray serene,
Sol's golden orb may chear the rural scene,
Yet gathering mists, by winds tempestuous driven,
Oft blunt his beam, and hide the face of Heaven;
Nor on this seat of earth, where suns and showers
Alternate mark the seasons and the hours,
Can man expect that years shall wing their flight,
For ever tranquil, and for ever bright,
Till soaring o'er the atmosphere, that flings
Vapour and tempest from its watery wings,
On Faith and Virtue's pinions borne, he rise
To purest ether spread o'er cloudless skies,
And drink, with eagle eye, the empyreal ray,
'Mid the blest mansions of eternal day.

'Lo, died in civil blood, the argent rose,
In rival tint, with guilty crimson glows,
Till, blending o'er the fall'n usurper's tomb,
In friendly wreath the mingled flowrets bloom,
To crown Britannia's native race, who stand
With thee, the avengers of their native land.
For now, even now, rough Cambria's warlike coast
Pours, from a thousand hills, the auxiliar host.—
From Saxon arms receding, though they bore
Their sacred rites to Mona's Druid shore.
Sons of the chiefs who Cæsar's arms withstood,
Of Cassibellan's, and Caradoc's blood,
Sons of the chiefs our glorious Arthur led,
Waving their spears, with Saxon carnage red.
To them shall bow again the British line,
And Tudor's royal stem unite with thine;
Tudor, whose ancient claim from Cadwal springs,
Whom Cambria weeps, the last of British kings;
While Albion views her pristine fame display'd,
Proud of the triumphs of the Briton maid.

'Alas! as down the stream of Time, the eye
Anxious I throw, new horrors I descry.—
To England's fields, what scenes of discord bring
A factious people, a misguided king.—
Hide, blushing Albion!—hide the impious strife
Closed with the offering of a monarch's life,
To mark the hopes which happier hours afford,
Of rescued rights, and regal power restored.

'O, wayward race of man! by woe untamed,
By dark Misfortune's lessons unreclaim'd—
Albion laments again the fatal hour,
When royal frenzy grasps at boundless power.
Temperate,—for sad experience well had shewn,
Her own best rights were buried with the throne;
Temperate, but firm, in law and reason's cause,
Again the sword, reluctant, Freedom draws;
But her true bulwark guards, with jealous eye,
The crown revering, though the tyrant fly.

'At length, where Elbe's parental current flows,
Once more her eye insulted England throws;
Her hopes regard that sacred source, once more,
Whence Saxon freedom bless'd her happy shore;
For there the scyons of thy generous line,
In patriot Virtue's pure regalia, shine:
There, on thy banners, still the Saxon steed
Flies o'er the crimson field in mimic speed.
To ancient rights, which, long as Britain's isle
Flourish'd in Monarchy's paternal smile,
From parent worth and warlike fame begun,
In long succession pass'd from sire to son;
From gods and heroes of a fabling age,
Through chiefs enroll'd on History's sacred page,
Loud Fame announces, with an angel's voice,
Added, in Brunswick's claim, a people's choice.

'And see, best glory of that patriot race,
Her monarch, Briton-born, Britannia grace;
Loved, honour'd, and revered by all, save those
Who, foes to Freedom, to her friends are foes.
But foes in vain—for Anarchy's wild roar
Shall never shake this Heaven-defended shore,
While Freedom's sons gird Freedom's sacred throne,
With loyal Faith's impenetrable zone.
O'er laurels Rome's sweet poet cull'd to grace
The mighty hero of the Julian race,
Shall rise the glory of his honour'd name,

‘Nor oceans bound his sway, nor stars his fame.’—
Ocean but rolls his azure waves to guide
His fleets to empire, o'er his ambient tide;
And far beyond the planets that appear
Circling, in ceaseless course, the earthly sphere,
Beyond the stretch of human eye-sight far,
Improving Science hails the Georgian star.

'My soul, from times remote, reduce the lay;
Of Alfred's prosperous hours the pride display.
Oft through the thick expanse of sable clouds,
Whose gloom the blunted beam of morning shrouds,
The struggling ray of Sol awhile contends,
Yet, when his car the arch of Heaven ascends,
When, from the azure vault, his glories shine,
Sowing the etherial plains with flame divine;
Though harvests rise with vegetative power,
Swells the ripe fruit, and glows the blooming flower,
Remembering still the hours of winter pass'd,
The transient sunshine, and the ungenial blast,
The wary husbandman, with prescient care,
Guards 'gainst the driving storm, and piercing air.
So, when emerging from Misfortune's shade,
Alfred, thy patriot virtues shine display'd,
And tranquil days, with Plenty in their train,
Brighten once more the renovated plain;
When the tumultuous shouts of battle cease,
When thrills the warbling string with notes of peace,
Ne'er let thy active mind in sloth repose,
But jealous watch the blessings Peace bestows.
Be it thy care, by Freedom's ready guard,
Each threatening blow Invasion aims, to ward.
Thy voice shall teach the labourer of the field
The sickle, and the sword, by turns to wield;
By thee array'd, lo! Britain, wide and far,
Trains, 'mid the smiles of Peace, her sons to war.
Now the industrious swain, with rural toil,
‘Drives the keen plough-share, through the stubborn soil,’
And now aside the shining coulter throws,
Grasps the keen sword, and braves his country's foes;
Follows his native lord through War's alarms,
In peace his patron, and his chief in arms.
O, shame to England's glory!—Can it be?—
Too sure the stain my starting eye-balls see.
See where Corruption's black insidious band,
Wrest Freedom's faulchion from the Freeman's hand;
Wrest from the Briton's hand, and bid a host
Of mercenary aliens guard the coast.
Hail, glorious sage! immortal patriot, hail!
Whose fervent words o'er dark mistrust prevail.
I see, once more, Britannia's arms restored,
Once more the indignant Briton grasp the sword,
The rural empire hail its rural band,
And Chatham renovate what Alfred plann'd.

'Albion, in thee, shall own the power that gave
A certain empire o'er the uncertain wave,
Taught her commercial sails the surge to sweep,
Or awe, with warrior prow, the hostile deep.
Far o'er the distant wave, where rising day

Throws, on the sultry coast, its orient ray,
Where, through the shade of many a fragrant grove,
By Ganges' stream the guiltless Bramins rove,
To the lone Pilgrim shall thy vessels bear
Of English charity the fostering care,
Pointing the way where, in succeeding days,
Thy sons an empire o'er the East shall raise,
Mock the vain tear of Ammon's haughty son,
And win a world his armies never won.
Thy barks shall sail through pathless seas that roll,

With sluggish current, round the freezing pole,
With prow adventurous, labouring to explore
A northern passage to the Indian shore.—
O, glorious effort of a daring train!
The attempt illustrious, though the issue vain:
In times remote shall Albion oft pursue,
Successless, yet unfoil'd, this specious view.
Yet, though opposing continents appear,
And icy horrors of the polar year,
To bar her course,—full many a fertile isle,
Adorn'd with lavish Nature's sweetest smile,
Studding the bosom of the southern wave,
Rewards the failing labours of the brave.

'By Conquest crown'd, while Britain's navies ride,
In state imperial, o'er the obedient tide,
While, train'd to arms, her brave and hardy swains
Stand a firm barrier to their native plains,
Scorn'd shall Invasion's idle terrors sleep,
Whelm'd, by her watchful navies, in the deep;
Or, by the scowling tempest wafted o'er,
Destruction meet upon her martial shore.

'And see, by fair Augusta's stately towers,
Pellucid Thames his placid current pours,
Wafting, through many a league of Albion's reign,
The golden produce of her happy plain,
Or, bearing on his refluent tide, the sail
Of Commerce, swell'd by Fortune's favouring gale.
To pile her marts contending nations meet,
The world's productions offering at her feet.
Whate'er of wealth in various regions shines,
Glows in their sands, or lurks within their mines;
Whate'er from bounteous Nature men receive,
Whatever toil can rear, or art can weave,
Her princely merchants bear from every zone,
Their country's stores increasing with their own.
And, as the dewy moisture Sol exhales,
With beam refulgent, from the irriguous vales,
Descends in favouring showers of genial rain,
To fertilize the hill and arid plain,
So wealth, collected by the merchant's hand,
Spreads wide, in general plenty, o'er the land.

'Phantoms of glory, stay!—They fleet along,
Born on the stream of visionary song.—
Hear ye yon shout?—The shout of triumph hear!
It swells, it bursts, on my enraptured ear.—
The hour of vengeance comes! On yon bleak height
The vulture claps his wings, and snuffs the fight.
See o'er the ranks the crimson banners float!
Hark, the loud clarion swells the brazen note!
Denmark's dark raven, cowering, hears the sound,
His flagging pinion droops, and sweeps the ground.'

He ceased.—Amazed the wondering warrior stood,
The mystic numbers chill'd his curdling blood.—
Pale sinks the seer in speechless extacy,
Wild heaves his breast, and haggard rolls his eye;
Till, seizing with his hand the sacred lyre,
His skilful fingers swept again the wire,
Soft o'er his mind the stream of music stole,
And sooth'd the labouring rapture of his soul.

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.

Alfred. Book V.

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.

Alfred. Book V.

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.