Frideswida flies from the pursuit of a wicked king, invoking the
Divine aid and the prayers of St. Catherine and St. Cecilia. She
escapes; and at the hour of her death those Saints reveal to her
that in that place, near the Isis, where she has successively
opened a blind man's eyes and healed a leper, God will one day
raise up a seat of Learning, the light and the health of the realm.
Kenwalk, King of Wessex, is a Pagan, but refuses to persecute
Christians. He is dethroned by the Mercian King, and lives an exile
in a Christian land. There he boasts that he never accords faith to
what he hears, and believes only what he sees; yet, his eye being
single, he sees daily more of the Truth. Wessex is delivered, and a
great feast held at which the Pagan nobles, priests, and bards all
conspire for the destruction of the Faith. Birinus, the bishop,
having withstood them valiantly, Kenwalk declares himself a
Christian. Birinus prophesies of England's greatest King.
King Cynegils lay dead, who long and well
Had judged the realm of Essex. By his bier
The Christians standing smote their breasts, and said,
'Ill day for us:' but all about the house
Clustering in smiling knots of twos and threes,
The sons of Odin whispered, or with nods
Gave glad assent. Christ's bishop sent from Rome,
Birinus, to the king had preached for years
The Joyous Tidings. Cynegils believed,
And with him many; but the most refrained:
With these was Kenwalk; and, his father dead,
Kenwalk was king.
A valiant man was he,
A man of stubborn will, but yet at heart
Magnanimous and just. To one who said,
'Strike, for thine hour is come!' the king new-crowned
Made answer, 'Never! Each man choose his path!
My father chose the Christian—Odin's I.
I crossed my father oft a living man;
I war not on him dead.'
That giant hand
Which spared Religion ruled in all beside:
He harried forth the robbers from the woods,
And wrecked the pirates' ships. He burned with fire
A judge unjust, and thrice o'er Severn drave
The invading Briton. Lastly, when he found
That woman in his house intolerable,
From bed and realm he hurled her forth, though crowned,
Ensuing thence great peace.
Not long that peace:
The Mercian king, her brother, heard her tale
With blackening brow. The shrill voice stayed at last,
Doubly incensed the monarch made reply:
'Sister, I never loved you;—who could love?
But him who spurned you from his realm I hate:
Fear nought! your feast of vengeance shall be full!'
He spake; then cried, 'To arms!'
In either land,
Like thunders low and far, or windless plunge
Of waves on coasts long silent that proclaim,
Though calm the sea for leagues, tempest far off
That shoreward swells, thus day by day was heard
The direful preparation for a war
Destined no gladsome tournament to prove,
But battle meet for ancient foes resolved
To clear old debts; make needless wars to come.
Not long that strife endured; on either side
Valour was equal; but on one, conjoined,
The skill most practised, and the heavier bones:
The many fought the few. On that last field
'Twas but the fury of a fell despair,
Not hope, that held the balance straight so long:
Ere sunset all was over. From the field
A wounded remnant dragged their king, half dead:
The Mercian host pursued not.
Many a week
Low lay the broken giant nigh to death:
At last, like creeping plant down-dragged, not crushed,
That, washed by rains, and sunshine-warmed, once more
Its length uplifting, feels along the air,
And gradual finds its 'customed prop, so he,
Strengthening each day, with dubious eyes at first
Around him peered, but raised at length his head,
And, later, question made. His health restored,
He sought East Anglia, where King Anna reigned,
His chief of friends in boyhood. Day by day
A spirit more buoyant to the exile came
And winged him on his way: his country's bound
Once passed, his darker memories with it sank:
Through Essex hastening, stronger grew his step;
East Anglian breezes from the morning sea
Fanned him to livelier pulse: wild April growths
Gladdened his spirit with glittering green. More fresh
He walked because the sun outfaced him not,
Veiled, though not far. That shrouded sun had ta'en
Its passion from the wild-bird's song, but left
Quiet felicities of notes low-toned
That kept in tune with streams too amply brimmed
To chatter o'er their pebbles. Kenwalk's soul
Partook not with the poet's. Loveliest sights,
Like music brightening those it fails to charm,
Roused but his mirthful mood. To each that passed
He tossed his jest: he scanned the labourer's task;
Reviled the luckless boor that ploughed awry,
And beat the smith that marred the horse's hoof:
At times his fortunes thus he moralised:
'Here walk I, crownless king, and exiled man:
My Mercian brother lists his sister's tongue:
Say, lark! which lot is happiest?'
Festive streets,
Tapestries from windows waving, banners borne
By white-clad children chanting anthems blithe;
With these East Anglia's king received his friend
Entering the city gate. In joyous sports
That day was passed. At banquet Christian priests
Sat with his thanes commingled. Anna's court
Was Christian, and, for many a league around,
His kingdom likewise. As the earth in May
Glistens with vernal flowers, or as the face
Of one whose love at last has found return
Irradiate shines, so shone King Anna's house,
A home of Christian peace. Fair sight it was—
Justice and Love, the only rivals there,
O'er-ruled it, and attuned. Majestic strength
Looked forth in every glance of Anna's eye,
Too great for pride to dwell there. Tender-souled
As that first streak, the harbinger of dawn
Revealed through cloudless ether, such the queen,
All charity, all humbleness, all grace,
All womanhood. Harmonious was her voice,
Dulcet her movements, undisguised her thoughts,
As though they trod an Eden land unfallen,
And needed raiment none. Some heavenly birth
Their children seemed, blameless in word and act,
The sisters as their brothers frank, and they,
Though bolder, not less modest. Kenwalk marked,
And marking, mused in silence, 'Contrast strange
These Christians with the pagan races round!
Something those pagans see not these have seen:
Something those pagans hear not these have heard:
Doubtless there's much in common. What of that?
'Tis thus 'twixt man and dog; yet knows the dog
His master walks in worlds by him not shared—
Perchance for me too there are worlds unknown!'
Thus God to Kenwalk shewed the things that bear
Of God true witness, seeing in his soul
Justice and Judgment, and, with these conjoined,
Valour and Truth: for as the architect
On tower four-square and solid plants his spire,
And not on meads below, though gay with flowers,
On those four virtues God the fabric rears
Of virtues loftier yet—those three, heaven-born,
And pointing heavenward.
To those worlds unknown
Kenwalk ere long stood nigh. In three short months
The loveliest of those children, and last born,
Lay cold in death. Old nurses round her wailed:
The mighty heart of Kenwalk shook for dread
Entering the dim death-chamber. On a bier
The maiden lay, the cross upon her breast:
Beside her sat her mother, pale as she,
Yet calm as pale. When Kenwalk near her drew
She lifted from that bier a slender book
And read that record of the three days' dead
Raised by the Saviour from that death-cave sealed,
A living man. Once more she read those words,
'I am the Resurrection and the Life,'
Then added, low, with eyes up cast to heaven,
'With Him my child awaits me.' Kenwalk saw;
And, what he saw, believing, half believed—
Not more—the things he heard.
Yes, half believed;
Yet, call it obduracy, call it pride,
Call it self-fear, or fear of priestly craft,
He closed his ear against the Word Divine:
The thing he saw he trusted; nought beyond.
Three years went by. Once, when his friend had named
The Name all-blessed, Kenwalk frowned. Since then
That Name was named no more. O'er hill and dale
They chased the wild deer; on the billow breathed
Inspiring airs; in hall of joyance trod
The mazes of the dance. Then war broke out:
Reluctant long King Anna sought the field;
Hurled back aggression. Kenwalk, near him still,
Watched him with insight keener than his wont,
And, wondering, marked him least to pagans like
Inly, when like perforce in outward deed.
The battle frenzy took on him no hold:
Severe his countenance grew; austere and sad;
Fatal, not wrathful. Vicar stern he seemed
Of some dread, judgment-executing Power,
Against his yearnings; not despite his will.
Once, when above the faithless town far off
The retributive smoke leaped up to heaven,
He closed with iron hand on Kenwalk's arm
And slowly spake—a whisper heard afar—
'See you that town? Its judgment is upon it!
I gave it respite twice. This day its doom
Is irreversible.'
The invader quelled,
Anna and Kenwalk on their homeward way
Rode by the grave of saintly Sigebert,
King Anna's predecessor. Kenwalk spake:
'Some say the people keep but memory scant
Of benefits: I trust the things I see:
I never passed that tomb but round it knelt
A throng of supplicants! King Sigebert
Conversed, men say, with prophet and with seer:
I never loved that sort:—who wills can dream—
Yet what I see I see.'
'They pray for him,'
Anna replied, 'who perished for their sake:
Long years he lived recluse at Edmondsbury,
A tonsured monk: around its walls one day
Arose that cry, "The Mercian, and his host!
Forth, holy King, and lead, as thou wert wont,
Thy people to the battle, lest they die!"
Again I see him riding at their head,
Lifting a cross, not sword. The battle lost,
Again I see him fall.' With rein drawn tight
King Kenwalk mused; then smote his hands, and cried
'My father would have died like Sigebert!
He lacked but the occasion!' After pause,
Sad-faced, with bitter voice he spake once more:
'Such things as these I might have learned at home!
I shunned my father's house lest fools might say,
'He thinks not his own thoughts.'
Thus month by month,
Though Faith which 'comes by hearing' had not come
To Kenwalk yet, not less since sight he used
In honest sort, and resolute to learn,
God shewed him memorable things and great
Which sight unblest discerns not, tutoring thus
A kingly spirit to a kingly part:
Before him near it lay.
The morrow morn
Great tidings came: in Wessex war was raised:
Kenwalk, departing thus to Anna spake,
To Anna, and his consort: 'Well I know
What thanks are those the sole your hearts could prize:'
With voice that shook he added: 'Man am I
That make not pledge: yet, if my father's God
Sets free my father's realm——' again he paused;
Then westward rode alone.
Well planned, fought well
(For Kenwalk, of the few reverse makes wise,
From him had put his youth's precipitance)
That virtuous warfare triumphed. Swift as fire
The news from Sherburne and from Winbourne flashed
To Sarum, Chertsey, Malmsbury. That delight
On earth the nearest to religious joy,
The rapture of a trampled land set free,
Swelled every breast: the wounded in their wounds
Rejoiced, not grieved: the sick forgat their pains:
The mourner dashed away her tear and cried,
'Wessex is free!' Remained a single doubt:
Christians crept forth from cave and hollow tree:
Once more the exiled monk was seen; and one
Who long in minstrel's garb, with harp in hand,
Old, poor, half blind, had sat beside a bridge,
And, charming first the wayfarer with song,
Had won him next with legends of the Cross,
Stood up before his altar. Rumour ran
'Once more Birinus lifts his crosier-staff!'
Then muttered priests of Odin, 'Cynegils
We know was Christian. Kenwalk holds—or held,
Ancestral Faith, yet warred not on the new:
Tolerance means still connivance.'
Peace restored,
Within King Kenwalk's echoing palace hall,
The hall alike of council and of feast,
The Great Ones of the Wessex realm were met:
Birinus sat among them, eyed from far
With anger and with hatred. Council o'er,
Banquet succeeded, and to banquet song,
The Saxon's after-banquet. Many a harp
That day by flying hand entreated well
Divulged its secret, amorous, or of war;
And many a warrior sang his own great deeds
Or dirge of ancient friend Valhalla's guest;
Nor stinted foeman's praise. Silent meanwhile
Far down the board a son of Norway sat,
Ungenial guest with clouded brows and stern,
And eyes that flashed beneath them: bard was he,
Warrior and bard. Not his the song for gold!
He sang but of the war-fields and the gods;
He lays of love despised. 'Thy turn is come,
Son of the ice-bound North,' thus spake a thane:
'Sing thou! The man who sees that face, already
Half hears the tempest singing through the pines
That shade thy gulfs hill-girt.' The stranger guest
Answered, not rising: 'Yea, from lands of storm
And seas cut through by fiery lava floods
I come, a wanderer. Ye, meantime, in climes
Balm-breathing, gorge the fat, and smell the sweet:
Ye wed the maid whose sire ye never slew,
And bask in unearned triumph. Feeble spirits!
Endless ye deem the splendours of this hour,
And call defeat opprobrious! Sirs, our life
Is trial. Victory and Defeat are Gods
That toss man's heart, their plaything, each to each:
Great Mercia knows that truth—of all your realms
Faithfullest to Odin far!'
'Nay, minstrel, sing,'
Once more, not wroth, they clamoured. He replied:
'Hear then my song; but not those songs ye sing:
I have against you somewhat, Wessex men!
Ye are not as your fathers, when, in youth,
I trod your coasts. That time ye sang of Gods,
Sole theme for manlike song. On Iceland's shores
We keep our music's virtue undefiled:
While summer lasts we fight; by winter hearths,
Or ranged in sunny coves by winter seas,
Betwixt the snow-plains and the hills of fire,
Singing we feed on legends of the Gods:
Ye sing but triumphs of the hour that fleets;
Ye build you kingdoms: next ye dash them down:
Ye bow to idols! O that song of mine
Might heal this people's wound!'
Then rose the bard
And took his harp, and smote it like a man;
And sang full-blooded songs of Gods who spurn
Their heaven to war against that giant race
Throned 'mid the mountains of old Jötunheim
That girdle still the unmeasured seas of ice
With horror and strange dread. Innumerable,
In ever-winding labyrinths, glacier-thronged,
Those mountains raise their heads among the stars,
That palsied glimmer 'twixt their sunless bulks,
O'er-shadowing seas and lands. O'er Jötunheim
The glittering car of day hath never shone:
There endless twilight broods. Beneath it sit
The huge Frost-Giants, sons of Örgelmir,
Themselves like mountains, solitary now,
Now grouped, with knees drawn up, and heads low bent
Plotting new wars. Those wars the Northman sang;
And thunder-like rang out the vast applause.
That hour Birinus whispered one close by:
'Not casual this! Ill spirits, be sure, this day,
And impious men will launch their fiercest bolts
To crush Christ's Faith for ever!'
Jocund songs
The bard sang next: how Thor had roamed disguised
Through Jötunheim, and found the giant-brood
Feasting; and how their king gave challenge thus:
'Sir, since you deign us visit, show us feats!
Behold yon drinking horn! with us a child
Drains it at draught.' The God inclined his head
And swelled his lips; and three times drank: yet lo!
Nigh full that horn remained, the dusky mead
In mockery winking! Spake once more the king:
'Behold my youngest daughter's chief delight,
Yon wild-cat grey! She lifts it: lift it thou!'
The God beneath it slipped his arm and tugged,
And tugging, ever higher rose and higher;
The wild cat arched her back and with him rose;—
But one foot left the ground! Last, forward stept
A haggard, lame, decrepid, toothless crone,
And cried, 'Canst wrestle, friend?' He closed upon her:
Firm stood she as a mountain: she in turn
Closed upon Thor, and brought him to one knee:
Lower she could not bend him. Thor for rage
Clenched both his fists until his finger-joints
Grew white as snow late fallen!
Loud and long
The laughter rose: the minstrel frowned dislike:
'I have against you somewhat, Wessex men!
In laughter spasms ye reel, or shout applause,
Music surceased. Like rocks your fathers sat;
In every song they knew some mystery lay,
Mystery of man or nature. Greater God
Is none than Thor, whom, witless, thus ye flout.
That giant knew his greatness, and, at morn,
While vexed at failure through the gates he passed,
Addressed him reverent: 'Lift thy head, great Thor!
Disguised thou cam'st; not less we knew thee well:
Brave battle fought'st thou, seeming still to fail:
Thy foes were phantoms! Phantasies I wove
To snare thine eyes because I feared thy hand,
And pledged thy strength to tasks impossible.
That horn thou could'st not empty was the sea!
At that third draught such ebb-tide stripp'd the shore
As left whole navies stranded! What to thee
Wild-cat appeared was Midgard's endless snake
Whose infinite circle clasps the ocean round:
Then when her foot thou liftedst, tremour went
From iron vale to vale of Jötunheim:
Hadst thou but higher raised it one short span,
The sea had drowned the land! That toothless crone
Was Age, that drags the loftiest head to earth:
She bent thy knee alone. Come here no more!
On equal ground thou fight'st us in the light:
In this, our native land, the stronger we,
And mock thee by Illusions!'
After pause,
With haughty eye cast round, the minstrel spake:
'Now hear ye mysteries of the antique song,
Though few shall guess their import!' Then he sang
Legends primeval of that Northern race,
And dread beginnings of the heavens and earth,
When, save the shapeless chaos, nothing was:
Of Ymer first, by some named Örgelmir,
The giant sire of all the giant brood:—
Him for his sins the sons of Bör destroyed;
Then fashioned of his blood the seas and streams,
And of his bones the mountains; of his teeth
The cliffs firm set against the aggressive waves;
Last, of his skull the vast, o'er-hanging heaven;
And of his brain the clouds.
'Sing on,' they cried:
Next sang he of that mystic shape, earth-born,
The wondrous cow, Auhumla. Herb that hour
Was none, nor forest growth; yet on and on
She wandered by the vapour-belted seas,
And, wandering, from the stones and icebergs cold
That creaked forlorn against the grey sea-crags,
She licked salt spray, and hoary frost, and lived;
And ever where she licked sprang up, full-armed,
Men fair and strong!
Once more they cried, 'Sing on!'
Last sang the minstrel of the Night and Day:
Car-borne they sweep successive through the heaven:
First rides the dusky maid by men called Night;
Sleep-bringing, pain-assuaging, kind to man;
With dream-like speed cleaving the starry sphere:
Hrimfaxi is her horse: his round complete
Foam from his silver bit bespangles earth,
And mortals call it 'Morn.' Day follows fast,
Her brother white: Skinfaxi is his horse:
When forth he flings the splendours from his mane
Both Gods and men rejoice.
Thus legends old
The Northman sang, till, fleeting from men's eyes,
The present lived no longer. In its place
He fixed that vision of the world new formed,
Which on the childhood of the Northern mind
Like endless twilight lay;—spaces immense;
Unmeasured energies of fire and flood;
Great Nature's forces, terrible yet blind,
In ceaseless strife alternately supreme,
Or breast to breast with dreadful equipoise
In conflict pressed. Once more o'er those that heard
He hung that old world's low, funereal sky:
Before their eyes he caused its cloud to stream
Shadowing infinitude. He spake no word
Like Heida of that war 'twixt Good and Ill;
That peace which crowns the just; that God unknown:
Enough to him his Faith without its soul!
With glorying eye he marked that panting throng;
Then, sudden, changed his note. Again of war
He sang, but war no more of Gods on Gods;
He sang the honest wars of man on man;
Of Odin, king of men, ere yet, death past,
He flamed abroad in godhead. Field on field
He sang his battles; traced from realm to realm
His conquering pilgrimage: then ended, fierce:
'What God was this—that God ye honoured once?
What man was this—your half-forgotten king?
Your law-giver he was! he framed your laws!
Your poet he: he shaped your earliest song!
Your teacher he: he taught you first your runes!
Your warrior—yours! His warfare consummate,
For you he died! Old age at last, sole foe
Unvanquished, found him throned in Gylfi's land:
Summoning his race around him thus he spake:
"My sons, I scorn that age should cumber youth!
Ye have your lesson—see ye keep it well!
I taught you how to conquer; how to live;
Now learn to die!" His dagger high he raised;
Nine times he plunged it through his bleeding breast,
Then sheathed it in his heart. Ere from his lips
The kingly smile had vanished, he was dead!'
So sang the bard and ceased; his work was done:
Abroad the tempest burst. 'Twas not his songs
Alone that raised it! Memories which they waked,
Memories of childhood, fainter year by year,
Tripled his might. Meantime a Saxon priest
Potential there, bent low, with eye-brow arched,
O'er Eardulf's ear, Eardulf old warrior famed,
And whispered long, and as he whispered glanced
Oft at Birinus. Keen of eye the King,
The action noting well, the aim divined,
And thus to Offa near him spake, low-toned:
'The full-fed priest of Odin sends a sword
To slay that naked babe he hates so sore,
The Faith of Christ!'
Rising with fiery face
And thundering hand that shook the banquet board
Eardulf began: '"Ye are not what ye were!"
So saith our stranger kinsman from the north,
A man plain-tongued; I would that all were such!
Lords, and my King, this stranger speaks the truth!
I tell you too, we are not what we were:
Nor lengthened trail he hunts who seeks the cause.
Lo, there the cause among us! Man from Rome!
I ask who sent thee hither? From the first
Rome and our native races stand at war;
Her hope was this, to make our sons like hers
Liars and slaves, our daughters false and vile,
And, thus subverted, rule our land and us.
Frustrate in war, now sends she forth her priests
In peaceful gown to sap the manly hearts
Her sword but manlier made. Ho, Wessex men!
Ye see your foe! My counsel, Lords, is this:
The worm that stings us tread we to the earth,
Then spurn it from our coasts!'
Ere ceased the acclaim
Subdued and soft the Pagan pontiff rose,
And three times half retired, as one who yields
His betters place; and thrice, answering the call,
Advanced, and leaning stood: at last he spake,
Sweet-voiced, not loud; 'Ye Wessex Earls and Thanes,
I stand here but as witness, not as judge;
Ye are the judges. Late ye heard—yea, twice—
Words strange and new; "Ye are not what ye were!"
I witness this; things are not what they were;
For round me as I roll these sorrowing eyes,
Now old and dim—perchance the fault is theirs—
They find no longer, ranged along your walls
Amid the deep-dyed trophies of old time,
That chiefest of your Standards, lost, men say,
In that ill-omened battle lost which wrecked
But late our Wessex kingdom. Odin's wrath—
I spare to task your time and patience, Lords,
Enforcing truth which every urchin knows—
'Twas Odin shamed his foe! Ah Cynegils!
What made thee Odin's foe? Our friend was he!
Base tolerance first, connivance next, then worse,
Favoured that Faith perfidious! Stood and stands
A bow-shot hence that church the strangers built;
Their church, their font! The strangers, who are they?
Snake-like and supple, winding on and on
Through courtly chambers darkling still they creep,
Nor dare to face a people front to front;
Let them stand up in light, and all is well!
And who their converts? Late, to please a king,
They donned his novel worship like a robe;
When dead he lay they doffed it! Earls and Thanes,
A nobler day is come; a sager king;
In him I trust; in you; in Odin most,
Our nation's strength, the bulwark of our throne.
I proffer nought of counsel. Ye have eyes:
The opprobrium sits among you!'
From the floor
The storm of iron feet rang loud, and swords
Leaped flashing from their sheaths. In silence some
Waited the event: the larger part by far
Clamoured for vengeance on the outlandish Faith,
The loudest they, the apostates of past time.
Then stately from his seat Birinus rose,
And stood in calm marmorean. Long he stood,
Not eager, though expectant. By degrees
That tumult lessening, with a quiet smile
And hand extended, noticing for peace,
Thus he addressed that concourse.
'Earls and Thanes,
Among so many here I stand alone,
Why peaceful? why untroubled? In your hands
I see a hundred swords against me bent:
Sirs, should they slay me, Truth remains unpierced.
A thousand wheat ears swayed by summer gust
Affront one oak; it slights the mimic threat:
So slight I, strong in faith, those swords that err—
Your ignorance, not your sin. The truth of God,
The heart of man against you fight this day,
And, with his heart, his hope. In every land,
Through all the unnumbered centuries yet to come,
The cry of women wailing for their babes
Restored through Christ alone, the cry of men
Who know that all is lost if earth is all,
The cry of children still unstained by sin,
The sinner's cry redeemed from yoke of sin,
Thunder against you. Pass to lesser themes.
'Eardulf, that raged against me, told you, Lords,
That Rome was still the hater of your race,
And warred thereon. She warred much more on mine,
Roman but Christian likewise! Ye were foes;
Warring on you she warred on hostile tribes:
In us she tore her proper flesh and blood:
Mailed men were you that gave her blow for blow;
We were her tender children; on her hearths
We dwelt, or delved her fields and dressed her vines.
What moved her hatred? that we loved a God
All love to man. With every God beside
Rome made her traffic: fellowship with such
Unclean we deemed: thenceforth Rome saw in us
Her destined foe.
Three centuries, Earls and Thanes,
Her hand was red against us. Vengeance came:
Who wrought it? Who avenged our martyred Saints
That, resting 'neath God's altar, cried, "How long?"
Alaric, and his, the Goths! And who were they?
Your blood, your bone, your spirit, and your soul!
They with your fathers roamed four hundred years
The Teuton waste; they swam the Teuton floods,
They pointed with the self-same hand of scorn
At Rome, their common foe! In Odin's loins
Together came ye from the shining East:—
True man was he: ye changed him to false god!
That Odin, when the destined hour had pealed,
Beckoned to Alaric, marched by Alaric's side
Invisibly to Rome!
Ye know the tale:
Her senate-kings their portals barred; they deemed
That awe of Rome would drive him back amazed;
And sat secure at feast. But he that slew
Remus, his brother, on the unfinished wall,
A bitter expiation paid that night!
The wail went up: the Goths were lords of Rome!—
Alaric alone in that dread hour was just,
And with his mercy tempered justice. Why?
Alaric that day was Christian: of his host
The best and bravest Christian. Senators
In purple nursed lived on, 'tis true, in rags;
To Asian galleys and Egyptian marts
The rich were driven; the mighty. Gold in streams
Ran molten from the Capitolian roofs:
The idol statues choked old Tyber's wave:
But life and household honour Alaric spared;
And round the fanes of Peter and of Paul
His soldiers stood on guard. Upon the grave
Of that bad Empire sentenced, nay of all
The Empires of this world absorbed in one,
In one condemned, they throned the Church of Christ;
His Kingdom's seat established.
Since that hour
That Kingdom spreads o'er earth. In Eastern Gaul
Long since your brave Burgundians kneel to Christ;
Pannonia gave Him to the Ostro-Goths,
Barbaric named; and to the Suevi Spain:
The Vandals o'er the Mauritanian shores
Exalt His Cross with joy. Your pardon, sirs:
These lands to you are names; but Odin knew them;
A living man he trod them in his youth;
Hated their vices; bound his race to spurn
Their bait, their bond! That day he saw hath dawned;
O'er half a world the vivifying airs
Launched from your northern forests chaste and cold
Have blown, and blow this hour! The Saxon race
Alone its destiny knows not. Ye have won
Here in this Isle the old Roman heritage:
Perfect your victory o'er that Pagan Rome
With Christian Rome partaking!
Earls and Thanes,
But one word more. Your pontiff late averred
That kings to us are gods; through them we conquer:
I answer thus: That Kingdom God hath raised
Is sovereign and is one; kingdoms of earth,
How great soe'er, to it are provinces
In spiritual things. If princes turn to God
They save their souls. If kingdoms war on God
Their choice is narrow, and their choice is this:
To break, like that which falleth on a stone;
Or else, like that whereon that stone doth fall,
To crumble into dust.'
The Pagan priest
Whispered again to Eardulf, 'Praise to Thor!
He flouts our king! The boaster's chance is gone!'
Then rose that king and spake in careless sort:
'Earls and my Thanes, I came from exile late:
It may be that to exile I return:
Not less my arm is long; my sword is sharp:
Let him that hates me fear me!
Earls and Thanes,
I passed that exile in a Christian realm:
There of the Christian greatness, Christian right,
I somewhat heard, and hearing, disbelieved;
Saw likewise somewhat, and believed in part:
Saw more, till nigh that part had grown to whole:
I saw that war itself might be a thing
Though stern, yet stern in mercy; saw that peace
Might wear a shape dearest to manliest heart,
Peace based on fearless justice militant
'Gainst wrong alone and riot. Earls and Thanes,
Returned, this day and in this regal hall
A spectacle I saw, if grateful less,
Not therefore less note-worthy—countless swords
In judgment drawn against a man unarmed;
Yea, and a man unarmed with brow unmoved
Confronting countless swords. These things I saw;
Fair sight that tells me how to act, and when;
For I was minded to protract the time,
Which strangles oft best purpose. At the font
Of Christ—it stands a bow-shot from this spot,
As late we learned—at daybreak I and mine
Become henceforth Christ's lieges.
Earls and Thanes,
I heard but late a railer who affirmed
That kings were tyrants o'er the faiths of men
Flexile to please them: thus I make reply;
The meanest of my subjects, like his king,
Shall serve his God in freedom: if the chief
Questions the equal freedom of his king
That man shall die the death! Through Christian Faith—
I hide not this—one danger threats the land:
It threats as much, nay more, my royal House:
That danger must be dared since truth is truth:
That danger ye shall learn tomorrow noon:
Till comes that hour, farewell!'
The matin beam,
God's wingèd messenger from loftier worlds,
Through the deep window of the baptistery
Glittered on eddies of the bath-like font
Not yet quiescent since its latest guest
Had thence arisen; beside its marge the king
In snowy raiment stood; upon his right,
Alfred, his first-born, boy of seven years old,
And, close beside, in wonder not in dread,
Mildrede, his sister, younger by one year,
Holding her brother's hand. From either waist
Flowed a white kirtle to the small snow feet
With roses tinged. Above it all was bare,
And with the fontal dew-drops sparkling still;
While from each head with sacred unction sealed
Floated the chrismal veil. That eye is blind
Which sees not beauty save on female brows:
On either face that hour the lustre lay;
But hers was lustre passive, lustre pale;
The boy's was active, daring, penetrating—
The lily she; but he the Morning Star,
Beaming thereon from heaven! With dewy eyes
The strong king on them gazed, and inly mused,
'To God I gave them up: yet ne'er till now
Seemed they so wholly mine!'
Birinus spake:
'Ye have been washed in baptism, though no sin
Hath yet been yours save Adam's, and confirmed;
And houselled ye shall be at Mass seven days,
Since Christ in infant bosoms loves to dwell.
Pray, day by day, that Christ would keep you pure:
Pray for your Father: likewise pray for me,
Old sinner soon to die.' Then raised those babes
Their baptism tapers high, and fixing eyes
That moved not on their backward-fluttering flames,
Led the procession to their palace home,
Their father pacing last.
That day at noon
The monarch sat upon his royal throne,
Birinus near him standing: at his feet
His children played; while round him silent thronged
Warriors and chiefs. The king addressed them thus:
'Birinus, and the rest, I hold it meet
A king should hide his secret from his foes,
But with his friends be open. Yestereve
I, Christian now, unfalteringly avouched
That in the victory of the Christian Faith,
True though it be, one danger I discerned:
That danger, and its root, I now divulge.
Saw ye the scorn within that Northman's eye
Last eve, when, praising Thor, in balance stern
He weighed what now we are with what we were
When first he trod our shores! He spake the truth:
His race and ours are kin; but his retain
Stronglier their manly virtue, frost and snow
Like whetstones sharpening still that virtue's edge.
We soften with the years. Beggars this day
Sue us for bread! Sirs, in a famine once
I saw, then young, a hundred at a time
That, linking hand in hand, loud singing rushed,
Like hunters chasing hart, to sea-beat cliffs,
And o'er them plunged! Now comes this Faith of Christ;
That Faith to which, because that Faith is true,
I pledged this morn my word, my seal, my soul,
The fate and fortunes of our native land
And all my royal House, well knowing this,
The king who loves his kingdom more than God,
Better than both loves self—no king at heart.
Now comes this Christian Faith! That Faith, be sure,
Is not a hardening faith: gentle it makes:—
I told you, Lords, we soften day by day;
I might have added that with growing years
Hardness we doubly need. When Rome was great
Our race, however far diffused, was one,
Blended by hate of Rome. When Rome declined
That bond dissolved. A second bond remained
In Odin's Faith:—Northmen alone retain it
In them a new Rome rises! Earls and Thanes!
The truth be ours though for that truth we die!
Hold fast that truth; yet hide not what it costs.
Through fog and sea-mist of the days to come
I see huge navies with the raven flag
Steering to milder borders Christian half,
Brother 'gainst brother ranging. Kingdoms Seven
Of this still fair and once heroic land,
I say, beware that hour! If come it must,
Then fall the thunder while I walk this earth,
Not when I skulk in crypts!'
The others mute,
From joy malicious some, some vexed with doubt,
Birinus made reply: 'My Lord and King,
Inly this day I gladden, certain now
That neither fancy-drawn, nor anger-spurred,
Nor seeking crowns, for others or thyself,
Nor shunning woes, the worst that earth can know,
For others or thyself, but urged by faith,
God's greatest gift to man, thou mad'st this day
Submission true to Christ. So be it, King!
So rest content! God with a finger's touch
Could melt that cloud which threats thy realm well-loved;
(That threat I deem nor trivial nor obscure)
Not thus He wills. Danger, distress, reverse,
Are heralds sent from God, like peace and joy,
To nations as to men. Happy that land
Which worketh darkling; worketh without wage;
And worketh still for God! If God desired
A people for His sacrificial lamb,
Happiest of nations should that nation be
Which died His willing victim!'
'King, and Son,'
With voice a moment troubled he resumed,
'Thy future rests with God! Yet shake, Oh shake
One boding grief—'tis causeless—from thy breast,
Deeming thy race less valiant than the North:
Faithfuller they stand and nearer to their sires!
Remorseless less to others and to self
I grant them; that implies not valiant less:
The brave are still in spirit the merciful;
Far down within their being stirs a sense
Of more than race or realm. Some claim world-wide,
Whereof the prophet is the wailing babe,
Smites on their hearts—a cradle decks therein
For Him they know not yet, the Bethlehem Babe.
That claim thy fathers felt! Through Teuton woods
(Dead Rome's historian saw what he records[25]),
Moved forth of old in cyclic pilgrimage
Thick-veiled, the sacred image of the Earth,
All reverend Mother, crowned Humanity!
Not war-steeds haled her car, but oxen meek;
And, as it passed oppugnant bounds, the trump
Ceased from its blare; the lance, the war-axe fell;
Grey foes shook hands; their children played together:
Beyond the limit line of dateless wars
Looked forth the vision thus of endless peace.
Think'st thou that here was lack of manly heart?
King, this was manhood's self!'
While thus he spake,
Alfred, and Mildrede, children of the King,
That long time, by that voice majestic charmed,
Had turned from distant sports, upon their knees
Softly and slowly to Birinus crept,
Their wide eyes from his countenance moving not,
And so knelt on; Alfred, the star-eyed boy
Supported by his father's sceptre-staff,
His plaything late, now clasped in hands high-held.
Him with a casual eye Birinus marked
At first; then stood, with upward brow, in trance—
Sudden, as though with Pentecostal flame,
His whole face brightened; on him fell from God
Spirit Divine; and thus the prophet cried:
'Who speaks of danger when the Lord of all
Decrees high triumph? Victory's chariot winged
Up-climbs the frowning mountains of Dismay,
As when above the sea's nocturnal verge
Twin beams, divergent horns of orient light,
Announce the ascending sun. Whatever cloud
Protracts the conflict, victory comes at last.
'What ho! ye sons of Odin and the north!
Far off your galleys tarry! English air
Reafen, your raven standard, darkened long,
Woven of enchantments in the moon's eclipse:
It rains its plague no more! The Kingdoms Seven
Ye came to set a ravening each on each:
Lo, ye have pressed and soldered them in one!
'Behold, a Sceptre rises—not o'er Kent
The first-born of the Faith; nor o'er those vales
Northumbrian, trod so long by crownèd saints;
Nor Mercia's plains invincible in war:
O'er Wessex, barbarous late, and waste, and small,
The Hand that made the worlds that Sceptre lifts;
Hail tribe elect, the Judah of the Seven!
'Piercing the darkness of an age unborn,
I see a King that hides his royal robe;
Assumes the minstrel's garb. Where meet the floods
That King abides his time. I see him sweep,
Disguised, his harp within the Northmen's camp;
In fifty fights I see him victory-crowned;
I see the mighty and the proud laid low,
The humble lifted. God is over all.
'The ruined cities 'mid their embers thrill:
A voice went forth: they heard it. They shall rise,
Their penance done, and cities worthier far
With Roman vices ne'er contaminate.
These shall not boast mosaic floor gem-wrought,
And trod by sinners. In the face of heaven
Their minster turrets these shall lift on high,
Inviting God's great angels to descend
And chaunt with them God's City here on earth.
'Who through the lethal forest cleaves a road
Healthful and fresh? Who bridges stream high-swollen?
Who spreads the harvest round the poor man's cot;
Sets free the slave? On justice realms are built:
Who makes his kingdom great through equal laws
Not based on Pagan right, but rights in Christ,
First just, then free? Who from her starry gates
Beckons to Heavenly Wisdom—her who played
Ere worlds were shaped, before the eyes of God?
Who bids her walk the peopled fields of men,
The reverend street with college graced and church?
Who sings the latest of the Saxon songs?
Who tunes to Saxon speech the Tome Divine?
'Sing, happy land! The Isle that, prescient long,
Long waiting, hid her monarch in her heart,
Shall look on him and cry, "My flesh, my bone,
My son, my king!" To him shall Cambria bow,
And Alba's self. His strength is in his God;
The third part of his time he gives to prayer,
And God shall hear his vows! Hail, mighty King!
For aye thine England's glory! As I gaze,
Methinks I see a likeness on thy brow,
Likeness to one who kneels beside my feet!
The sceptre comes to him who sceptre spurned;
Through him it comes who sceptre clasped in sport;
From Wessex' soil shall England's hope be born
Two centuries hence; and Alfred is his name!'