The Visions of England Part 2

Few the bright days, and brief the fruitful rest, As summer-clouds that o'er the valley flit:-- To other tasks his genius he must fit; The Dane is in the land, uneasy guest!

--O sacred Athelney, from pagan quest Secure, sole haven for the faithful boy Waiting G.o.d's issue with heroic joy And unrelaxing purpose in the breast!

The Dragon and the Raven, inch by inch, For England fight; nor Dane nor Saxon flinch; Then Alfred strikes his blow; the realm is free:-- He, changing at the font his foe to friend, Yields for the time, to gain the far-off end, By moderation doubling victory.

O much-vex'd life, for us too short, too dear!

The laggard body lame behind the soul; Pain, that ne'er marr'd the mind's serene control; Breathing on earth heaven's aether atmosphere, G.o.d with thee, and the love that casts out fear!

A soul in life's salt ocean guarding sure The freshness of youth's fountain sweet and pure, And to all natural impulse crystal-clear: To service or command, to low and high Equal at once in magnanimity, The Great by right divine thou only art!

Fair star, that crowns the front of England's morn, Royal with Nature's royalty inborn, And English to the very heart of heart!

_The fair-hair'd boy_: There is a singular unanimity among historians in regard to this 'darling of the English,' whose life has been vividly sketched by Freeman (_Conquest_, ch. ii); by Green (_English People_, B.

I: ch. iii); and, earlier, by my Father in his short _History of the Anglo-Saxons_, ch. vi-viii.

_Changing at the font_: Alfred was G.o.dfather to Guthrun the Dane, when baptized after his defeat at Ethandune in 878.

A DANISH BARROW

_ON THE EAST DEVON COAST_

Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap!

--A st.u.r.dy-back and st.u.r.dy-limb, Whoe'er he was, I warrant him Upon whose mound the single sheep Browses and tinkles in the sun, Within the narrow vale alone.

Lie still, old Dane! This restful scene Suits well thy centuries of sleep: The soft brown roots above thee creep, The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen, And,--vain memento of the spot,-- The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.

Lie still!--Thy mother-land herself Would know thee not again: no more The Raven from the northern sh.o.r.e Hails the bold crew to push for pelf, Through fire and blood and slaughter'd kings, 'Neath the black terror of his wings.

And thou,--thy very name is lost!

The peasant only knows that here Bold Alfred scoop'd thy flinty bier, And pray'd a foeman's prayer, and tost His auburn, head, and said 'One more Of England's foes guards England's sh.o.r.e,'

And turn'd and pa.s.s'd to other feats, And left thee in thine iron robe, To circle with the circling globe, While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats The giant warrior to a crust Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.

So lie: and let the children play And sit like flowers upon thy grave, And crown with flowers,--that hardly have A briefer blooming-tide than they;-- By hurrying years borne on to rest, As thou, within the Mother's breast.

HASTINGS

October 14: 1066

'Gyrth, is it dawn in the sky that I see? or is all the sky blood?

Heavy and sore was the fight in the North: yet we fought for the good.

O but--Brother 'gainst brother!--'twas hard!--Now I come with a will To baste the false b.a.s.t.a.r.d of France, the hide of the tanyard and mill!

Now on the razor-edge lies England the priceless, the prize!

G.o.d aiding, the Raven at Stamford we smote; One stroke more for the land here I strike and devote!'

Red with fresh breath on her lips came the dawn; and Harold uprose; Kneels as man before G.o.d; then takes his long pole-axe, and goes Where round their woven wall, tough ash-palisado, they crowd; Mightily cleaves and binds, to his comrades crying aloud 'Englishmen stalwart and true, But one word has Harold for you!

When from the field the false foreigners run, Stand firm in your castle, and all will be won!

'Now, with G.o.d o'er us, and Holy Rood, arm!'--And he ran for his spear: But Gyrth held him back, 'mong his brothers Gyrth the most honour'd, most dear: 'Go not, Harold! thine oath is against thee! the Saints look askance: I am not king; let me lead them, me only: mine be the chance!'

--'No! The leader must lead!

Better that Harold should bleed!

To the souls I appeal, not the dust of the tomb:-- King chosen of Edward and England, I come!'

Over Heathland surge banners and lances, three armies; William the last, Clenching his mace; Rome's gonfanon round him Rome's majesty cast: O'er his Bretons Fergant, o'er the hireling squadrons Montgomery lords, Jerkin'd archers, and mail-clads, and hors.e.m.e.n with pennons and swords:-- --England, in threefold array, Anchor, and hold them at bay, Firm set in your own wooden walls! and the wave Of high-crested Frenchmen will break on their grave.

So to the palisade on! There, Harold and Leofwine and Gyrth Stand like a triple Thor, true brethren in arms as in birth: And above the fierce standards strain at their poles as they flare on the gale; One, the old Dragon of Wess.e.x, and one, a Warrior in mail.

'G.o.d Almighty!' they cry!

'Haro!' the Northmen reply:-- As when eagles are gather'd and loud o'er the prey, Shout! for 'tis England the prize of the fray!

And as when two lightning-clouds tilt, between them an arrowy sleet Hisses and darts; till the challenging thunders are heard, and they meet; Across fly javelins and serpents of flame: green earth and blue sky Blurr'd in the blind tornado:--so now the battle goes high.

Shearing through helmet and limb Glaive-steel and battle-axe grim: As the flash of the reaper in summer's high wheat, King Harold mows horseman and horse at his feet.

O vainly the whirlwind of France up the turf to the palisade swept: Shoulder to shoulder the Englishmen stand, and the s.h.i.+eld-wall is kept:-- As, in a summer to be, when England and she yet again Strove for the sovranty, firm stood our squares, through the pitiless rain Death rain'd o'er them all day; --Happier, not braver than they Who on Senlac e'en yet their still garrison keep, Sleeping a long Marathonian sleep!

'Madmen, why turn?' cried the Duke,--for the hors.e.m.e.n recoil from the slope; 'Behold me! I live!'--and he lifted the ventayle; 'before you is hope: Death, not safety, behind!'--and he spurs to the centre once more, Lion-like leaps on the standard and Harold: but Gyrth is before!

'Down! He is down!' is the shout: 'On with the axes! Out, Out!'

--He rises again; the mace circles its stroke; Then falls as the thunderbolt falls on the oak.

--Gyrth is crush'd, and Leofwine is crush'd; yet the s.h.i.+elds hold their wall: 'Edith alone of my dear ones is left me, and dearest of all!

Edith has said she would seek me to-day when the battle is done; Her love more precious alone than kingdoms and victory won; O for the sweetness of home!

O for the kindness to come!'

Then around him again the wild war-dragons roar, And he drinks the red wine-cup of battle once more.

--'Anyhow from their rampart to lure them, to shatter the bucklers and wall, Acting a flight,' in his craft thought William, and sign'd to recall His left battle:--O countrymen! slow to be roused! roused, always, as then, Reckless of life or death, bent only to quit you like men!-- As bolts from the bow-string they go, Whirl them and hurl them below, Where the deep foss yawns for the foe in his course, Piled up and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with horseman and horse.

As when October's sun, long caught in a curtain of gray, With a flood of impatient crimson breaks out, at the dying of day, And trees and green fields, the hills and the skies, are all steep'd in the stain;-- So o'er the English one hope flamed forth, one moment,--in vain!

As hail when the corn-fields are deep, Down the fierce arrow-points sweep: Now the basnets of France o'er the palisade frown; The s.h.i.+eld-fort is shatter'd; the Dragon is down.

O then there was das.h.i.+ng and dinting of axe and of broad-sword and spear: Blood crying out to blood: and Hatred that casteth out fear!

Loud where the fight is the loudest, the slaughter-breath hot in the air, O what a cry was that!--the cry of a nation's despair!

--Hew down the best of the land!

Down them with mace and with brand!

The fell foreign arrow has crash'd to the brain; England with Harold the Englishman slain!

Yet they fought on for their England! of ineffaceable fame Worthy, and stood to the death, though the greedy sword, like a flame, Bit and bit yet again in the solid ranks, and the dead Heap where they die, and hills of foemen about them are spread:-- --Hew down the heart of the land, There, to a man, where they stand!

Till night with her blackness uncrimsons the stain, And the merciful shroud overshadows our slain.

Heroes unburied, unwept!--But a wan gray thing in the night Like a marsh-wisp flits to and fro through the blood-lake, the steam of the fight; Turning the bodies, exploring the features with delicate touch; Stumbling as one that finds nothing: but now!--as one finding too much: Love through mid-midnight will see: Edith the fair! It is he!

Clasp him once more, the heroic, the dear!

Harold was England: and Harold lies here.

_The hide of the tanyard_; See the story of Arlette or Herleva, the tanner's daughter, mother to William 'the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

_At Stamford_; At Stamford Bridge, over the Derwent, Harold defeated his brother Tostig and Harold Hardrada, Sep 25, 1066.

_Your castle_; Harold's triple palisade upon the hill of battle is so described by the chronicler, Henry of Huntingdon.