ALFRED THE HARPER.

A.D. 878.

DARK fell the night, the watch was set,
The host was idly spread,

The Danes around their watchfires met,

Caroused, and fiercely fed.

They feasted all on English food,
And quaffed the English ale;

Their hearts leaped up with burning blood

At each old Norseman tale.

The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves,

And Guthrum, king of all,
Devoured the flesh of England's beeves,

And laughed at England's fall.
Each warrior proud, each Danish earl,
In mail and wolfskin clad,

Their bracelets white with plundered pearl,

Their eyes with triumph mad.

A mace beside each king and lord
Was seen, with blood bestained;
From golden cups upon the board

Their kindling wine they drained.
Ne'er left their sad, storm-beaten coast
Sea-kings so hot for gore;

'Mid Selwood's oaks so dreadful host

Ne'er burnt a track before.

From Humber-land to Severn-land,

And on to Tamar stream,

Where Thames makes green the towery strand,
Where Medway's waters gleam,-

With hands of steel and mouths of flame
They raged the kingdom through ;
And where the Norseman sickle came,
No crop but hunger grew.

They loaded many an English horse

With wealth of cities fair;

They dragged from many a father's corse
The daughter by her hair;

And English slaves, and gems and gold,

Were gathered round the feast ; Till midnight in their woodland hold

Oh! never that riot ceased.

In stalked a warrior tall and rude
Before the strong sea-kings;

"Ye lords and earls of Odin's brood,
Without a harper sings.

He seems a simple man and poor,
But well he sounds the lay,

And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure,
Will ye the song repay."

In trod the bard with keen cold look,
And glanced along the board,
That with the shout and war-cry shook,
Of many a Danish lord.

But thirty brows, inflamed and stern,
Soon bent on him their gaze,
While calm he gazed, as if to learn
Who chief deserved his praise.

Loud Guthrum spake: "Nay, gaze not thus, Thou harper weak and poor!

By Thor! who bandy looks with us,

Must worse than looks endure.

Sing high the praise of Denmark's host,
High praise each dauntless earl;
The brave who stun this English coast
With war's unceasing whirl."

The harper sat upon a block,
Heaped up with wealthy spoil,
The wool of England's helpless flock,
Whose blood had stained the soil.
He sat and slowly bent his head,
And touched aloud the string;
Then raised his face, and boldly said,
"Hear thou my lay, O King!

"High praise from all whose gift is song

To him in slaughter tried, Whose pulses beat in battle strong,

As if to meet his bride.

High praise from every mouth of man

To all who boldly strive,

Who fall where first the fight began,

And ne'er go back alive.

But chief his fame be quick as fire,

Be wide as is the sea,

Who dares in blood and pangs expire,

To keep his country free.

To such, great earls, and mighty king!
Shall praise in heaven belong;
The starry harps their praise shall ring,
And chime to mortal song.

"Fill high your cups, and swell the shout,

At famous Regnar's name!

Who sank his host in bloody rout,

When he to Humber came.

His men were chased, his sons were slain,

And he was left alone.

They bound him in an iron chain

Upon a dungeon stone.

"With iron links they bound him fast;
With snakes they filled the hole,
That made his flesh their long repast,
And bit into his soul.

The brood with many a poisonous fang
The warrior's heart beset;

While still he cursed his foes, and sang
His fierce, but hopeless threat.

"Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes? Why champ your teeth in pain?

Still lives the song though Regnar dies!
Fill high your cups again.

Ye too, perchance, O Norsemen lords !

Who fought and swayed so long, Shall soon but live in minstrel words, And owe your names to song.