THE BANQUET HALL OF WESSEX, OR THE KING WHO COULD SEE.

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 ),

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!’