The Race of Alfred covet glorious pains When dangers threaten, dangers ever new! Black tempests bursting, blacker still in view! But manly sovereignty its hold retains ; The root sincere, the branches bold to strive With the fierce tempest, while, within the round Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive; As oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground, Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom,
The fostered hyacinths spread their purple bloom.
URGED by Ambition, who with subtlest skill Changes her means, the Enthusiast as a dupe Shall soar, and as a hypocrite can stoop, And turn the instruments of good to ill, Moulding the credulous people to his will. Such DUNSTAN :-from its Benedictine coop Issues the master Mind, at whose fell swoop The chaste affections tremble to fulfil Their purposes. Behold, pre-signified,
The Might of spiritual sway! his thoughts, his dreams, Do in the supernatural world abide:
So vaunt a throng of Followers, filled with pride In what they see of virtues pushed to extremes, And sorceries of talent misapplied.
WOE to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey* ! Dissension, checking arms that would restrain The incessant Rovers of the northern main, Helps to restore and spread a Pagan sway : But Gospel-truth is potent to allay Fierceness and rage; and soon the cruel Dane Feels, through the influence of her gentle reign, His native superstitions melt away.
Thus, often, when thick gloom the east o'ershrouds, The full-orbed Moon, slow-climbing, doth appear Silently to consume the heavy clouds;
How no one can resolve; but every eye Around her sees, while air is hushed, a clear And widening circuit of ethereal sky.
A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere, From Monks in Ely chanting service high, While-as Canute the King is rowing by:
"My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, " draw near,
That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear!" He listens (all past conquests, and all schemes
Of future, vanishing like empty dreams) Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear. The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still, While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along, Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme*. O suffering Earth! be thankful: sternest clime And rudest age are subject to the thrill Of heaven-descended Piety and Song.
THE NORMAN CONQUEST.
THE woman-hearted Confessor prepares The evanescence of the Saxon line.
Hark! 'tis the tolling Curfew!-the stars shine; But of the lights that cherish household cares And festive gladness, burns not one that dares To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, Emblem and instrument, from Thames to Tyne, Of force that daunts, and cunning that ensnares! Yet as the terrors of the lordly bell, That quench, from hut to palace, lamps and fires, Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires; Even so a thraldom, studious to expel Old laws, and ancient customs to derange, To Creed or Ritual brings no fatal change.
COLDLY we spake. The Saxons, overpowered By wrong triumphant through its own excess, From fields laid waste, from house and home devoured By flames, look up to heaven and crave redress From God's eternal justice. Pitiless
Though men be, there are angels that can feel For wounds that death alone has power to heal, For penitent guilt, and innocent distress. And has a Champion risen in arms to try His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes no more; Him in their hearts the people canonize;
And far above the mine's most precious ore The least small pittance of bare mould they prize Scooped from the sacred earth where his dear relics lie.
"AND shall," the Pontiff asks, "profaneness flow From Nazareth-source of Christian piety, "From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of Agony "And glorified Ascension? Warriors, go,
prayers and blessings we your path will sow; "Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye
“Have chased far off by righteous victory
sons of Amalek, or laid them low!".
"GOD WILLETH IT," the whole assembly cry; Shout which the enraptured multitude astounds! The Council-roof and Clermont's towers reply ;"God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds,
And, in awe-stricken Countries far and nigh,
Through Nature's hollow arch' that voice resounds*.
THE turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms Along the west; though driven from Aquitaine, The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain; And soft Italia feels renewed alarms;
The scimitar, that yields not to the charms Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain; Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain Their tents, and check the current of their arms. Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination, Upheave, so seems it, from her natural station All Christendom :-they sweep along (was never So huge a host!)—to tear from the Unbeliever The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation.
* The decision of this council was believed to be instantly known in remote parts of Europe
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