(Dead Rome's historian saw what he records 1),
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,

Tacitus

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

S

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!'

259

EPILOGUE.

BEDE'S LAST MAY.

Bede issues forth from Jarrow, and visiting certain villagers in a wood, expounds to them the Beatitudes of Our Lord. Wherever he goes he seeks records of past times, and promises in return that he will bequeath to his fellow-countrymen translations from divers Sacred Scriptures, and likewise a history of God's Church in their land. Having returned to his monastery, he dies a most happy death on the feast of the Ascension, while finishing his translation of St. John's gospel.

THE ending of the Book of Saxon Saints.
With one lay-brother only blessed Bede,
In after times 'The Venerable' named,
Passed from his convent, Jarrow.

Where the Tyne

Blends with the sea, all beautiful it stood,

Bathed in the sunrise. At the mouth of Wear

A second convent, Wearmouth, rose. That hour