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That, like the Red-cross Knight, they urge their


To lead in memorable triumph home
Truth, their immortal Una? Babylon,
Learned and wise, hath perished utterly,

Nor leaves her Speech one word to aid the sigh
That would lament her;-Memphis, Tyre, are gone
With all their Arts; but classic lore glides on,
By these Religious saved for all posterity.



BEHOLD a pupil of the monkish gown,
The pious ALFRED, King to Justice dear!
Lord of the harp and liberating spear;
Mirror of Princes! Indigent Renown
Might range the starry ether for a crown
Equal to his deserts, who like a year
Pours forth his bounty, like a day doth cheer,
And awes like night with mercy-tempered frown.
Ease from this noble miser of his time

No moment steals; pain narrows not his cares.*
Though small his kingdom as a spark or gem,
Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem,

And Christian India, through her wide-spread clime, In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares.

* See Note.



WHEN thy great soul was freed from mortal chains,
Darling of England! many a bitter shower
Fell on thy tomb; but emulative power
Flowed in thy line through undegenerate veins.
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

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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.

*See Note.



A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere,
From Monks in Ely chanting service high,
While-as Canùte the King is rowing by :

"My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, “draw


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 woman-hearted Confessor prepares

The evanescence of the Saxon line.

Hark! 't is the tolling Curfew! — the stars shine;
But of the lights that cherish household cares
And festive gladness, burns not one that dares

*Which is still extant.

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 choirs;
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.

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