Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Angel's Visit
The Angel's Visit.
It was about the feast of Christmas-tide,
When gentle love should tread on human pride,
That Alfred, our great Saxon hero, lay
Concealed within the isle of Athelney.
When gentle love should tread on human pride,
That Alfred, our great Saxon hero, lay
Concealed within the isle of Athelney.
The island was a lonely spot of ground,
By quaking marshes and dark bogs shut round;
A grudging piece of earth, which only bore
Banged briers, and moss, and grasses lank and poor.
Look where you would, no sight could you descry
But the black fens, and the void wastes of sky,
And the dull river, always loitering by.
By quaking marshes and dark bogs shut round;
A grudging piece of earth, which only bore
Banged briers, and moss, and grasses lank and poor.
Look where you would, no sight could you descry
But the black fens, and the void wastes of sky,
And the dull river, always loitering by.
Alfred—constrained by Fate himself to hide
From the Dane's legions, thick on every side—
In this bare isle, and in as bare a hut,
With a few comrades and his queen was shut.
The iron winter stabbed them with his sword—
Coarse were their robes, and meagre was their board—
Bread, and the flesh of fowls, bitter and harsh,
Caught with sore travail in the reedy marsh.
From the Dane's legions, thick on every side—
In this bare isle, and in as bare a hut,
With a few comrades and his queen was shut.
The iron winter stabbed them with his sword—
Coarse were their robes, and meagre was their board—
Bread, and the flesh of fowls, bitter and harsh,
Caught with sore travail in the reedy marsh.
The King in this poor dwelling sat one night,
Intently reading by a feeble light.
His friends had all gone forth, in search of prey,
Like hunted beasts that dare not walk by day;
And there was quiet all about the isle.
In sacred peace sat Alfred for awhile,
Until a knocking at the door at last
Snapped short the silence. The King rose, and passed
Straight to the threshold, and beheld an old
And ragged pilgrim standing in the cold,
Who said: "Lo! here upon this ground I die
For very hunger, unless presently
Thou giv'st me food! It is a grievous way
That I have footed since the dawn of day;
And now I stagger like a man in drink,
For weariness, and I must shortly sink.
The stinging marsh-dews clasp me round like death,
And my brain darkens, and I lose my breath."
Intently reading by a feeble light.
His friends had all gone forth, in search of prey,
Like hunted beasts that dare not walk by day;
And there was quiet all about the isle.
In sacred peace sat Alfred for awhile,
Until a knocking at the door at last
Snapped short the silence. The King rose, and passed
Straight to the threshold, and beheld an old
And ragged pilgrim standing in the cold,
Who said: "Lo! here upon this ground I die
For very hunger, unless presently
Thou giv'st me food! It is a grievous way
That I have footed since the dawn of day;
And now I stagger like a man in drink,
For weariness, and I must shortly sink.
The stinging marsh-dews clasp me round like death,
And my brain darkens, and I lose my breath."
"Now, God be thanked," cried Alfred, "that He sends
To one poor man a poorer! Want makes friends
Of its own fellows, when the alien rich
Fear its accusing rags, and in some ditch
Huddles it blindly. I have little bread—
One loaf for many mouths; but He that fed
With five loaves and two fishes five thousand men,
Will not leave us to perish in this den."
To one poor man a poorer! Want makes friends
Of its own fellows, when the alien rich
Fear its accusing rags, and in some ditch
Huddles it blindly. I have little bread—
One loaf for many mouths; but He that fed
With five loaves and two fishes five thousand men,
Will not leave us to perish in this den."
And with these Words he brought the loaf Which lay
Alone between thein and a slow decay;
All that might save them in that desert place,
From the white famine that makes blank the face;
And, breaking it, gave half to the old man.
Alone between thein and a slow decay;
All that might save them in that desert place,
From the white famine that makes blank the face;
And, breaking it, gave half to the old man.
Lo! ere the sharpest eye could difference scan
'Twixt light and dark, the pilgrim standing there
Vanished—and seemed to empty all the air
From earth to heaven. But the bread was left;
And Alfred, of his reason nigh bereft,
Rushed out, and stared across the leven fen.
No human shape was there, nor trace of men;
But smooth, and void, and dark,, burdening the eye,
The great blank marsh answered the great blank sky.
The ghostly bitterns clanged among the reeds,
And stirred, unseen, the ever-drowsy weeds
Of the morass; but all beside was dead—
And a dull stupor fell on Alfred's head.
'Twixt light and dark, the pilgrim standing there
Vanished—and seemed to empty all the air
From earth to heaven. But the bread was left;
And Alfred, of his reason nigh bereft,
Rushed out, and stared across the leven fen.
No human shape was there, nor trace of men;
But smooth, and void, and dark,, burdening the eye,
The great blank marsh answered the great blank sky.
The ghostly bitterns clanged among the reeds,
And stirred, unseen, the ever-drowsy weeds
Of the morass; but all beside was dead—
And a dull stupor fell on Alfred's head.
He stumbled to the house—and sleep was strong
And dark upon his eyelids; but, ere long,
An angel, with a face placid and bright,
Filled all the caverns of his brain with light.
"I am the pilgrim," said the shape. "I came
To try thy heart, and found it free from blame:
Wherefore I'll make thee great above thy foes,
And like a planet that still speeds and glows,
Dancing along the centuries for ever.
But thou must aid me with all hard endeavour;
And when thou hast regained thy crown and state,
Make them no object of a nation's bate.
Let men behold, within thy sheltering bower,
The tranquil aspects of benignant power—
Love armed with strength; and lop thou with firm hand,
That many-headed hunger in thy land.
Which casts its shadows on the golden walls
Of the too prosperous, feasting in their halls.
Make God thy God—not pleasure lightly flown;
And love thy people better than thy throne.
So shall all men forget their ravening maws,
Under the even music of thy laws."
And dark upon his eyelids; but, ere long,
An angel, with a face placid and bright,
Filled all the caverns of his brain with light.
"I am the pilgrim," said the shape. "I came
To try thy heart, and found it free from blame:
Wherefore I'll make thee great above thy foes,
And like a planet that still speeds and glows,
Dancing along the centuries for ever.
But thou must aid me with all hard endeavour;
And when thou hast regained thy crown and state,
Make them no object of a nation's bate.
Let men behold, within thy sheltering bower,
The tranquil aspects of benignant power—
Love armed with strength; and lop thou with firm hand,
That many-headed hunger in thy land.
Which casts its shadows on the golden walls
Of the too prosperous, feasting in their halls.
Make God thy God—not pleasure lightly flown;
And love thy people better than thy throne.
So shall all men forget their ravening maws,
Under the even music of thy laws."
The vision faded, like a subtle bloom,
As the still dawn was Whitening all the room;
And Alfred, starting up, With staring eyes,
Saw his friends round him, laden with supplies;
Who told him that the Danes had fallen back
Before the vigour of a firm attack;
And that the people, gathering up their heart,
Called loudly for their King to act his part,
And take his sceptre and his throne again,—
Now doubly his through wisdom born of pain.
As the still dawn was Whitening all the room;
And Alfred, starting up, With staring eyes,
Saw his friends round him, laden with supplies;
Who told him that the Danes had fallen back
Before the vigour of a firm attack;
And that the people, gathering up their heart,
Called loudly for their King to act his part,
And take his sceptre and his throne again,—
Now doubly his through wisdom born of pain.