Читать книгу More Bywords - Yonge Charlotte Mary - Страница 2

The Dane! the Dane!  The heathen Dane

Is wasting Hampshire’s coast again—

From ravaged church and plundered farm

Flash the dread beacons of alarm—

   Fly, helpless peasants, fly!

Ytene’s green banks and forest shades,

Her heathery slopes and gorse-clad glades

   Re-echo to the cry—

Where is the King, whose strong right hand

Hath oft from danger freed the land?

Nor fleet nor covenant avails

To drive aloof those pirate sails,

   In vain is Alfred’s sword;

Vain seems in every sacred fane

The chant—‘From fury of the Dane,

   Deliver us, good Lord.’

The long keels have the Needles past,

Wight’s fairest bowers are flaming fast;

From Solent’s waves rise many a mast,

With swelling sails of gold and red,

Dragon and serpent at each head,

Havoc and slaughter breathing forth,

Steer on these locusts of the north.

Each vessel bears a deadly freight;

Each Viking, fired with greed and hate,

His axe is whetting for the strife,

And counting how each Christian life

Shall win him fame in Skaldic lays,

And in Valhalla endless praise.

For Hamble’s river straight they steer;

Prayer is in vain, no aid is near—

Hopeless and helpless all must die.

Oh, fainting heart and failing eye,

Look forth upon the foe once more!

Why leap they not upon the shore?

Why pause their keels upon the strand,

As checked by some resistless hand?

The sail they spread, the oars they ply,

Yet neither may advance nor fly.

Who is it holds them helpless there?

’Tis He Who hears the anguished prayer;

   ’Tis He Who to the wave

Hath fixed the bound—mud, rock, or sand—

To mark how far upon the strand

   Its foaming sweep may rave.

What is it, but the ebbing tide,

That leaves them here, by Hamble’s side,

So firm embedded in the mud

No force of stream, nor storm, nor flood,

Shall ever these five ships bear forth

To fiords and islets of the north;

A thousand years shall pass away,

And leave those keels in Hamble’s bay.

Ill were it in my rhyme to tell

The work of slaughter that befell;

In sooth it was a savage time—

Crime ever will engender crime.

Each Viking, as he swam to land,

Fell by a Saxon’s vengeful hand;

Turn we from all that vengeance wild—

Where on the deck there cowered a child,

And, closely to his bosom prest,

A snow-white kitten found a nest.

That tender boy, with tresses fair,

Was Edric, Egbert’s cherished heir;

The plaything of the homestead he,

Now fondled on his grandame’s knee;

Or as beside the hearth he sat,

Oft sporting with his snow-white cat;

Now by the chaplain taught to read,

And lisp his Pater and his Creed;

Well nurtured at his mother’s side,

And by his father trained to ride,

To speak the truth, to draw the bow,

And all an English Thane should know,

His days had been as one bright dream—

As smooth as his own river’s stream!

Until, at good King Alfred’s call,

Thane Egbert left his native hall.

Then, five days later, shout and yell,

And shrieks and howls of slaughter fell,

Upon the peaceful homestead came.

’Mid flashing sword, and axe, and flame,

Snatched by a Viking’s iron grasp,

From his slain mother’s dying clasp,

Saved from the household’s flaming grave,

Edric was dragged, a destined slave,

Some northern dame to serve, or heed

The flocks that on the Sæter feed.

Still, with scarce conscious hold he clung

To the white cat, that closely hung

Seeking her refuge in his arm,

Her shelter in the wild alarm—

And who can tell how oft his moan

Was soothed by her soft purring tone?

Time keeping with retracted claw,

Or patting with her velvet paw;

Although of home and friends bereft,

Still this one comforter was left,

So lithe, so swift, so soft, so white,

She might have seemed his guardian sprite.

   The rude Danes deemed her such;

And whispered tales of ‘disir’ bound

To human lords, as bird or hound.

Nor one ’mid all the fleet was found

   To hurt one tender paw.

And when the captive knelt to pray

None would his orisons gainsay;

For as they marked him day by day,

   Increased their wondering awe.

Crouched by the mast, the child and cat,

Through the dire time of slaughter sat,

   By terror both spellbound;

But when night came, a silence drear

Fell on the coast; and far or near,

No voice caught Edric’s wakeful ear,

   Save water’s lapping sound.

He wandered from the stern to prow,

Ate of the stores, and marvelled how

   He yet might reach the ground;

Till low and lower sank the tide,

Dark banks of mud spread far and wide

   Around that fast-bound wreck.

Then the lone boy climbed down the ship,

To cross the mud by bound and skip,

   His cat upon his neck.

Light was his weight and swift his leap,

Now would he softly tread, now creep,

For treacherous was the mud, and deep

From stone to weed, from weed to plank,

Leaving a hole where’er he sank;

With panting breath and sore taxed strength

The solid earth he felt at length.

Sheltered within the copse he lay,

When dawn had brightened into day,

For when one moment there was seen,

His red cap glancing ’mid the green,

   A fearful cry arose—

“Here lurks a Dane!”  “The Dane seek out”

With knife and axe, the rabble rout

Made the copse ring with yell and shout

   To find their dreaded foes.

And Edric feared to meet a stroke,

Before they knew the tongue he spoke.

Hid ’mid the branches of an oak,

   He heard their calls and blows.

Of food he had a simple store,

And when the churls the chase gave o’er,

And evening sunk upon the vale,

With rubbing head and upright tail,

Pacing before him to and fro,

Puss lured him on the way to go—

Coaxing him on, with tender wile,

O’er heath and down for many a mile.

Ask me not how her course she knows.

He from Whom every instinct flows

Hath breathed into His creatures power,

Giving to each its needful dower;

And strive and question as we will,

We cannot trace the inborn skill,

Nor fathom how, where’er she roam,

The cat ne’er fails to find her home.

What pen may dare to paint the woe,

When Egbert saw his home laid low?

Where, by the desolated hearth,

The mother lay who gave him birth,

And, close beside, his fair young wife,

And servants, slain in bootless strife—

   Mournful the King stood near.

Alfred, who came to be his guest,

And deeply rued that his behest

Had all unguarded left that nest,

   To meet such ruin drear.

With hand, and heart, and lip, he gave

All king or friend, both true and brave,

Could give, one pang of grief to save,

   To comfort, or to cheer—

As from the blackened walls they drew

Each corpse, and laid with reverence due;

And then it was that Egbert knew

   All save the child were here.

King Alfred’s noble head was bent,

A monarch’s pain his bosom rent;

Kindly he wrung Thane Egbert’s hand—

“Lo! these have won the blissful land,

Where foeman’s shout is heard no more,

Nor wild waves beat upon the shore;

Brief was the pang, the strife is o’er—

   They are at peace, my friend!

Safe, where the weary are at rest;

Safe, where the banish’d and opprest

   Find joys that never end.”

Thane Egbert groaned, and scarce might speak

For tears that ploughed his hardy cheek,

   As his dread task was done.

And for the slain, from monk and priest

Rose requiems that never ceased,

   While still he sought his son.

“Oh, would to Heaven!” that father said,

“There lay my darling calmly dead,

Rather than as a thrall be bred—

   His Christian faith undone.”

“Nay, life is hope!” bespake the King,

“God o’er the child can spread His wing

And shield him in the Northman’s power

Safe as in Alswyth’s guarded bower;

Treaty and ransom may be found

To win him back to English ground.”

The funeral obsequies were o’er,

   But lingered still the Thane,

Hanging around his home once more,

   Feeding his bitter pain.

The King would fain with friendly force

Urge him anew to mount his horse,

Turn from the piteous sight away,

And fresh begin life’s saddened day,

His loved ones looking yet to greet,

Where ne’er shall part the blest who meet.

Just then a voice that well he knew,

A sound that mixed the purr and mew,

   Went to the father’s heart.

On a large stone King Alfred sat

Against his buskin rubbed a cat,

   Snow-white in every part,

Though drenched and soiled from head to tail.

The poor Thane’s tears poured down like hail—

“Poor puss, in vain thy loving wail,”

   Then came a joyful start!

A little hand was on his cloak—

“Father!” a voice beside him spoke,

   Emerging from the wood.

All travel-stained, and marked with mire,

With trace of blood, and toil, and fire,

Yet safe and sound beside his sire,

   Edric before them stood.

And as his father wept for joy,

King Alfred blessed the rescued boy,

   And thanked his Maker good!

Who doth the captive’s prayer fulfil,

Making His creatures work His will

   By means not understood.