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, layConcealed 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 boreBanged briers, and moss, and grasses lank and poor.Look where you would, no sight could you descryBut the black fens, and the void wastes of sky,And the dull river, always loitering by.

 Alfred—constrained by Fate himself to hideFrom 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 lastSnapped short the silence. The King rose, and passedStraight to the threshold, and beheld an oldAnd ragged pilgrim standing in the cold,Who said: "Lo! here upon this ground I dieFor very hunger, unless presentlyThou giv'st me food! It is a grievous wayThat 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 sendsTo one poor man a poorer! Want makes friendsOf its own fellows, when the alien richFear its accusing rags, and in some ditch Huddles it blindly. I have little bread—One loaf for many mouths; but He that fedWith 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 layAlone 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 thereVanished—and seemed to empty all the airFrom 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 weedsOf the morass; but all beside was dead—And a dull stupor fell on Alfred's head.

 He stumbled to the house—and sleep was strongAnd 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 cameTo 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 wallsOf 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 backBefore 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.