Before him at his crowning borne, the sword

That rose from out the bosom of the lake,

And Arthur rowed across and took it, - rich

With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt,

Bewildering heart and eye, the blade so bright

That men are blinded by it; -on one side,

Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world,

'Take me;' but turn the blade and ye shall see,

And written in the speech ye speak yourself,

'Cast me away!' Arthur's face

And sad was

Taking it, but old Merlin counselled

him,

'Take thou and strike! the time to cast away

Is yet far-off.' So this great brand the king

Took, and by this will beat his foemen down."

TENNYSON.

"This land has graves by thousands

more

Than that where Regnar lies.
When conquests fade, and rule is o'er,
The sod must close your eyes.
How soon, who knows? Not chief,

nor bard;

And yet to me 'tis given,

To see your foreheads deeply scarred, And guess the doom of Heaven.

"I may not read or when or how, But, Earls and Kings, be sure I see a blade o'er every brow, Where pride now sits secure. Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain!

When chief and monarch fall, Their names in song shall breathe again,

And thrill the feastful hall."

Grim sat the chiefs; one heaved a groan,

And one grew pale with dread,
His iron mace was grasped by one,
By one his wine was shed.
And Guthrum cried, "Nay, bard, no

more

We hear thy boding lay;

Make drunk the song with spoil and gore!

Light up the joyous fray!"

66 Quick throbs my brain," - so burst

the song,

"To hear the strife once more.
The mace, the axe, they rest too long;
Earth cries, My thirst is sore.
More blithely twang the strings of
bows

Than strings of harps in glee;
Red wounds are lovelier than the rose,
Or rosy lips to me.

"Oh! fairer than a field of flowers, When flowers in England grew, Would be the battle's marshalled powers,

The plain of carnage new.
With all its deaths before my soul
The vision rises fair;

Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl!

I would that I were there!"

Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye Rolled fiercely round the throng;

It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh,

Whose shock aroused the song.
A golden cup King Guthrum gave
To him who strongly played;
And said, "I won it from the slave
Who once o'er England swayed."

King Guthrum cried, ""Twas Alfred's own;

Thy song befits the brave:
The King who cannot guard his
throne

Nor wine nor song shall have."
The minstrel took the goblet bright,
And said, "I drink the wine
To him who owns by justest right
The cup thou bid'st be mine.

"To him, your Lord, Oh shout ye all!

His meed be deathless praise!
The King who dares not nobly fall,
Dies basely all his days."

"The praise thou speakest," Guthrum said,

"With sweetness fills mine ear; For Alfred swift before me fled, And left me monarch here. The royal coward never dared Beneath mine eye to stand. Oh, would that now this feast he shared,

And saw me rule his land!"

Then stern the minstrel rose, and spake,

And gazed upon the King, "Not now the golden cup I take, Nor more to thee I sing. Another day, a happier hour, Shall bring me here again: The cup shall stay in Guthrum's power

Till I demand it then."

The Harper turned and left the shed,

Nor bent to Guthrum's crown;
And one who marked his visage said
It wore a ghastly frown.

The Danes ne'er saw that Harper more,

For soon as morning rose,

Upon their camp King Alfred bore, And slew ten thousand foes.

JOHN STERLING