A Christmas Story.
by E.O.
Originally published in Leigh Hunt's Journal (Edward Moxon) vol.1 #4 (28 Dec 1850).
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.
The island was a lonely spot of ground,
By quaking marshes and dark bogs shut round;
A grudging piece of earth, which only bore
Fang'd 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—constrain'd 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 stabb'd 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, seeking for prey,
Like hunted beasts that dare not walk by day;
And there was quiet all about the isle.--
In sacred peace sat Alfred for a while,
Until a knocking at the door, at last,
Snapp'd 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 who fed
With five loaves and two fish five thousand men,
Will not leave us to perish in this den."
And with these words he brought the loaf Which lay
Alone between them 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
Vanish'd,—and seemed to empty all the air
From earth to heaven. But the bread was left;
And Alfred, of his reason nigh bereft,
Rush'd out, and stared across the level fen.
No human shape was there, nor trace of men;
But, smooth, and void, and dark, burdening the eye,
The great blank marsh answer'd the great blank sky.
The ghostly bitterns clang'd among the reeds,
And stirr'd, 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 regain'd thy crown and state,
Make them no object of a nation's hate.
Let men behold, within thy sheltering bower,
The tranquil aspects of benignant Power,—
Love arm'd 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.