the song,

so burst

"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.

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.