The
time has come once again to honor the South’s patron saint, Alfred the Great of
England (+899; celebrated 26 Oct.). It
is pleasant and intriguing to see him honored by Southerners in foredays, when
his full significance to the South was not quite understood; yet they were
attracted to him withal, as to a kindred soul, which he is indeed. And that is how we will honor him today, with
a poem by Mrs Margaret J. Preston, a lady of the South’s past, the wife of one
of Stonewall Jackson’s staff officers and the sister-in-law of Gen Jackson
himself.
‘The
Legend of Athelney’
ONE
desolate, chill December,
—’Twas hundreds of years ago,—
The
moors and the marish fen-lands
Were dreary and waste with snow:
And
fiercely the wolfish tempest
Howled on the rock-ribb’d shore,
And
the heart of the Saxon people
Was numb to the inmost core.
For
the noble and good King Alfred,
Whose prowess and toils and pains
Had
shielded and kept the kingdom,
And banished the cruel Danes,—
Discomfited
now and reaven
Of province and royal stead,
A
nameless fugitive wandered
Seeking his daily bread.
—’Twas
a Yule-tide eve; and the fagots
That blazed on the earthen floor,
Flung
over the bleak morasses
A glint through the low-brow’d door;—
A
glint that across the levels
Flared
like a cresset-light,
That
beaconed belated footsteps
Over
the drifts of white.
Cowering
beside the embers,
The King of the Saxon land
Read
from the sacred Gospel
Holden
within his hand:—
Read
how the Eastern mages
Found
in the oxen's stall
Jesus
the son of Mary,
The
Lord and the King of all;—
Read
of the Bethlehem shepherds,—
Of the
strange and marvellous sights
That
greeted their upturned faces
That
first of the Christmas-nights.
And
the heart of the King was melted,
And he
uttered a lonely sigh;
“A
Prince,—yet a houseless exile,—
An
outcast,—even as I!”
But
still as he pondered the pages,
Or
ever he was aware,
This
tenderest Christmas-story
Softened
his sharp despair.
With
a cheerier look he lifted
His
eyes from the beaten floor,
And
behold, a gaunt-limb’d beggar
Sought
alms at the wide-set door.
—"Now
what is there for bestowal?
Good mother, beseech thee, see;
For
sore is the need that seeketh
The
succor of Athelney.”
And
the goodwife answered quickly,
“There is left no dole to make,
Nor
a crumb of bread remaineth,
Save
only an oaten cake.
“And
the henchmen who seek the forest
Athwart the dismal wold,
May
fail of the wished-for quarry,
Or
perish amid the cold:
“And
belike we shall starve, my master—”
“Good
mother, I pray, not so!
Who
findeth the finch his berries
When
they’re hidden beneath the snow?
“I
read in the holy Gospel,—
With
the story mine eyes are dim,—
That
for us our Lord left heaven;
Is
there naught we may do for Him?
“When
we know that the cruse is empty,
And
hungry and faint, we feel
’Twixt
us and death there is only
A
morsel of scanty meal,—
“Then is the season for giving;
And
so, for the Lord's sweet sake,
Succor
His needy kinsman,
Break
him the oaten cake:
“Looking
to Him to feed us,
Sure
that the deed is right;
Thankful
an act of mercy
Can
hallow our Christmas-night.”
—As
asleep on his goat-skin pillow
Next mom King Alfred lay,
He
dreamed that he talked with Jesus,
And he
hearkened and heard Him say;—
“Now
honor be thine, and blessing
And power and great degree;
Inasmuch
to the least thou didst it,
Thou
didst it even to me.”
And
when in the wintry gloaming
The
dreamer unclosed his eyes,
The
vision that met them, filled them
With a
mist of glad surprise.
For
there lay on the floor full-antler’d,
A buck
in his fairest prime:
So,
with plenty and cheer right royal,
They welcomed the Christmas-time.
—When
spring from the daisied pastures
Had
routed the leaden gloom,
And
the reaches of sedgy fen-land
Were green with the gorse and broom,—
At
the head of a new-found army
King
Alfred rode amain,
And
hunted from court and castle
The fierce marauding Dane.
And
he hid in his heart the lesson,
Midst the pride of his high degree,
Which
the Christmas-tide had taught him
In the
fens of Athelney.
--
Holy Ælfred the Great,
King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!
Anathema
to the Union!
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