C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Francis Turner Palgrave (1824–1897)
A Danish Barrow
L
A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb,
Whoe’er he was, I warrant him
Upon whose mound the single sheep
Browses and tinkles in the sun,
Within the narrow vale alone.
Suits well thy centuries of sleep:
The soft brown roots above thee creep,
The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen,
And—vain memento of the spot—
The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.
Would know thee not again: no more
The raven from the northern shore
Hails the bold crew to push for pelf,
Through fire and blood and slaughtered kings,
’Neath the black terror of his wings.
The peasant only knows that here
Bold Alfred scooped thy flinty bier,
And prayed a foeman’s prayer, and tost
His auburn head, and said, “One more
Of England’s foes guards England’s shore;”—
And left thee in thine iron robe,
To circle with the circling globe;
While Time’s corrosive dewdrop eats
The giant warrior to a crust
Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.
And sit like flowers upon thy grave
And crown with flowers,—that hardly have
A briefer blooming-tide than they,—
By hurrying years urged on to rest,
As thou within the Mother’s breast.