Smites on their hearts--a cradle decks therein For Him they know not yet, the Bethlehem Babe. That claim thy fathers felt! Through Teuton woods (Dead Rome's historian saw what he records[25]), Moved forth of old in cyclic pilgrimage Thick-veiled, the sacred image of the Earth, All reverend Mother, crowned Humanity! Not war-steeds haled her car, but oxen meek; And, as it passed oppugnant bounds, the trump Ceased from its blare; the lance, the war-axe fell; Grey foes shook hands; their children played together: Beyond the limit line of dateless wars Looked forth the vision thus of endless peace. Think'st thou that here was lack of manly heart? King, this was manhood's self!' While thus he spake, Alfred, and Mildrede, children of the King, That long time, by that voice majestic charmed, Had turned from distant sports, upon their knees Softly and slowly to Birinus crept, Their wide eyes from his countenance moving not, And so knelt on; Alfred, the star-eyed boy Supported by his father's sceptre-staff, His plaything late, now clasped in hands high-held. Him with a casual eye Birinus marked At first; then stood, with upward brow, in trance-- Sudden, as though with Pentecostal flame, His whole face brightened; on him fell from God Spirit Divine; and thus the prophet cried: 'Who speaks of danger when the Lord of all Decrees high triumph? Victory's chariot winged Up-climbs the frowning mountains of Dismay, As when above the sea's nocturnal verge Twin beams, divergent horns of orient light, Announce the ascending sun. Whatever cloud Protracts the conflict, victory comes at last. 'What ho! ye sons of Odin and the north! Far off your galleys tarry! English air Reafen, your raven standard, darkened long, Woven of enchantments in the moon's eclipse: It rains its plague no more! The Kingdoms Seven Ye came to set a ravening each on each: Lo, ye have pressed and soldered them in one! 'Behold, a Sceptre rises--not o'er Kent The first-born of the Faith; nor o'er those vales Northumbrian, trod so long by crowned saints; Nor Mercia's plains invincible in war: O'er Wessex, barbarous late, and waste, and small, The Hand that made the worlds that Sceptre lifts; Hail tribe elect, the Judah of the Seven! 'Piercing the darkness of an age unborn, I see a King that hides his royal robe; Assumes the minstrel's garb. Where meet the floods That King abides his time. I see him sweep, Disguised, his harp within the Northmen's camp; In fifty fights I see him victory-crowned; I see the mighty and the proud laid low, The humble lifted. God is over all.