Brice's day, November 13th, 1002, the Danes were everywhere fallen on and slain. The ties of affinity (for many of them had married and settled in the country) were disregarded; even Gunhilda, sister to Sweyn, King of Denmark, though a Christian, was not spared, and with her last breath she declared that her death would bring the greatest evils upon England. The words of Gunhilda proved prophetic. Sweyn, burning for revenge and glad of a pretext for war, soon made his appearance on the south coast, and during four years he spread devastation through all parts of the country, until the King Ethelred agreed to give him £30,000 and provisions as before for peace, and the realm thus had rest for two years. But this short peace was but a prelude to further disturbances; and indeed for two centuries, dating from the reign of Egbert, England was destined to become a prey to these fierce and fearless invaders. [Illustration: DANISH ENCAMPMENT AT SWINESHEAD, LINCOLNSHIRE.] The old Abbey of Swineshead was demolished in 1610, and the present structure, known as Swineshead Abbey, was built from the materials. * * * * * THE NAMELESS STREAM [Illustration: Letter B.] Beautiful stream! By rock and dell There's not an inch in all thy course I have not track'd. I know thee well: I know where blossoms the yellow gorse; I know where waves the pale bluebell, And where the orchis and violets dwell. I know where the foxglove rears its head, And where the heather tufts are spread; I know where the meadow-sweets exhale, And the white valerians load the gale. I know the spot the bees love best, And where the linnet has built her nest. I know the bushes the grouse frequent, And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent. I know each tree to thy fountain head-- The lady birches, slim and fair; [Illustration] The feathery larch, the rowans red, The brambles trailing their tangled hair; And each is link'd to my waking thought By some remembrance fancy-fraught. [Illustration] Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame, Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run, Ever since Time its course begun, Without a record, without a name. I ask'd the shepherd on the hill-- He knew thee but as a common rill; I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter-- She knew thee but as a running water; I ask'd the boatman on the shore (He was never ask'd to tell before)-- Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.