From the circumstance of the third person being used in these lines (a custom far from unusual with authors in every age and nation) some have supposed that Alfred did not write them. The truth seems to lie in the opposite opinion: not merely from the prevalent moral resemblance to Alfred's mind; as in that shrewd hint of the evils of dullness, in the eschewal of vain glory, &c ;--but chiefly from the text itself. After disclaiming self praise, recommending rhymes, and announcing the author, Alfred comes simply to the first person, Ic sceal sprecan,' I SHALL SPEAK: may be more learned to doubt, but it is far more sensible to believe.

it

This Opening rhyme does not occur in the Latin: it is a bit of original Alfred.

:

In this, as in others of these metres, there is a great satisfaction in seeing how easily they fall into modern rhymes, without a sacrifice of faithfulness. However, when (instructed by Dr Bosworth) we remember that of the 38,000 words of Modern English 23,000, or more than ths, are Anglo-Saxon, this harmony will appear less wonderful. But,-what a pity it is that ANY of the fine old root-words of our tongue should have been forgotten for example, in this very Opening song, how is it we have lost 'myreg'-as good a word as 'pleasure,' and the root of merry'?—and 'gilpe,' vain-glory?-and 'spell' (not quite yet obsolete) story?—and 'list' (surely as good a word as art) ?— 'fitte' a song 'leoth' a poem,-and many more? We have of late years been throwing away, by the hundred, the stout old props of our strong north-country speech, and have substituted in their stead the sesquipedalia verba of Southern Europe. Nothing then can be more wholesome than to return for awhile to such good plain stuff as Alfred's stalwarth Anglo-Saxon: it is a right bracing air;-may the reader enjoy the sport as much as the writer. We have here before us fresh fields and a fair brooklet of English running water.

That the Gothic rout,

Forth from Scythia's eastern shore,
Led their shieldmen out;

Thronged with swarms of war
The lands of many a clan,

And in the South set firm and far
Two tribes to trouble man.

Yearly waxed and grew

Those Gothic kingdoms twain,
And Alaric and Rædgast too
Right royally did reign.

Then down the Alps the Goth
Made haste to force his way,
In haughty pride all fiercely wroth,
And lusting for the fray:

Their banner fluttered bright,
While all Italia through
Shot ruthless in their linden might
The shielded warrior crew,

Forth from the Alpine drifts

To great Sicilia's coast,
Where in the seastream it uplifts
Its lofty island boast.

Then Rome's old rule was crush'd,
Her costliness despoil'd,

And by that host, with battle flush'd,

The city's beauty soil'd.

Alaric and Raedgast

The fastness first they seek,

While Cæsar with his chiefs fled fast

For safety to the Greek.

Essays

Then could the wretched band,

Left mournfully behind,

No more the warring Goth withstand,
Nor much of mercy find.

Unwillingly their trust

The warders then gave up,
None to his oath was true and just;
And full was sorrow's cup.

Yet to the Greek outyearn'd

The people, as at first,

And for some daring leader burn'd,
To follow whom they durst.

The people wore their woes

Many a wintry year,

Till weird-ordain'd Theodric rose,

Whom thane and earl should hear.

To Christ the chief was born,

And water wash'd the king,

While all Rome's children blest the morn,
That peace with it should bring.

To Rome he vowed full fast

Her old-time rights to yield,

While God should grant his life to last,
The Gothic power to wield.

He did forswear all that:

The Atheling he lied,

To please Arius God forgat,
And falsely slipp'd aside.

He broke his plighted oath,

And, without right or ruth,
Good John the pope against all troth
Beheaded for the truth.

A shameful deed was there

And heaps of other ill

Against the good this Goth did dare

In wickedness of will.

A man there was just set

For heretoch in Rome,

Loved by the lord whose bread he ate,

And dear to all at home:

Dear also to the Greek,

When he the town did save;

A righteous man, whom all would seek, For many gifts he gave.

Long since was he full wise,

In worldly wit and lore,

Eager in worth and wealth to rise,
And skill'd on books to pore.

Boethius was he hight;

He ate shame's bitter bread, And ever kept the scorn in sight Outlandish kings had said.

He to the Greek was true,

And oft the old-rights told, Which he and his forefathers too From those had won of old.

Carefully then he plann'd

To bring the Greek to Rome, That Cæsar in his rightful land Again might reign at home.

In hidden haste he plied

With letters all the lords, And prayed them by the Lord who died To heed his earnest words.

Greece should give laws to Rome,

And Rome should Greece obey; The people longed to let them come To drive the Goth away.

But lo! the Amuling

Theodric found out all,

And bade his fellows seize and bring

This highborn chief in thrall.