They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men
Lady, by one light only We look from Alfred's eyes, We know he saw athwart the wreck The sign that hangs about your neck, Where One more than Melchizedek Is dead and never dies.
When Alfred's word was ended Stood firm that feeble line, Each in his place with club or spear, And fury deeper than deep fear, And smiles as sour as brine.
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