A Danish Barrow

On the East Devon Coast LIE still, old Dane, below thy heap!   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. Lie still, old Dane! This restful scene   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. Lie still! Thy mother-land herself   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. And thou,—thy very name is lost!   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 turned and passed to other feats,   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. So lie: and let the children play   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.