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.