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BEHOLD a pupil of the monkish gown!
The pious Alfred, king to justice dear,
Lord of the harp and liberating spear; Mirror of princes! Indigent renown? Might range the starry ether for a crown
Equal to his deserts," who like the year
Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth cheer, And awes the night with mercy-temper'd frown;
Ease from this noble miser of his time
Though small his kingdom, as a spark or gem,
Of Alfred hears remote Jerusalem", And Christian India, through her wide-spread clime, In sacred converse, gifts with Alfred shares.
· His tutor was St. Swithun, a monk, afterwards Bishop of Win. chester.
Fame in want of some one to celebrate. 3 The air, here meaning the firmament. 4 What he deserves. 5 Hoarding up time. 6 He never passed a day without suffering. 7 He sent offerings to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
8 Alfred sent messages and gifts to the Christian Church of St. Thomas, ia Malabar.
DEATH OF EDWIN THE FAIR.
958 or 959.
Edwin had married Elgiva. Archbishop Odo and Dunstan, then Abbot of Glastonbury, endeavoured to separate them because they were nearer of kin than those the Church permitted to wed. A war ensued, in which Elgiva was made prisoner, and died of the cruel treatment she suffered. Edwin, who had been badly wounded, became delirious, tore off his bandages and died. In the scene that follows, Elgiva's corpse is lying on a bier about to be buried.
What corse is this?
The Queen's,' my lord, awaiting burial.
· Properly speaking the Saxon kings' wives were not called queens, but ladies.
I would have will'd thee to repent and live,
My lord, The king, so please you
What sir, of the king ?
Enter another ATTENDANT. My lord, the king! the king!
What, comes he hither?
Enter EDWIN, followed by a physician. Where art thou, my beloved ? Come to me; Art thou not here? They said so, but 'twas false ;
He calls Elgiva's face a mask.
Thou are not here, for if thou wast I know
Ha! I see thee now
Doctor, thou mad'st report The fever had abated.
Had, my lord,
But rages now afresh.
How came he hither ?
Thy hand is very cold. Come, come, look up,
Well, as thou wilt-but 'twas not always thus,
Draw him from the corpse. The loss of blood that drains the fever off Anon will bring him to himself.
But hark !