The Vision of Hungus

The King of the Saxons, with wrath in his hand, Gives the land of the Pict to the sword and the brand; He seizes their horsemen encumber’d with spoil, And gives horse and rider to manure the soil.

“O wo to King Hungus!” he swore in his wrath, “His foot-marks have left us a desolate path; “But while a true Saxon remains in the land, “He shall weep that he trod upon Mercia’s strand.

“Remember your altars, down cast and profaned! “Remember your virgins, their purity stain’d! “Then onward, ye sons of the field and the flood, “Till Vengeance be drunk with your enemies’ blood!”

Thus spake the fierce chief, as to Heaven he vow’d, While around him his warriors hung grim as a cloud; “Go, glut your red sabres, till pyramids piled “Arise on these plains, built with women and child!

“Already the bards of your country prepare “To waken their harps to the conqueror’s air; “Already their chords vibrate bold in the hall “To Athelstane’s glory and Hungus’s fall!”

Meanwhile, in his tent, Hungus courted repose, Sleep came to his couch, though surrounded by foes; As sunk on his mattress, all silent and lone, On his slumbers a vision celestial shone.

St Andrew, the patron of Picta, appear’d, His cross, sheathed in glory, triumphantly rear’d; His star-studded band did a motto display, Where “victory” shone in a red golden ray.

O bright was that token!—it set in despair; For the shouts of the Saxons are rending the air; The soldiers of Hungus are scatter’d and broke, And leave him alone, as the tide leaves the rock.

He shew’d them his vision—it was but a dream! The souls of the bravest did wavering seem; When, lo! in the firmament blazing on high, The cross of St Andrew illumined the sky.

Each arm now was nerved that was feeble before, They rush like the torrent that bursts on the shore; As the scythe of the reaper the stubble lays low, So the lances of Hungus are sweeping the foe.

As the proud hosts of Pharaoh aghast did recede, When the ocean divided, closed over their head, So the soul of the Saxon was palsied with fear When he saw the red sign in the heavens appear.

“King Athelstane, yield; for thou shalt not depart!” Said a voice, as the Pict pierced the prince to the heart; And the spot, where the chief fell, ’neath Alpine’s broad sword, Is still in our annals call’d Athelstane-ford.

Kneeling low in the dust, princely Hungus was laid, While vows to his patron were reverently paid; To the church he bequeathed a fair service of gold, As we read in the chronicle Holinshed told.

“Now joy to the Pict, and defeat to the foe! “In his banner triumphant St Andrew shall glow; “While the bards and the sanachies tell in the hall “Of Hungus’s glory and Athelstane’s fall.”