Prologue

This night the Muse devotes to Days of Yore, When the fierce Dane insulted England's shore; She, hapless isle, in the wild tempest tost, Saw all but her inherent courage lost; Like some stout ship, which, sinking to her grave, Surveys what none but British hearts can brave, Death in a thousand shapes of horror drest, Night without stars, and billows without rest; When some bold voice, loud as the roaring sea, Cries out—"All hands! the port is in our lea!" Instant they rouse—brace up the swelling sail, She rights, she lifts, she rides before the gale; Then safe in port the joyous glass goes round, And all past sorrows in that glass are drown'd.

So in the night of England's deep despair, Great Alfred, issuing from his secret lair, Rose like a meteor—The glad nation heard His glorious call; and this was Alfred's word— "Fight, fight! or perish in your country's cause, "Stand for your king, your liberties, your laws: "'Tis Alfred leads you on—his heart is true, "And he, for whom your bleed, shall bleed for you!"

Sons of that gallant race, to you we give These pictur'd scenes, in which your fathers live; View them with candor, give the sketch some praise, Which features out the chiefs of ancient days And recollect whatever here is shewn, Their cause, their courage, both are now your own: They met the fierce invader at their doors, No foes but captive foes invade your shores; Their wives, their daughters, fill'd the air with cries, To your kind land the helpless sufferer flies; Blest in a king, mild, merciful, and good, Firm in allegiance to that king they stood, When they saw death, disease, or danger near, All, all was terror for a life so dear. These are the scenes our drama sets to view— The moral of that fable rests with you.