Rabindranath Tagore (trans.) - "Songs of Kabir"

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New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
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PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

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Books: Heroes Every Child Should Know

H >> Hamilton Wright Mabie >> Heroes Every Child Should Know




And now Oliver felt the pains of death come over him. He could no
longer see nor hear. Therefore he turned his thoughts to making his
peace with God, and clasping his hands lifted them to heaven and
made his confession. "O Lord," he said, "take me into Paradise. And
do Thou bless King Charles and the sweet land of France." And when
he had said thus he died. And Roland looked at him as he lay. There
was not upon earth a more sorrowful man than he. "Dear comrade," he
said, "this is indeed an evil day. Many a year have we two been
together. Never have I done wrong to you; never have you done wrong
to me. How shall I bear to live without you?" And he swooned where
he sat on his horse. But the stirrup held him up that he did not
fall to the ground.

When Roland came to himself he looked about him and saw how great
was the calamity that had befallen his army. For now there were left
alive to him two only, Turpin the Archbishop and Walter of Hum.
Walter had but that moment come down from the hills where he had
been fighting so fiercely with the heathen that all his men were
dead; now he cried to Roland for help. "Noble Count, where are you?
I am Walter of Hum, and am not unworthy to be your friend. Help me
therefore. For see how my spear is broken and my shield cleft in
twain, my hauberk is in pieces, and my body sorely wounded. I am
about to die; but I have sold my life at a great price." When Roland
heard him cry he set spurs to his horse and galloped to him.
"Walter," said he, "you are a brave warrior and a trustworthy. Tell
me now where are the thousand valiant men whom you took from my
army. They were right good soldiers, and I am in sore need of them."

"They are dead," answered Walter; "you will see them no more. A sore
battle we had with the Saracens yonder on the hills; they had the
men of Canaan there and the men of Armenia and the Giants; there
were no better men in their army than these. We dealt with them so
that they will not boast themselves of this day's work. But it cost
us dear; all the men of France lie dead on the plain, and I am
wounded to the death. And now, Roland, blame me not that I fled; for
you are my lord, and all my trust is in you."

"I blame you not," said Roland, "only as long as you live help me
against the heathen." And as he spake he took his cloak and rent it
into strips and bound up Walter's wounds therewith. This done he and
Walter and the Archbishop set fiercely on the enemy. Five-and-twenty
did Roland slay, and Walter slew six, and the Archbishop five. Three
valiant men of war they were; fast and firm they stood one by the
other; hundreds there were of the heathen, but they dared not come
near to these three valiant champions of France. They stood far off,
and cast at the three spears and darts and javelins and weapons of
every kind. Walter of Hum was slain forthwith; and the Archbishop's
armour was broken, and he wounded, and his horse slain under him.
Nevertheless he lifted himself from the ground, still keeping a good
heart in his breast. "They have not overcome me yet"; said he, "as
long as a good soldier lives, he does not yield."

Roland took his horn once more and sounded it, for he would know
whether King Charles were coming. Ah me! it was a feeble blast that
he blew. But the King heard it, and he halted and listened. "My
lords!" said he, "things go ill for us, I doubt not. To-day we shall
lose, I fear me much, my brave nephew Roland. I know by the sound of
his horn that he has but a short time to live. Put your horses to
their full speed, if you would come in time to help him, and let a
blast be sounded by every trumpet that there is in the army." So all
the trumpets in the host sounded a blast; all the valleys and hills
re-echoed with the sound; sore discouraged were the heathen when
they heard it. "King Charles has come again," they cried; "we are
all as dead men. When he comes he shall not find Roland alive." Then
four hundred of them, the strongest and most valiant knights that
were in the army of the heathen, gathered themselves into one
company, and made a yet fiercer assault on Roland.

Roland saw them coming, and waited for them without fear. So long as
he lived he would not yield himself to the enemy or give place to
them. "Better death than flight," said he, as he mounted his good
steed Veillantif, and rode towards the enemy. And by his side went
Turpin the Archbishop on foot. Then said Roland to Turpin, "I am on
horseback and you are on foot. But let us keep together; never will
I leave you; we two will stand against these heathen dogs. They have
not, I warrant, among them such a sword as Durendal." "Good,"
answered the Archbishop. "Shame to the man who does not smite his
hardest. And though this be our last battle, I know well that King
Charles will take ample vengeance for us."

When the heathen saw these two stand together they fell back in fear
and hurled at them spears and darts and javelins without number.
Roland's shield they broke and his hauberk; but him they hurt not;
nevertheless they did him a grievous injury, for they killed his
good steed Veillantif. Thirty wounds did Veillantif receive, and he
fell dead under his master. At last the Archbishop was stricken and
Roland stood alone, for the heathen had fled from his presence.

When Roland saw that the Archbishop was dead, his heart was sorely
troubled in him. Never did he feel a greater sorrow for comrade
slain, save Oliver only. "Charles of France," he said, "come as
quickly as you may, many a gallant knight have you lost in
Roncesvalles. But King Marsilas, on his part, has lost his army. For
one that has fallen on this side there has fallen full forty on
that." So saying he turned to the Archbishop; he crossed the dead
man's hands upon his breast and said, "I commit thee to the Father's
mercy. Never has man served his God with a better will, never since
the beginning of the world has there lived a sturdier champion of
the faith. May God be good to you and give you all good things!"

Now Roland felt that his own death was near at hand. In one hand he
took his horn, and in the other his good sword Durendal, and made
his way the distance of a furlong or so till he came to a plain, and
in the midst of the plain a little hill. On the top of the hill in
the shade of two fair trees were four marble steps. There Roland
fell in a swoon upon the grass. There a certain Saracen spied him.
The fellow had feigned death, and had laid himself down among the
slain, having covered his body and his face with blood. When he saw
Roland, he raised himself from where he was lying among the slain
and ran to the place, and, being full of pride and fury, seized the
Count in his arms, crying aloud, "He is conquered, he is conquered,
he is conquered, the famous nephew of King Charles! See, here is his
sword; 'tis a noble spoil that I shall carry back with me to
Arabia." Thereupon he took the sword in one hand, with the other he
laid hold of Roland's beard. But as the man laid hold, Roland came
to himself, and knew that some one was taking his sword from him. He
opened his eyes but not a word did he speak save this only, "Fellow,
you are none of ours," and he smote him a mighty blow upon his
helmet. The steel he brake through and the head beneath, and laid
the man dead at his feet. "Coward," he said, "what made you so bold
that you dared lay hands on Roland? Whosoever knows him will think
you a fool for your deed."

And now Roland knew that death was near at hand. He raised himself
and gathered all his strength together--ah me! how pale his face
was!--and took in his hand his good sword Durendal. Before him was a
great rock and on this in his rage and pain he smote ten mighty
blows. Loud rang the steel upon the stone; but it neither brake nor
splintered. "Help me," he cried, "O Mary, our Lady. O my good sword,
my Durendal, what an evil lot is mine! In the day when I must part
with you, my power over you is lost. Many a battle I have won with
your help; and many a kingdom have I conquered, that my Lord Charles
possesses this day. Never has any one possessed you that would fly
before another. So long as I live, you shall not be taken from me,
so long have you been in the hands of a loyal knight."

Then he smote a second time with the sword, this time upon the
marble steps. Loud rang the steel, but neither brake nor splintered.
Then Roland began to bemoan himself, "O my good Durendal," he said,
"how bright and clear thou art, shining as shines the sun! Well I
mind me of the day when a voice that seemed to come from heaven bade
King Charles give thee to a valiant captain; and forthwith the good
King girded it on my side. Many a land have I conquered with thee
for him, and now how great is my grief! Can I die and leave thee to
be handled by some heathen?" And the third time he smote a rock with
it. Loud rang the steel, but it brake not, bounding back as though
it would rise to the sky. And when Count Roland saw that he could
not break the sword, he spake again but with more content in his
heart. "O Durendal," he said, "a fair sword art thou, and holy as
fair. There are holy relics in thy hilt, relics of St. Peter and St.
Denis and St. Basil. These heathen shall never possess thee; nor
shalt thou be held but by a Christian hand."

And now Roland knew that death was very near to him. He laid himself
down with his head upon the grass putting under him his horn and his
sword, with his face turned towards the heathen foe. Ask you why he
did so? To shew, forsooth, to Charlemagne and the men of France that
he died in the midst of victory. This done he made a loud confession
of his sins, stretching his hand to heaven. "Forgive me, Lord," he
cried, "my sins, little and great, all that I have committed since
the day of my birth to this hour in which I am stricken to death."
So he prayed; and, as he lay, he thought of many things, of the
countries which he had conquered, and of his dear Fatherland France,
and of his kinsfolk, and of the good King Charles. Nor, as he
thought, could he keep himself from sighs and tears; yet one thing
he remembered beyond all others--to pray for forgiveness of his
sins. "O Lord," he said, "Who art the God of truth, and didst save
Daniel Thy prophet from the lions, do Thou save my soul and defend
it against all perils!" So speaking he raised his right hand, with
the gauntlet yet upon it, to the sky, and his head fell back upon
his arm and the angels carried him to heaven. So died the great
Count Roland.




CHAPTER X

KING ALFRED


We now come to the great King Alfred, the best and greatest of all
English Kings. We know quite enough of his history to be able to say
that he really deserves to be so called, though I must warn you
that, just because he left so great a name behind him, people have
been fond of attributing to him things which really belonged to
others. Thus you may sometimes see nearly all English laws and
customs attributed to Alfred, as if he had invented them all for
himself. You will sometimes hear that Alfred founded Trial by Jury,
divided England into Counties, and did all kinds of other things.
Now the real truth is that the roots and beginnings of most of these
things are very much older than the time of Alfred, while the
particular forms in which we have them now are very much later. But
people have a way of fancying that everything must have been
invented by some particular man, and as Alfred was more famous than
anybody else, they hit upon Alfred as the most likely person to have
invented them.

But, putting aside fables, there is quite enough to show that there
have been very few Kings, and very few men of any sort, so great and
good as King Alfred. Perhaps the only equally good King we read of
is Saint Louis of France; and though he was quite as good, we cannot
set him down as being so great and wise as Alfred. Certainly no King
ever gave himself up more thoroughly than Alfred did fully to do the
duties of his office. His whole life seems to have been spent in
doing all that he could for the good of his people in every way. And
it is wonderful in how many ways his powers showed themselves. That
he was a brave warrior is in itself no particular praise in an age
when almost every man was the same. But it is a great thing for a
prince so large a part of whose time was spent in fighting to be
able to say that all his wars were waged to set free his country
from the most cruel enemies.

And we may admire too the wonderful way in which he kept his mind
always straight and firm, never either giving way to bad luck or
being puffed up by good luck. We read of nothing like pride or
cruelty or injustice of any kind either towards his own people or
towards his enemies. And if he was a brave warrior, he was many
other things besides. He was a lawgiver; at least he collected and
arranged the laws, and caused them to be most carefully
administered. He was a scholar, and wrote and translated many books
for the good of his people. He encouraged trade and enterprise of
all kinds, and sent men to visit distant parts of the world, and
bring home accounts of what they saw. And he was a thoroughly good
man and a devout Christian in all relations of life. In short, one
hardly knows any other character in all history so perfect; there is
so much that is good in so many different ways; and though no doubt
Alfred had his faults like other people, yet he clearly had none, at
any rate in the greater part of his life, which took away at all
seriously from his general goodness. One wonders that such a man was
never canonized as a Saint; most certainly many people have received
that name who did not deserve it nearly so well as he did.

Alfred, or, as his name should really be spelled, Aelfred,
[Footnote: That is, the rede or councel of the elves. A great many
Old-English names are called after the elves or fairies.] was the
youngest son of King Aethelwulf, and was born at Wantage in
Berkshire in 849. His mother was Osburh daughter of Oslac the King's
cup-bearer, who came of the royal house of the Jutes in Wight. Up to
the age of twelve years Alfred was fond of hunting and other sports
but he had not been taught any sort of learning, not so much as to
read his own tongue. But he loved the old English songs; and one day
his mother had a beautiful book of songs with rich pictures and fine
painted initial letters, such as you may often see in ancient books.
And she said to her children, "I will give this beautiful book to
the one of you who shall first be able to read it." And Alfred said,
"Mother, will you really give me the book when I have learned to
read it?" And Osburh said, "Yes, my son." So Alfred went and found a
master, and soon learned to read. Then he came to his mother, and
read the songs in the beautiful book and took the book for his own.

In 868, when he was in his twentieth year, while his brother
Aethelred was King, Alfred married. His wife's name was Ealhswyth;
she was the daughter of Aethelred called the Mickle or Big, Alderman
of the Gainas in Lincolnshire, and her mother Eadburh was of the
royal house of the Mercians. It is said that on the very day of his
marriage he was smitten with a strange disease, which for twenty
years never quite left him, and fits of which might come on at any
time. If this be true, it makes all the great things that he did
even more wonderful.

Meanwhile the great Danish invasion had begun in the northern parts
of England. There are many stories told in the old Northern Songs as
to the cause of it. Some tell how Ragnar Lodbrog, a great hero of
these Northern tales, was seized by Aella, King of the
Northumbrians, and was thrown into a dungeon full of serpents, and
how, while he was dying of the bites of the serpents, he sang a
wonderful death-song, telling of all his old fights, and calling on
his sons to come and avenge him. The year 871 the Danes for the
first time entered Wessex. Nine great battles, besides smaller
skirmishes, were fought this year, in some of which the English won
and in others the Danes. One famous battle was at Ashdown, in
Berkshire. We are told that the heathen men were in two divisions;
one was commanded by their two Kings Bagsecg and Halfdene, and the
other by five Earls, Sidroc the Old, Sidroc the Young, Osbeorn,
Fraena, and Harold. And King Aethelred was set against the Kings and
Alfred the Aetheling against the Earls. And the heathen men came on
against them. But King Aethelred heard mass in his tent. And men
said, "Come forth, O King, to the fight, for the heathen men press
hard upon us." And King Aethelred said, "I will serve God first and
man after, so I will not come forth till all the words of the mass
be ended." So King Aethelred abode praying, and the heathen men
fought against Alfred the Aetheling. And Alfred said, "I cannot
abide till the King my brother comes forth; I must either flee, or
fight alone with the heathen men." So Alfred the Aetheling and his
men fought against the five Earls. Now the heathen men stood on the
higher ground and the Christians on the lower. Yet did Alfred go
forth trusting in God, and he made his men hold close together with
their shields, and they went forth like a wild boar against the
hounds. And they fought against the heathen men and smote them, and
slew the five Earls, Sidroc the Old, Sidroc the Young, Osbeorn,
Fraena, and Harold. Then the mass was over, and King Aethelred came
forth and fought against the two Kings, and slew Bagsecg the King
with his own hand and smote the heathen men with a great slaughter
and chased them even unto Reading.

In 871, on Aethelred's death, Alfred became King of the West-Saxons
and Over-lord of all England, as his father had appointed so long
before with the consent of his Wise Men.

The Danes did not come again into Wessex till 876. But though the
West-Saxons had no fighting by land during these years, things were
not quite quiet, for in 875 King Alfred had a fight at sea against
some of the Danish pirates. This sea-fight is worth remembering as
being, I suppose, the first victory won by the Englishmen at sea,
where Englishmen have since won so many victories. King Alfred then
fought against seven Danish ships, of which he took one and put the
rest to flight. It is somewhat strange that we do not hear more than
we do of warfare by sea in these times, especially when we remember
how in earlier times the Angles and Saxons had roved about in their
ships, very much as the Danes and other Northmen were doing now. It
would seem that the English, after they settled in Britain, almost
left off being a seafaring people. We find Alfred and other Kings
doing what they could to keep up a fleet and to stir up a naval
spirit among their people. And in some degree they did so; still we
do not find the English, for a long while after this time, doing
nearly so much by sea as they did by land. This was a pity; for
ships might then, as in later times, have been wooden walls. It is
much better to meet an enemy at sea, and to keep him from landing in
your country, than to let him land, even if you can beat him when he
has landed.

But in 876 the Danes came again into Wessex; and we thus come to the
part of Alfred's life which is at once the saddest and the
brightest. It is the time when his luck was lowest and when his
spirit was highest. The army under Guthorm or Guthrum, the Danish
King of East-Anglia, came suddenly to Wareham in Dorsetshire. The
Chronicle says that they "bestole"--that is, came secretly or
escaped--from the West-Saxon army, which seems to have been waiting
for them. This time Alfred made peace with the Danes, and they gave
him some of their chief men for hostages, and they swore to go out
of the land. They swore this on the holy bracelet, which was the
most solemn oath in use among the heathen Northmen, and on which
they had never before sworn at any of the times when they had made
peace with the English. But they did not keep their oath any better
for taking it in this more solemn way. The part of the host which
had horses "bestole away." King Alfred rode after the Danish horse
as far as Exeter, but he did not overtake them till they had got
there, and were safe in the stronghold. Then they made peace,
swearing oaths, and giving as many hostages as the King asked for.

And now we come to the terrible year 878, the greatest and saddest
and most glorious in all Alfred's life. In the very beginning of the
year, just after Twelfth-night, the Danish host again came suddenly-
-"bestole" as the Chronicle says--to Chippenham. Then "they rode
through the West-Saxons' land, and there sat down, and mickle of the
folk over the sea they drove, and of the others the most deal they
rode over; all but the King Alfred; he with a little band hardly
fared [went] after the woods and on the moor-fastnesses." This time
of utter distress lasted only a very little while, for in a few
months Alfred was again at the head of an army and able to fight
against the Danes.

It was during this trouble that Alfred stayed in the hut of a
neatherd or swineherd of his, who knew who he was, though his wife
did not know him. One day the woman set some cakes to bake, and bade
the King, who was sitting by the fire mending his bow and arrows, to
tend them. Alfred thought more of his bow and arrows than he did of
the cakes, and let them burn. Then the woman ran in and cried out,
"There, don't you see the cakes on fire? Then wherefore turn them
not? You are glad enough to eat them when they are piping hot."

We are told that this swineherd or neatherd afterwards became Bishop
of Winchester. They say that his name was Denewulf, and that the
King saw that, though he was in so lowly a rank, he was naturally a
very wise man. So he had him taught, and at last gave him the
Bishoprick.

I do not think that I can do better than tell you the next happening
to Alfred, as it is in the Chronicle, only changing those words
which you might not understand.

"And that ilk [same] winter was Iwer's and Healfdene's brother among
the West-Saxons in Devonshire; and him there men slew and eight
hundred men with him and forty men of his host. And there was the
banner taken which they the Raven hight [call]. And after this
Easter wrought King Alfred with his little band a work [fortress] at
Athelney, and out of that work was he striving with the [Danish]
host, and the army sold [gave] him hostages and mickle oaths, and
eke they promised him that their King should receive baptism. And
this they fulfilled. And three weeks after came King Guthrum with
thirty of the men that in the host were worthiest, at Aller, that is
near Athelney. And him the King received at his baptism, [Footnote:
That is, was his godfather.] and his chrisom-loosing [Footnote: That
is, he laid aside the chrisom or white garment which a newly
baptised person wore.] was at Wedmore. And he was twelve nights with
the King, and he honoured him and his feres [companions] with mickle
fee [money]."

Thus you see how soon King Alfred's good luck came back to him
again. The Raven was a famous banner of the Danes, said to have been
worked by the daughters of Ragnar Lodbrog. It was thought to have
wonderful powers, so that they could tell by the way in which the
raven held his wings whether they would win or not in battle.

You see the time of utter distress lasted only from soon after
Twelfth-night to Easter, and even during that time the taking of the
Raven must have cheered the English a good deal. After Easter things
began to mend, when Alfred built his fort at Athelney and began to
skirmish with the Danes, and seven weeks later came the great
victory at Ethandun, which set Wessex free. Some say that the white
horse which is cut in the side of the chalk hills near Edington was
cut then, that men might remember the great battle of Ethandun. But
it has been altered in modern times to make it look more like a real
horse.

All this time Alfred seems to have kept his headquarters at
Athelney. Thence they went to Wedmore. There the Wise Men came
together, and Alfred and Guthorm (or, to give him the name by which
he was baptised, Aethelstan) made a treaty. This treaty was very
much better kept than any treaty with the Danes had ever been kept
before. The Danes got much the larger part of England; still Alfred
contrived to keep London. Some accounts say that only those of the
Danes stayed in England who chose to become Christians, and that the
rest went away into Gaul under a famous leader of theirs named
Hasting. Anyhow, in 880 they went quite away into what was now their
own land of East-Anglia, and divided it among themselves. Thus
Alfred had quite freed his own Kingdom from the Danes, though he was
obliged to leave so much of the island in their hands. And even
through all these misfortunes, the Kingdom of Wessex did in some
sort become greater. Remember that in 880, when Alfred had done so
many great things, he was still only thirty-one years old.

We can see how much people always remembered and thought of Alfred,
by there being many more stories told of him than of almost any
other of the old Kings. One story is that Alfred, wishing to know
what the Danes were about and how strong they were, set out one day
from Athelney in the disguise of a minstrel or juggler, and went
into the Danish camp, and stayed there several days, amusing the
Danes with his playing, till he had seen all that he wanted, and
then went back without any one finding him out. This is what you may
call a soldier's story, while some of the others are rather what
monks and clergymen would like to tell. Thus there is a tale which
is told in a great many different ways, but of which the following
is the oldest shape.