But the young earl said: "Ill the saints, The saints of England, guardThe land wherein we pledge them gold!The dykes decay, the King grows old, And surely this is hard,
"That we be never rid of them, That when his head is hoar,He cannot say to them he smoteAnd spared with a hand hard at the throat, ‘Go, and return no more.’”
Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power.But he only pointed; bade them heedThose peasants of the Berkshire breed,Who plucked the old Horse of the weed As they pluck it to this hour.
“Will ye part with the weeds for ever? Or show daisies to the door?Or will you bid the bold grass Go, and return no more?
“So ceaseless and so secret, Thrive terror and theft set free;Treason and shame shall come to passWhile one weed flowers in a morass;
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