All life went forth, and the forest fled Before the face of the King.
But halted in the woodways Christ's few were grim and grey,And each with a small, far, bird-like sightSaw the high folly of the fight;And though strange joys had grown in the night, Despair grew with the day.
And then white dawn crawled through the wood Like cold foam of a flood,Then weakened every warrior's mood,In hope though not in hardihood;And each man sorrowed as he stood In the fashion of his blood.
For the Saxon Franklin sorrowed For the things that had been fair,For the dear, dead women, crimson-clad,And the great feasts and the friends he had;But the Celtic prince's soul was sad For the things that never were.
In the eyes Italian all things But a black laughter died;And Alfred flung his shield to earth And smote his breast and cried —
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