Alfred
He stands on hill-top, savage, glorious;
He bends his arm in gesture victorious.
The Dane-horde, slack-kneed, sweat-bathed, flee him.
With fell and well-wrought strokes did he greet them.
He turns toward the setting sun now,
And wipes the battle-sweat from his brow.
Full bright in those noble, keen blue eyes,
England's setting sun doth fiercely
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