The Ballad of the White Horse Part 11

Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power.

But he only pointed: bade them heed Those 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 gra.s.s Go, and return no more?

"So ceaseless and so secret Thrive terror and theft set free; Treason and shame shall come to pa.s.s While one weed flowers in a mora.s.s; And like the stillness of stiff gra.s.s The stillness of tyranny.

"Over our white souls also Wild heresies and high Wave prouder than the plumes of gra.s.s, And sadder than their sigh.

"And I go riding against the raid, And ye know not where I am; But ye shall know in a day or year, When one green star of gra.s.s grows here; Chaos has charged you, charger and spear, Battle-axe and battering-ram.

"And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true: If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew.

"One time I followed a dancing star That seemed to sing and nod, And ring upon earth all evil's knell; But now I wot if ye scour not well Red rust shall grow on G.o.d's great bell And gra.s.s in the streets of G.o.d."

Ceased Alfred; and above his head The grand green domes, the Downs, Showed the first legions of the press, Marching in haste and bitterness For Christ's sake and the crown's.

Beyond the cavern of Colan, Past Eldred's by the sea, Rose men that owned King Alfred's rod, From the windy wastes of Exe untrod, Or where the thorn of the grave of G.o.d Burns over Glas...o...b..ry.

Far northward and far westward The distant tribes drew nigh, Plains beyond plains, fell beyond fell, That a man at sunset sees so well, And the tiny coloured towns that dwell In the corners of the sky.

But dark and thick as thronged the host, With drum and torch and blade, The still-eyed King sat pondering, As one that watches a live thing, The scoured chalk; and he said,

"Though I give this land to Our Lady, That helped me in Athelney, Though lordlier trees and l.u.s.tier sod And happier hills hath no flesh trod Than the garden of the Mother of G.o.d Between Thames side and the sea,

"I know that weeds shall grow in it Faster than men can burn; And though they scatter now and go, In some far century, sad and slow, I have a vision, and I know The heathen shall return.

"They shall not come with warships, They shall not waste with brands, But books be all their eating, And ink be on their hands.

"Not with the humour of hunters Or savage skill in war, But ordering all things with dead words, Strings shall they make of beasts and birds, And wheels of wind and star.

"They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men.

"The dear sun dwarfed of dreadful suns, Like fiercer flowers on stalk, Earth lost and little like a pea In high heaven's towering forestry, --These be the small weeds ye shall see Crawl, covering the chalk.

"But though they bridge St. Mary's sea, Or steal St. Michael's wing-- Though they rear marvels over us, Greater than great Vergilius Wrought for the Roman king;

"By this sign you shall know them, The breaking of the sword, And man no more a free knight, That loves or hates his lord.

"Yea, this shall be the sign of them, The sign of the dying fire; And Man made like a half-wit, That knows not of his sire.

"What though they come with scroll and pen, And grave as a shaven clerk, By this sign you shall know them, That they ruin and make dark;

"By all men bond to Nothing, Being slaves without a lord, By one blind idiot world obeyed, Too blind to be abhorred;

"By terror and the cruel tales Of curse in bone and kin, By weird and weakness winning, Accursed from the beginning, By detail of the sinning, And denial of the sin;

"By thought a crawling ruin, By life a leaping mire, By a broken heart in the breast of the world, And the end of the world's desire;

"By G.o.d and man dishonoured, By death and life made vain, Know ye the old barbarian, The barbarian come again--

"When is great talk of trend and tide, And wisdom and destiny, Hail that undying heathen That is sadder than the sea.

"In what wise men shall smite him, Or the Cross stand up again, Or charity or chivalry, My vision saith not; and I see No more; but now ride doubtfully To the battle of the plain."

And the gra.s.s-edge of the great down Was cut clean as a lawn, While the levies thronged from near and far, From the warm woods of the western star, And the King went out to his last war On a tall grey horse at dawn.

And news of his far-off fighting Came slowly and brokenly From the land of the East Saxons, From the sunrise and the sea.

From the plains of the white sunrise, And sad St. Edmund's crown, Where the pools of Ess.e.x pale and gleam Out beyond London Town--

In mighty and doubtful fragments, Like faint or fabled wars, Climbed the old hills of his renown, Where the bald brow of White Horse Down Is close to the cold stars.

But away in the eastern places The wind of death walked high, And a raid was driven athwart the raid, The sky reddened and the smoke swayed, And the tall grey horse went by.

The gates of the great river Were breached as with a barge, The walls sank crowded, say the scribes, And high towers populous with tribes Seemed leaning from the charge.

Smoke like rebellious heavens rolled Curled over coloured flames, Mirrored in monstrous purple dreams In the mighty pools of Thames.

Loud was the war on London wall, And loud in London gates, And loud the sea-kings in the cloud Broke through their dreaming G.o.ds, and loud Cried on their dreadful Fates.

And all the while on White Horse Hill The horse lay long and wan, The turf crawled and the fungus crept, And the little sorrel, while all men slept, Unwrought the work of man.

With velvet finger, velvet foot, The fierce soft mosses then Crept on the large white commonweal All folk had striven to strip and peel, And the gra.s.s, like a great green witch's wheel, Unwound the toils of men.

And clover and silent thistle throve, And buds burst silently, With little care for the Thames Valley Or what things there might be--

That away on the widening river, In the eastern plains for crown Stood up in the pale purple sky One turret of smoke like ivory; And the smoke changed and the wind went by, And the King took London Town.