The Ballad of the White Horse Part 3

Smiled Alfred, "Seek ye a fable More dizzy and more dread Than all your mad barbarian tales Where the sky stands on its head?

"A tale where a man looks down on the sky That has long looked down on him; A tale where a man can swallow a sea That might swallow the seraphim.

"Bring to the hut by Egbert's Stone All bills and bows ye have."

And Alfred strode off rapidly, And Colan of the Sacred Tree Went slowly to his cave.

BOOK III. THE HARP OF ALFRED

In a tree that yawned and twisted The King's few goods were flung, A ma.s.s-book mildewed, line by line, And weapons and a skin of wine, And an old harp unstrung.

By the yawning tree in the twilight The King unbound his sword, Severed the harp of all his goods, And there in the cool and soundless woods Sounded a single chord.

Then laughed; and watched the finches flash, The sullen flies in swarm, And went unarmed over the hills, With the harp upon his arm,

Until he came to the White Horse Vale And saw across the plains, In the twilight high and far and fell, Like the fiery terraces of h.e.l.l, The camp fires of the Danes--

The fires of the Great Army That was made of iron men, Whose lights of sacrilege and scorn Ran around England red as morn, Fires over Glas...o...b..ry Thorn-- Fires out on Ely Fen.

And as he went by White Horse Vale He saw lie wan and wide The old horse graven, G.o.d knows when, By G.o.ds or beasts or what things then Walked a new world instead of men And scrawled on the hill-side.

And when he came to White Horse Down The great White Horse was grey, For it was ill scoured of the weed, And lichen and thorn could crawl and feed, Since the foes of settled house and creed Had swept old works away.

King Alfred gazed all sorrowful At thistle and mosses grey, Till a rally of Danes with shield and bill Rolled drunk over the dome of the hill, And, hearing of his harp and skill, They dragged him to their play.

And as they went through the high green gra.s.s They roared like the great green sea; But when they came to the red camp fire They were silent suddenly.

And as they went up the wastes away They went reeling to and fro; But when they came to the red camp fire They stood all in a row.

For golden in the firelight, With a smile carved on his lips, And a beard curled right cunningly, Was Guthrum of the Northern Sea, The emperor of the ships--

With three great earls King Guthrum Went the rounds from fire to fire, With Harold, nephew of the King, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling, And Elf, whose gold lute had a string That sighed like all desire.

The Earls of the Great Army That no men born could tire, Whose flames anear him or aloof Took hold of towers or walls of proof, Fire over Glas...o...b..ry roof And out on Ely, fire.

And Guthrum heard the soldiers' tale And bade the stranger play; Not harshly, but as one on high, On a marble pillar in the sky, Who sees all folk that live and die-- Pigmy and far away.

And Alfred, King of Wess.e.x, Looked on his conqueror-- And his hands hardened; but he played, And leaving all later hates unsaid, He sang of some old British raid On the wild west march of yore.

He sang of war in the warm wet shires, Where rain nor fruitage fails, Where England of the motley states Deepens like a garden to the gates In the purple walls of Wales.

He sang of the seas of savage heads And the seas and seas of spears, Boiling all over Offa's d.y.k.e, What time a Wess.e.x club could strike The kings of the mountaineers.

Till Harold laughed and s.n.a.t.c.hed the harp, The kinsman of the King, A big youth, beardless like a child, Whom the new wine of war sent wild, Smote, and began to sing--

And he cried of the ships as eagles That circle fiercely and fly, And sweep the seas and strike the towns From Cyprus round to Skye.

How swiftly and with peril They gather all good things, The high horns of the forest beasts, Or the secret stones of kings.

"For Rome was given to rule the world, And gat of it little joy-- But we, but we shall enjoy the world, The whole huge world a toy.

"Great wine like blood from Burgundy, Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre, And marble like solid moonlight, And gold like frozen fire.

"Smells that a man might swill in a cup, Stones that a man might eat, And the great smooth women like ivory That the Turks sell in the street."

He sang the song of the thief of the world, And the G.o.ds that love the thief; And he yelled aloud at the cloister-yards, Where men go gathering grief.

"Well have you sung, O stranger, Of death on the d.y.k.e in Wales, Your chief was a bracelet-giver; But the red unbroken river Of a race runs not for ever, But suddenly it fails.

"Doubtless your sires were sword-swingers When they waded fresh from foam, Before they were turned to women By the G.o.d of the nails from Rome;

"But since you bent to the shaven men, Who neither l.u.s.t nor smite, Thunder of Thor, we hunt you A hare on the mountain height."

King Guthrum smiled a little, And said, "It is enough, Nephew, let Elf retune the string; A boy must needs like bellowing, But the old ears of a careful king Are glad of songs less rough."

Blue-eyed was Elf the minstrel, With womanish hair and ring, Yet heavy was his hand on sword, Though light upon the string.

And as he stirred the strings of the harp To notes but four or five, The heart of each man moved in him Like a babe buried alive.

And they felt the land of the folk-songs Spread southward of the Dane, And they heard the good Rhine flowing In the heart of all Allemagne.

They felt the land of the folk-songs, Where the gifts hang on the tree, Where the girls give ale at morning And the tears come easily.

The mighty people, womanlike, That have pleasure in their pain As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens loved in vain.

As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens could not save, Till the world was like a sea of tears And every soul a wave.

"There is always a thing forgotten When all the world goes well; A thing forgotten, as long ago, When the G.o.ds forgot the mistletoe, And soundless as an arrow of snow The arrow of anguish fell.

"The thing on the blind side of the heart, On the wrong side of the door, The green plant groweth, menacing Almighty lovers in the spring; There is always a forgotten thing, And love is not secure."

And all that sat by the fire were sad, Save Ogier, who was stern, And his eyes hardened, even to stones, As he took the harp in turn;

Earl Ogier of the Stone and Sling Was odd to ear and sight, Old he was, but his locks were red, And jests were all the words he said Yet he was sad at board and bed And savage in the fight.

"You sing of the young G.o.ds easily In the days when you are young; But I go smelling yew and sods, And I know there are G.o.ds behind the G.o.ds, G.o.ds that are best unsung.

"And a man grows ugly for women, And a man grows dull with ale, Well if he find in his soul at last Fury, that does not fail.

"The wrath of the G.o.ds behind the G.o.ds Who would rend all G.o.ds and men, Well if the old man's heart hath still Wheels sped of rage and roaring will, Like cataracts to break down and kill, Well for the old man then--

"While there is one tall shrine to shake, Or one live man to rend; For the wrath of the G.o.ds behind the G.o.ds Who are weary to make an end.

"There lives one moment for a man When the door at his shoulder shakes, When the taut rope parts under the pull, And the barest branch is beautiful One moment, while it breaks.