The Ballad of the White Horse Part 4

"So rides my soul upon the sea That drinks the howling ships, Though in black jest it bows and nods Under the moons with silver rods, I know it is roaring at the G.o.ds, Waiting the last eclipse.

"And in the last eclipse the sea Shall stand up like a tower, Above all moons made dark and riven, Hold up its foaming head in heaven, And laugh, knowing its hour.

"And the high ones in the happy town Propped of the planets seven, Shall know a new light in the mind, A noise about them and behind, Shall hear an awful voice, and find Foam in the courts of heaven.

"And you that sit by the fire are young, And true love waits for you; But the king and I grow old, grow old, And hate alone is true."

And Guthrum shook his head but smiled, For he was a mighty clerk, And had read lines in the Latin books When all the north was dark.

He said, "I am older than you, Ogier; Not all things would I rend, For whether life be bad or good It is best to abide the end."

He took the great harp wearily, Even Guthrum of the Danes, With wide eyes bright as the one long day On the long polar plains.

For he sang of a wheel returning, And the mire trod back to mire, And how red h.e.l.ls and golden heavens Are castles in the fire.

"It is good to sit where the good tales go, To sit as our fathers sat; But the hour shall come after his youth, When a man shall know not tales but truth, And his heart fail thereat.

"When he shall read what is written So plain in clouds and clods, When he shall hunger without hope Even for evil G.o.ds.

"For this is a heavy matter, And the truth is cold to tell; Do we not know, have we not heard, The soul is like a lost bird, The body a broken sh.e.l.l.

"And a man hopes, being ignorant, Till in white woods apart He finds at last the lost bird dead: And a man may still lift up his head But never more his heart.

"There comes no noise but weeping Out of the ancient sky, And a tear is in the tiniest flower Because the G.o.ds must die.

"The little brooks are very sweet, Like a girl's ribbons curled, But the great sea is bitter That washes all the world.

"Strong are the Roman roses, Or the free flowers of the heath, But every flower, like a flower of the sea, Smelleth with the salt of death.

"And the heart of the locked battle Is the happiest place for men; When shrieking souls as shafts go by And many have died and all may die; Though this word be a mystery, Death is most distant then.

"Death blazes bright above the cup, And clear above the crown; But in that dream of battle We seem to tread it down.

"Wherefore I am a great king, And waste the world in vain, Because man hath not other power, Save that in dealing death for dower, He may forget it for an hour To remember it again."

And slowly his hands and thoughtfully Fell from the lifted lyre, And the owls moaned from the mighty trees Till Alfred caught it to his knees And smote it as in ire.

He heaved the head of the harp on high And swept the framework barred, And his stroke had all the rattle and spark Of horses flying hard.

"When G.o.d put man in a garden He girt him with a sword, And sent him forth a free knight That might betray his lord;

"He brake Him and betrayed Him, And fast and far he fell, Till you and I may stretch our necks And burn our beards in h.e.l.l.

"But though I lie on the floor of the world, With the seven sins for rods, I would rather fall with Adam Than rise with all your G.o.ds.

"What have the strong G.o.ds given?

Where have the glad G.o.ds led?

When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne And asks if he is dead?

"Sirs, I am but a nameless man, A rhymester without home, Yet since I come of the Wess.e.x clay And carry the cross of Rome,

"I will even answer the mighty earl That asked of Wess.e.x men Why they be meek and monkish folk, And bow to the White Lord's broken yoke; What sign have we save blood and smoke?

Here is my answer then.

"That on you is fallen the shadow, And not upon the Name; That though we scatter and though we fly, And you hang over us like the sky, You are more tired of victory, Than we are tired of shame.

"That though you hunt the Christian man Like a hare on the hill-side, The hare has still more heart to run Than you have heart to ride.

"That though all lances split on you, All swords be heaved in vain, We have more l.u.s.t again to lose Than you to win again.

"Your lord sits high in the saddle, A broken-hearted king, But our king Alfred, lost from fame, Fallen among foes or bonds of shame, In I know not what mean trade or name, Has still some song to sing;

"Our monks go robed in rain and snow, But the heart of flame therein, But you go clothed in feasts and flames, When all is ice within;

"Nor shall all iron dooms make dumb Men wondering ceaselessly, If it be not better to fast for joy Than feast for misery.

"Nor monkish order only Slides down, as field to fen, All things achieved and chosen pa.s.s, As the White Horse fades in the gra.s.s, No work of Christian men.

"Ere the sad G.o.ds that made your G.o.ds Saw their sad sunrise pa.s.s, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale, That you have left to darken and fail, Was cut out of the gra.s.s.

"Therefore your end is on you, Is on you and your kings, Not for a fire in Ely fen, Not that your G.o.ds are nine or ten, But because it is only Christian men Guard even heathen things.

"For our G.o.d hath blessed creation, Calling it good. I know What spirit with whom you blindly band Hath blessed destruction with his hand; Yet by G.o.d's death the stars shall stand And the small apples grow."

And the King, with harp on shoulder, Stood up and ceased his song; And the owls moaned from the mighty trees, And the Danes laughed loud and long.

BOOK IV. THE WOMAN IN THE FOREST

Thick thunder of the snorting swine, Enormous in the gloam, Rending among all roots that cling, And the wild horses whinnying, Were the night's noises when the King Shouldering his harp, went home.

With eyes of owl and feet of fox, Full of all thoughts he went; He marked the tilt of the pagan camp, The paling of pine, the sentries' tramp, And the one great stolen altar-lamp Over Guthrum in his tent.

By scrub and thorn in Ethandune That night the foe had lain; Whence ran across the heather grey The old stones of a Roman way; And in a wood not far away The pale road split in twain.

He marked the wood and the cloven ways With an old captain's eyes, And he thought how many a time had he Sought to see Doom he could not see; How ruin had come and victory, And both were a surprise.

Even so he had watched and wondered Under Ashdown from the plains; With Ethelred praying in his tent, Till the white hawthorn swung and bent, As Alfred rushed his spears and rent The shield-wall of the Danes.

Even so he had watched and wondered, Knowing neither less nor more, Till all his lords lay dying, And axes on axes plying, Flung him, and drove him flying Like a pirate to the sh.o.r.e.

Wise he had been before defeat, And wise before success; Wise in both hours and ignorant, Knowing neither more nor less.

As he went down to the river-hut He knew a night-shade scent, Owls did as evil cherubs rise, With little wings and lantern eyes, As though he sank through the under-skies; But down and down he went.

As he went down to the river-hut He went as one that fell; Seeing the high forest domes and spars.