The Ballad of the White Horse

BOOK III. THE HARP OF ALFRED

          In a tree that yawned and twisted          The King's few goods were flung,          A mass-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 hell,          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 Glastonbury Thorn —          Fires out on Ely Fen.          And as he went by White Horse Vale          He saw lie wan and wide          The old horse graven, God knows when,          By gods 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 grass          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 Glastonbury 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 Wessex,          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 Dyke,          What time a Wessex club could strike          The kings of the mountaineers.          Till Harold laughed and snatched 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 gods 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 dyke 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 god of the nails from Rome;          "But since you bent to the shaven men,          Who neither lust 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 gods 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 gods easily          In the days when you are young;          But I go smelling yew and sods,          And I know there are gods behind the gods,          Gods 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 gods behind the gods          Who would rend all gods 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 gods behind the gods          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.          "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 gods,          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 hells 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 gods.          "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 shell.          "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 gods 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 God 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 hell.          "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 gods.          "What have the strong gods given?          Where have the glad gods 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 Wessex clay          And carry the cross of Rome,          "I will even answer the mighty earl          That asked of Wessex 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 lust 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 pass,          As the White Horse fades in the grass,          No work of Christian men.          "Ere the sad gods that made your gods          Saw their sad sunrise pass,          The White Horse of the White Horse Vale,          That you have left to darken and fail,          Was cut out of the grass.          "Therefore your end is on you,          Is on you and your kings,          Not for a fire in Ely fen,          Not that your gods are nine or ten,          But because it is only Christian men          Guard even heathen things.          "For our God hath blessed creation,          Calling it good. I know          What spirit with whom you blindly band          Hath blessed destruction with his hand;          Yet by God'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 shore.          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.          Dim green or torn with golden scars,          As the proud look up at the evil stars,          In the red heavens of hell.          For he must meet by the river-hut          Them he had bidden to arm,          Mark from the towers of Italy,          And Colan of the Sacred Tree,          And Eldred who beside the sea          Held heavily his farm.          The roof leaned gaping to the grass,          As a monstrous mushroom lies;          Echoing and empty seemed the place;          But opened in a little space          A great grey woman with scarred face          And strong and humbled eyes.          King Alfred was but a meagre man,          Bright eyed, but lean and pale:          And swordless, with his harp and rags,          He seemed a beggar, such as lags          Looking for crusts and ale.          And the woman, with a woman's eyes          Of pity at once and ire,          Said, when that she had glared a span,          "There is a cake for any man          If he will watch the fire."          And Alfred, bowing heavily,          Sat down the fire to stir,          And even as the woman pitied him          So did he pity her.          Saying, "O great heart in the night,          O best cast forth for worst,          Twilight shall melt and morning stir,          And no kind thing shall come to her,          Till God shall turn the world over          And all the last are first.          "And well may God with the serving-folk          Cast in His dreadful lot;          Is not He too a servant,          And is not He forgot?          "For was not God my gardener          And silent like a slave;          That opened oaks on the uplands          Or thicket in graveyard gave?          "And was not God my armourer,          All patient and unpaid,          That sealed my skull as a helmet,          And ribs for hauberk made?          "Did not a great grey servant          Of all my sires and me,          Build this pavilion of the pines,          And herd the fowls and fill the vines,          And labour and pass and leave no signs          Save mercy and mystery?          "For God is a great servant,          And rose before the day,          From some primordial slumber torn;          But all we living later born          Sleep on, and rise after the morn,          And the Lord has gone away.          "On things half sprung from sleeping,          All sleepy suns have shone,          They stretch stiff arms, the yawning trees,          The beasts blink upon hands and knees,          Man is awake and does and sees —          But Heaven has done and gone.          "For who shall guess the good riddle          Or speak of the Holiest,          Save in faint figures and failing words,          Who loves, yet laughs among the swords,          Labours, and is at rest?          "But some see God like Guthrum,          Crowned, with a great beard curled,          But I see God like a good giant,          That, labouring, lifts the world.          "Wherefore was God in Golgotha,          Slain as a serf is slain;          And hate He had of prince and peer,          And love He had and made good cheer,          Of them that, like this woman here,          Go powerfully in pain.          "But in this grey morn of man's life,          Cometh sometime to the mind          A little light that leaps and flies,          Like a star blown on the wind.          "A star of nowhere, a nameless star,          A light that spins and swirls,          And cries that even in hedge and hill,          Even on earth, it may go ill          At last with the evil earls.          "A dancing sparkle, a doubtful star,          On the waste wind whirled and driven;          But it seems to sing of a wilder worth,          A time discrowned of doom and birth,          And the kingdom of the poor on earth          Come, as it is in heaven.          "But even though such days endure,          How shall it profit her?          Who shall go groaning to the grave,          With many a meek and mighty slave,          Field-breaker and fisher on the wave,          And woodman and waggoner.          "Bake ye the big world all again          A cake with kinder leaven;          Yet these are sorry evermore —          Unless there be a little door,          A little door in heaven."          And as he wept for the woman          He let her business be,          And like his royal oath and rash          The good food fell upon the ash          And blackened instantly.          Screaming, the woman caught a cake          Yet burning from the bar,          And struck him suddenly on the face,          Leaving a scarlet scar.          King Alfred stood up wordless,          A man dead with surprise,          And torture stood and the evil things          That are in the childish hearts of kings          An instant in his eyes.          And even as he stood and stared          Drew round him in the dusk          Those friends creeping from far-off farms,          Marcus with all his slaves in arms,          And the strange spears hung with ancient charms          Of Colan of the Usk.          With one whole farm marching afoot          The trampled road resounds,          Farm-hands and farm-beasts blundering by          And jars of mead and stores of rye,          Where Eldred strode above his high          And thunder-throated hounds.          And grey cattle and silver lowed          Against the unlifted morn,          And straw clung to the spear-shafts tall.          And a boy went before them all          Blowing a ram's horn.          As mocking such rude revelry,          The dim clan of the Gael          Came like a bad king's burial-end,          With dismal robes that drop and rend          And demon pipes that wail —          In long, outlandish garments,          Torn, though of antique worth,          With Druid beards and Druid spears,          As a resurrected race appears          Out of an elder earth.          And though the King had called them forth          And knew them for his own,          So still each eye stood like a gem,          So spectral hung each broidered hem,          Grey carven men he fancied them,          Hewn in an age of stone.          And the two wild peoples of the north          Stood fronting in the gloam,          And heard and knew each in its mind          The third great thunder on the wind,          The living walls that hedge mankind,          The walking walls of Rome.          Mark's were the mixed tribes of the west,          Of many a hue and strain,          Gurth, with rank hair like yellow grass,          And the Cornish fisher, Gorlias,          And Halmer, come from his first mass,          Lately baptized, a Dane.          But like one man in armour          Those hundreds trod the field,          From red Arabia to the Tyne          The earth had heard that marching-line,          Since the cry on the hill Capitoline,          And the fall of the golden shield.          And the earth shook and the King stood still          Under the greenwood bough,          And the smoking cake lay at his feet          And the blow was on his brow.          Then Alfred laughed out suddenly,          Like thunder in the spring,          Till shook aloud the lintel-beams,          And the squirrels stirred in dusty dreams,          And the startled birds went up in streams,          For the laughter of the King.          And the beasts of the earth and the birds looked down,          In a wild solemnity,          On a stranger sight than a sylph or elf,          On one man laughing at himself          Under the greenwood tree —          The giant laughter of Christian men          That roars through a thousand tales,          Where greed is an ape and pride is an ass,          And Jack's away with his master's lass,          And the miser is banged with all his brass,          The farmer with all his flails;          Tales that tumble and tales that trick,          Yet end not all in scorning —          Of kings and clowns in a merry plight,          And the clock gone wrong and the world gone right,          That the mummers sing upon Christmas night          And Christmas Day in the morning.          "Now here is a good warrant,"          Cried Alfred, "by my sword;          For he that is struck for an ill servant          Should be a kind lord.          "He that has been a servant          Knows more than priests and kings,          But he that has been an ill servant,          He knows all earthly things.          "Pride flings frail palaces at the sky,          As a man flings up sand,          But the firm feet of humility          Take hold of heavy land.          "Pride juggles with her toppling towers,          They strike the sun and cease,          But the firm feet of humility          They grip the ground like trees.          "He that hath failed in a little thing          Hath a sign upon the brow;          And the Earls of the Great Army          Have no such seal to show.          "The red print on my forehead,          Small flame for a red star,          In the van of the violent marching, then          When the sky is torn of the trumpets ten,          And the hands of the happy howling men          Fling wide the gates of war.          "This blow that I return not          Ten times will I return          On kings and earls of all degree,          And armies wide as empires be          Shall slide like landslips to the sea          If the red star burn.          "One man shall drive a hundred,          As the dead kings drave;          Before me rocking hosts be riven,          And battering cohorts backwards driven,          For I am the first king known of Heaven          That has been struck like a slave.          "Up on the old white road, brothers,          Up on the Roman walls!          For this is the night of the drawing of swords,          And the tainted tower of the heathen hordes          Leans to our hammers, fires and cords,          Leans a little and falls.          "Follow the star that lives and leaps,          Follow the sword that sings,          For we go gathering heathen men,          A terrible harvest, ten by ten,          As the wrath of the last red autumn – then          When Christ reaps down the kings.          "Follow a light that leaps and spins,          Follow the fire unfurled!          For riseth up against realm and rod,          A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod,          The last lost giant, even God,          Is risen against the world."          Roaring they went o'er the Roman wall,          And roaring up the lane,          Their torches tossed a ladder of fire,          Higher their hymn was heard and higher,          More sweet for hate and for heart's desire,          And up in the northern scrub and brier,          They fell upon the Dane.