The Ballad of the White Horse

BOOK V. ETHANDUNE: THE FIRST STROKE

          King Guthrum was a dread king,          Like death out of the north;          Shrines without name or number          He rent and rolled as lumber,          From Chester to the Humber          He drove his foemen forth.          The Roman villas heard him          In the valley of the Thames,          Come over the hills roaring          Above their roofs, and pouring          On spire and stair and flooring          Brimstone and pitch and flames.          Sheer o'er the great chalk uplands          And the hill of the Horse went he,          Till high on Hampshire beacons          He saw the southern sea.          High on the heights of Wessex          He saw the southern brine,          And turned him to a conquered land,          And where the northern thornwoods stand,          And the road parts on either hand,          There came to him a sign.          King Guthrum was a war-chief,          A wise man in the field,          And though he prospered well, and knew          How Alfred's folk were sad and few,          Not less with weighty care he drew          Long lines for pike and shield.          King Guthrum lay on the upper land,          On a single road at gaze,          And his foe must come with lean array,          Up the left arm of the cloven way,          To the meeting of the ways.          And long ere the noise of armour,          An hour ere the break of light,          The woods awoke with crash and cry,          And the birds sprang clamouring harsh and high,          And the rabbits ran like an elves' army          Ere Alfred came in sight.          The live wood came at Guthrum,          On foot and claw and wing,          The nests were noisy overhead,          For Alfred and the star of red,          All life went forth, and the forest fled          Before the face of the King.          But halted in the woodways          Christ's few were grim and grey,          And each with a small, far, bird-like sight          Saw the high folly of the fight;          And though strange joys had grown in the night,          Despair grew with the day.          And when white dawn crawled through the wood,          Like cold foam of a flood,          Then weakened every warrior's mood,          In hope, though not in hardihood;          And each man sorrowed as he stood          In the fashion of his blood.          For the Saxon Franklin sorrowed          For the things that had been fair;          For the dear dead woman, crimson-clad,          And the great feasts and the friends he had;          But the Celtic prince's soul was sad          For the things that never were.          In the eyes Italian all things          But a black laughter died;          And Alfred flung his shield to earth          And smote his breast and cried —          "I wronged a man to his slaying,          And a woman to her shame,          And once I looked on a sworn maid          That was wed to the Holy Name.          "And once I took my neighbour's wife,          That was bound to an eastland man,          In the starkness of my evil youth,          Before my griefs began.          "People, if you have any prayers,          Say prayers for me:          And lay me under a Christian stone          In that lost land I thought my own,          To wait till the holy horn is blown,          And all poor men are free."          Then Eldred of the idle farm          Leaned on his ancient sword,          As fell his heavy words and few;          And his eyes were of such alien blue          As gleams where the Northman saileth new          Into an unknown fiord.          "I was a fool and wasted ale —          My slaves found it sweet;          I was a fool and wasted bread,          And the birds had bread to eat.          "The kings go up and the kings go down,          And who knows who shall rule;          Next night a king may starve or sleep,          But men and birds and beasts shall weep          At the burial of a fool.          "O, drunkards in my cellar,          Boys in my apple tree,          The world grows stern and strange and new,          And wise men shall govern you,          And you shall weep for me.          "But yoke me my own oxen,          Down to my own farm;          My own dog will whine for me,          My own friends will bend the knee,          And the foes I slew openly          Have never wished me harm."          And all were moved a little,          But Colan stood apart,          Having first pity, and after          Hearing, like rat in rafter,          That little worm of laughter          That eats the Irish heart.          And his grey-green eyes were cruel,          And the smile of his mouth waxed hard,          And he said, "And when did Britain          Become your burying-yard?          "Before the Romans lit the land,          When schools and monks were none,          We reared such stones to the sun-god          As might put out the sun.          "The tall trees of Britain          We worshipped and were wise,          But you shall raid the whole land through          And never a tree shall talk to you,          Though every leaf is a tongue taught true          And the forest is full of eyes.          "On one round hill to the seaward          The trees grow tall and grey          And the trees talk together          When all men are away.          "O'er a few round hills forgotten          The trees grow tall in rings,          And the trees talk together          Of many pagan things.          "Yet I could lie and listen          With a cross upon my clay,          And hear unhurt for ever          What the trees of Britain say."          A proud man was the Roman,          His speech a single one,          But his eyes were like an eagle's eyes          That is staring at the sun.          "Dig for me where I die," he said,          "If first or last I fall —          Dead on the fell at the first charge,          Or dead by Wantage wall;          "Lift not my head from bloody ground,          Bear not my body home,          For all the earth is Roman earth          And I shall die in Rome."          Then Alfred, King of England,          Bade blow the horns of war,          And fling the Golden Dragon out,          With crackle and acclaim and shout,          Scrolled and aflame and far.          And under the Golden Dragon          Went Wessex all along,          Past the sharp point of the cloven ways,          Out from the black wood into the blaze          Of sun and steel and song.          And when they came to the open land          They wheeled, deployed and stood;          Midmost were Marcus and the King,          And Eldred on the right-hand wing,          And leftwards Colan darkling,          In the last shade of the wood.          But the Earls of the Great Army          Lay like a long half moon,          Ten poles before their palisades,          With wide-winged helms and runic blades          Red giants of an age of raids,          In the thornland of Ethandune.          Midmost the saddles rose and swayed,          And a stir of horses' manes,          Where Guthrum and a few rode high          On horses seized in victory;          But Ogier went on foot to die,          In the old way of the Danes.          Far to the King's left Elf the bard          Led on the eastern wing          With songs and spells that change the blood;          And on the King's right Harold stood,          The kinsman of the King.          Young Harold, coarse, with colours gay,          Smoking with oil and musk,          And the pleasant violence of the young,          Pushed through his people, giving tongue          Foewards, where, grey as cobwebs hung,          The banners of the Usk.          But as he came before his line          A little space along,          His beardless face broke into mirth,          And he cried: "What broken bits of earth          Are here? For what their clothes are worth          I would sell them for a song."          For Colan was hung with raiment          Tattered like autumn leaves,          And his men were all as thin as saints,          And all as poor as thieves.          No bows nor slings nor bolts they bore,          But bills and pikes ill-made;          And none but Colan bore a sword,          And rusty was its blade.          And Colan's eyes with mystery          And iron laughter stirred,          And he spoke aloud, but lightly          Not labouring to be heard.          "Oh, truly we be broken hearts,          For that cause, it is said,          We light our candles to that Lord          That broke Himself for bread.          "But though we hold but bitterly          What land the Saxon leaves,          Though Ireland be but a land of saints,          And Wales a land of thieves,          "I say you yet shall weary          Of the working of your word,          That stricken spirits never strike          Nor lean hands hold a sword.          "And if ever ye ride in Ireland,          The jest may yet be said,          There is the land of broken hearts,          And the land of broken heads."          Not less barbarian laughter          Choked Harold like a flood,          "And shall I fight with scarecrows          That am of Guthrum's blood?          "Meeting may be of war-men,          Where the best war-man wins;          But all this carrion a man shoots          Before the fight begins."          And stopping in his onward strides,          He snatched a bow in scorn          From some mean slave, and bent it on          Colan, whose doom grew dark; and shone          Stars evil over Caerleon,          In the place where he was born.          For Colan had not bow nor sling,          On a lonely sword leaned he,          Like Arthur on Excalibur          In the battle by the sea.          To his great gold ear-ring Harold          Tugged back the feathered tail,          And swift had sprung the arrow,          But swifter sprang the Gael.          Whirling the one sword round his head,          A great wheel in the sun,          He sent it splendid through the sky,          Flying before the shaft could fly —          It smote Earl Harold over the eye,          And blood began to run.          Colan stood bare and weaponless,          Earl Harold, as in pain,          Strove for a smile, put hand to head,          Stumbled and suddenly fell dead;          And the small white daisies all waxed red          With blood out of his brain.          And all at that marvel of the sword,          Cast like a stone to slay,          Cried out. Said Alfred: "Who would see          Signs, must give all things. Verily          Man shall not taste of victory          Till he throws his sword away."          Then Alfred, prince of England,          And all the Christian earls,          Unhooked their swords and held them up,          Each offered to Colan, like a cup          Of chrysolite and pearls.          And the King said, "Do thou take my sword          Who have done this deed of fire,          For this is the manner of Christian men,          Whether of steel or priestly pen,          That they cast their hearts out of their ken          To get their heart's desire.          "And whether ye swear a hive of monks,          Or one fair wife to friend,          This is the manner of Christian men,          That their oath endures the end.          "For love, our Lord, at the end of the world,          Sits a red horse like a throne,          With a brazen helm and an iron bow,          But one arrow alone.          "Love with the shield of the Broken Heart          Ever his bow doth bend,          With a single shaft for a single prize,          And the ultimate bolt that parts and flies          Comes with a thunder of split skies,          And a sound of souls that rend.          "So shall you earn a king's sword,          Who cast your sword away."          And the King took, with a random eye,          A rude axe from a hind hard by          And turned him to the fray.          For the swords of the Earls of Daneland          Flamed round the fallen lord.          The first blood woke the trumpet-tune,          As in monk's rhyme or wizard's rune,          Beginneth the battle of Ethandune          With the throwing of the sword.

BOOK VI. ETHANDUNE: THE SLAYING OF THE CHIEFS

          As the sea flooding the flat sands          Flew on the sea-born horde,          The two hosts shocked with dust and din,          Left of the Latian paladin,          Clanged all Prince Harold's howling kin          On Colan and the sword.          Crashed in the midst on Marcus,          Ogier with Guthrum by,          And eastward of such central stir,          Far to the right and faintlier,          The house of Elf the harp-player,          Struck Eldred's with a cry.          The centre swat for weariness,          Stemming the screaming horde,          And wearily went Colan's hands          That swung King Alfred's sword.          But like a cloud of morning          To eastward easily,          Tall Eldred broke the sea of spears          As a tall ship breaks the sea.          His face like a sanguine sunset,          His shoulder a Wessex down,          His hand like a windy hammer-stroke;          Men could not count the crests he broke,          So fast the crests went down.          As the tall white devil of the Plague          Moves out of Asian skies,          With his foot on a waste of cities          And his head in a cloud of flies;          Or purple and peacock skies grow dark          With a moving locust-tower;          Or tawny sand-winds tall and dry,          Like hell's red banners beat and fly,          When death comes out of Araby,          Was Eldred in his hour.          But while he moved like a massacre          He murmured as in sleep,          And his words were all of low hedges          And little fields and sheep.          Even as he strode like a pestilence,          That strides from Rhine to Rome,          He thought how tall his beans might be          If ever he went home.          Spoke some stiff piece of childish prayer,          Dull as the distant chimes,          That thanked our God for good eating          And corn and quiet times —          Till on the helm of a high chief          Fell shatteringly his brand,          And the helm broke and the bone broke          And the sword broke in his hand.          Then from the yelling Northmen          Driven splintering on him ran          Full seven spears, and the seventh          Was never made by man.          Seven spears, and the seventh          Was wrought as the faerie blades,          And given to Elf the minstrel          By the monstrous water-maids;          By them that dwell where luridly          Lost waters of the Rhine          Move among roots of nations,          Being sunken for a sign.          Under all graves they murmur,          They murmur and rebel,          Down to the buried kingdoms creep,          And like a lost rain roar and weep          O'er the red heavens of hell.          Thrice drowned was Elf the minstrel,          And washed as dead on sand;          And the third time men found him          The spear was in his hand.          Seven spears went about Eldred,          Like stays about a mast;          But there was sorrow by the sea          For the driving of the last.          Six spears thrust upon Eldred          Were splintered while he laughed;          One spear thrust into Eldred,          Three feet of blade and shaft.          And from the great heart grievously          Came forth the shaft and blade,          And he stood with the face of a dead man,          Stood a little, and swayed —          Then fell, as falls a battle-tower,          On smashed and struggling spears.          Cast down from some unconquered town          That, rushing earthward, carries down          Loads of live men of all renown —          Archers and engineers.          And a great clamour of Christian men          Went up in agony,          Crying, "Fallen is the tower of Wessex          That stood beside the sea."          Centre and right the Wessex guard          Grew pale for doubt and fear,          And the flank failed at the advance,          For the death-light on the wizard lance —          The star of the evil spear.          "Stand like an oak," cried Marcus,          "Stand like a Roman wall!          Eldred the Good is fallen —          Are you too good to fall?          "When we were wan and bloodless          He gave you ale enow;          The pirates deal with him as dung,          God! are you bloodless now?"          "Grip, Wulf and Gorlias, grip the ash!          Slaves, and I make you free!          Stamp, Hildred hard in English land,          Stand Gurth, stand Gorlias, Gawen stand!          Hold, Halfgar, with the other hand,          Halmer, hold up on knee!          "The lamps are dying in your homes,          The fruits upon your bough;          Even now your old thatch smoulders, Gurth,          Now is the judgment of the earth,          Now is the death-grip, now!"          For thunder of the captain,          Not less the Wessex line,          Leaned back and reeled a space to rear          As Elf charged with the Rhine maids' spear,          And roaring like the Rhine.          For the men were borne by the waving walls          Of woods and clouds that pass,          By dizzy plains and drifting sea,          And they mixed God with glamoury,          God with the gods of the burning tree          And the wizard's tower and glass.          But Mark was come of the glittering towns          Where hot white details show,          Where men can number and expound,          And his faith grew in a hard ground          Of doubt and reason and falsehood found,          Where no faith else could grow.          Belief that grew of all beliefs          One moment back was blown          And belief that stood on unbelief          Stood up iron and alone.          The Wessex crescent backwards          Crushed, as with bloody spear          Went Elf roaring and routing,          And Mark against Elf yet shouting,          Shocked, in his mid-career.          Right on the Roman shield and sword          Did spear of the Rhine maids run;          But the shield shifted never,          The sword rang down to sever,          The great Rhine sang for ever,          And the songs of Elf were done.          And a great thunder of Christian men          Went up against the sky,          Saying, "God hath broken the evil spear          Ere the good man's blood was dry."          "Spears at the charge!" yelled Mark amain.          "Death on the gods of death!          Over the thrones of doom and blood          Goeth God that is a craftsman good,          And gold and iron, earth and wood,          Loveth and laboureth.          "The fruits leap up in all your farms,          The lamps in each abode;          God of all good things done on earth,          All wheels or webs of any worth,          The God that makes the roof, Gurth,          The God that makes the road.          "The God that heweth kings in oak          Writeth songs on vellum,          God of gold and flaming glass,          Confregit potentias          Acrcuum, scutum, Gorlias,          Gladium et bellum."          Steel and lightning broke about him,          Battle-bays and palm,          All the sea-kings swayed among          Woods of the Wessex arms upflung,          The trumpet of the Roman tongue,          The thunder of the psalm.          And midmost of that rolling field          Ran Ogier ragingly,          Lashing at Mark, who turned his blow,          And brake the helm about his brow,          And broke him to his knee.          Then Ogier heaved over his head          His huge round shield of proof;          But Mark set one foot on the shield,          One on some sundered rock upheeled,          And towered above the tossing field,          A statue on a roof.          Dealing far blows about the fight,          Like thunder-bolts a-roam,          Like birds about the battle-field,          While Ogier writhed under his shield          Like a tortoise in his dome.          But hate in the buried Ogier          Was strong as pain in hell,          With bare brute hand from the inside          He burst the shield of brass and hide,          And a death-stroke to the Roman's side          Sent suddenly and well.          Then the great statue on the shield          Looked his last look around          With level and imperial eye;          And Mark, the man from Italy,          Fell in the sea of agony,          And died without a sound.          And Ogier, leaping up alive,          Hurled his huge shield away          Flying, as when a juggler flings          A whizzing plate in play.          And held two arms up rigidly,          And roared to all the Danes:          "Fallen is Rome, yea, fallen          The city of the plains!          "Shall no man born remember,          That breaketh wood or weald,          How long she stood on the roof of the world          As he stood on my shield.          "The new wild world forgetteth her          As foam fades on the sea,          How long she stood with her foot on Man          As he with his foot on me.          "No more shall the brown men of the south          Move like the ants in lines,          To quiet men with olives          Or madden men with vines.          "No more shall the white towns of the south,          Where Tiber and Nilus run,          Sitting around a secret sea          Worship a secret sun.          "The blind gods roar for Rome fallen,          And forum and garland gone,          For the ice of the north is broken,          And the sea of the north comes on.          "The blind gods roar and rave and dream          Of all cities under the sea,          For the heart of the north is broken,          And the blood of the north is free.          "Down from the dome of the world we come,          Rivers on rivers down,          Under us swirl the sects and hordes          And the high dooms we drown.          "Down from the dome of the world and down,          Struck flying as a skiff          On a river in spate is spun and swirled          Until we come to the end of the world          That breaks short, like a cliff.          "And when we come to the end of the world          For me, I count it fit          To take the leap like a good river,          Shot shrieking over it.          "But whatso hap at the end of the world,          Where Nothing is struck and sounds,          It is not, by Thor, these monkish men          These humbled Wessex hounds —          "Not this pale line of Christian hinds,          This one white string of men,          Shall keep us back from the end of the world,          And the things that happen then.          "It is not Alfred's dwarfish sword,          Nor Egbert's pigmy crown,          Shall stay us now that descend in thunder,          Rending the realms and the realms thereunder,          Down through the world and down."          There was that in the wild men back of him,          There was that in his own wild song,          A dizzy throbbing, a drunkard smoke,          That dazed to death all Wessex folk,          And swept their spears along.          Vainly the sword of Colan          And the axe of Alfred plied —          The Danes poured in like a brainless plague,          And knew not when they died.          Prince Colan slew a score of them,          And was stricken to his knee;          King Alfred slew a score and seven          And was borne back on a tree.          Back to the black gate of the woods,          Back up the single way,          Back by the place of the parting ways          Christ's knights were whirled away.          And when they came to the parting ways          Doom's heaviest hammer fell,          For the King was beaten, blind, at bay,          Down the right lane with his array,          But Colan swept the other way,          Where he smote great strokes and fell.          The thorn-woods over Ethandune          Stand sharp and thick as spears,          By night and furze and forest-harms          Far sundered were the friends in arms;          The loud lost blows, the last alarms,          Came not to Alfred's ears.          The thorn-woods over Ethandune          Stand stiff as spikes in mail;          As to the Haut King came at morn          Dead Roland on a doubtful horn,          Seemed unto Alfred lightly borne          The last cry of the Gael.

BOOK VII. ETHANDUNE: THE LAST CHARGE

          Away in the waste of White Horse Down          An idle child alone          Played some small game through hours that pass,          And patiently would pluck the grass,          Patiently push the stone.          On the lean, green edge for ever,          Where the blank chalk touched the turf,          The child played on, alone, divine,          As a child plays on the last line          That sunders sand and surf.          For he dwelleth in high divisions          Too simple to understand,          Seeing on what morn of mystery          The Uncreated rent the sea          With roarings, from the land.          Through the long infant hours like days          He built one tower in vain —          Piled up small stones to make a town,          And evermore the stones fell down,          And he piled them up again.          And crimson kings on battle-towers,          And saints on Gothic spires,          And hermits on their peaks of snow,          And heroes on their pyres,          And patriots riding royally,          That rush the rocking town,          Stretch hands, and hunger and aspire,          Seeking to mount where high and higher,          The child whom Time can never tire,          Sings over White Horse Down.          And this was the might of Alfred,          At the ending of the way;          That of such smiters, wise or wild,          He was least distant from the child,          Piling the stones all day.          For Eldred fought like a frank hunter          That killeth and goeth home;          And Mark had fought because all arms          Rang like the name of Rome.          And Colan fought with a double mind,          Moody and madly gay;          But Alfred fought as gravely          As a good child at play.          He saw wheels break and work run back          And all things as they were;          And his heart was orbed like victory          And simple like despair.          Therefore is Mark forgotten,          That was wise with his tongue and brave;          And the cairn over Colan crumbled,          And the cross on Eldred's grave.          Their great souls went on a wind away,          And they have not tale or tomb;          And Alfred born in Wantage          Rules England till the doom.          Because in the forest of all fears          Like a strange fresh gust from sea,          Struck him that ancient innocence          That is more than mastery.          And as a child whose bricks fall down          Re-piles them o'er and o'er,          Came ruin and the rain that burns,          Returning as a wheel returns,          And crouching in the furze and ferns          He began his life once more.          He took his ivory horn unslung          And smiled, but not in scorn:          "Endeth the Battle of Ethandune          With the blowing of a horn."          On a dark horse at the double way          He saw great Guthrum ride,          Heard roar of brass and ring of steel,          The laughter and the trumpet peal,          The pagan in his pride.          And Ogier's red and hated head          Moved in some talk or task;          But the men seemed scattered in the brier,          And some of them had lit a fire,          And one had broached a cask.          And waggons one or two stood up,          Like tall ships in sight,          As if an outpost were encamped          At the cloven ways for night.          And joyous of the sudden stay          Of Alfred's routed few,          Sat one upon a stone to sigh,          And some slipped up the road to fly,          Till Alfred in the fern hard by          Set horn to mouth and blew.          And they all abode like statues —          One sitting on the stone,          One half-way through the thorn hedge tall,          One with a leg across a wall,          And one looked backwards, very small,          Far up the road, alone.          Grey twilight and a yellow star          Hung over thorn and hill;          Two spears and a cloven war-shield lay          Loose on the road as cast away,          The horn died faint in the forest grey,          And the fleeing men stood still.          "Brothers at arms," said Alfred,          "On this side lies the foe;          Are slavery and starvation flowers,          That you should pluck them so?          "For whether is it better          To be prodded with Danish poles,          Having hewn a chamber in a ditch,          And hounded like a howling witch,          Or smoked to death in holes?          "Or that before the red cock crow          All we, a thousand strong,          Go down the dark road to God's house,          Singing a Wessex song?          "To sweat a slave to a race of slaves,          To drink up infamy?          No, brothers, by your leave, I think          Death is a better ale to drink,          And by all the stars of Christ that sink,          The Danes shall drink with me.          "To grow old cowed in a conquered land,          With the sun itself discrowned,          To see trees crouch and cattle slink —          Death is a better ale to drink,          And by high Death on the fell brink          That flagon shall go round.          "Though dead are all the paladins          Whom glory had in ken,          Though all your thunder-sworded thanes          With proud hearts died among the Danes,          While a man remains, great war remains:          Now is a war of men.          "The men that tear the furrows,          The men that fell the trees,          When all their lords be lost and dead          The bondsmen of the earth shall tread          The tyrants of the seas.          "The wheel of the roaring stillness          Of all labours under the sun,          Speed the wild work as well at least          As the whole world's work is done.          "Let Hildred hack the shield-wall          Clean as he hacks the hedge;          Let Gurth the fowler stand as cool          As he stands on the chasm's edge;          "Let Gorlias ride the sea-kings          As Gorlias rides the sea,          Then let all hell and Denmark drive,          Yelling to all its fiends alive,          And not a rag care we."          When Alfred's word was ended          Stood firm that feeble line,          Each in his place with club or spear,          And fury deeper than deep fear,          And smiles as sour as brine.          And the King held up the horn and said,          "See ye my father's horn,          That Egbert blew in his empery,          Once, when he rode out commonly,          Twice when he rode for venery,          And thrice on the battle-morn.          "But heavier fates have fallen          The horn of the Wessex kings,          And I blew once, the riding sign,          To call you to the fighting line          And glory and all good things.          "And now two blasts, the hunting sign,          Because we turn to bay;          But I will not blow the three blasts,          Till we be lost or they.          "And now I blow the hunting sign,          Charge some by rule and rod;          But when I blow the battle sign,          Charge all and go to God."          Wild stared the Danes at the double ways          Where they loitered, all at large,          As that dark line for the last time          Doubled the knee to charge —          And caught their weapons clumsily,          And marvelled how and why —          In such degree, by rule and rod,          The people of the peace of God          Went roaring down to die.          And when the last arrow          Was fitted and was flown,          When the broken shield hung on the breast,          And the hopeless lance was laid in rest,          And the hopeless horn blown,          The King looked up, and what he saw          Was a great light like death,          For Our Lady stood on the standards rent,          As lonely and as innocent          As when between white walls she went          And the lilies of Nazareth.          One instant in a still light          He saw Our Lady then,          Her dress was soft as western sky,          And she was a queen most womanly —          But she was a queen of men.          Over the iron forest          He saw Our Lady stand,          Her eyes were sad withouten art,          And seven swords were in her heart —          But one was in her hand.          Then the last charge went blindly,          And all too lost for fear:          The Danes closed round, a roaring ring,          And twenty clubs rose o'er the King,          Four Danes hewed at him, halloing,          And Ogier of the Stone and Sling          Drove at him with a spear.          But the Danes were wild with laughter,          And the great spear swung wide,          The point stuck to a straggling tree,          And either host cried suddenly,          As Alfred leapt aside.          Short time had shaggy Ogier          To pull his lance in line —          He knew King Alfred's axe on high,          He heard it rushing through the sky,          He cowered beneath it with a cry —          It split him to the spine:          And Alfred sprang over him dead,          And blew the battle sign.          Then bursting all and blasting          Came Christendom like death,          Kicked of such catapults of will,          The staves shiver, the barrels spill,          The waggons waver and crash and kill          The waggoners beneath.          Barriers go backwards, banners rend,          Great shields groan like a gong —          Horses like horns of nightmare          Neigh horribly and long.          Horses ramp high and rock and boil          And break their golden reins,          And slide on carnage clamorously,          Down where the bitter blood doth lie,          Where Ogier went on foot to die,          In the old way of the Danes.          "The high tide!" King Alfred cried.          "The high tide and the turn!          As a tide turns on the tall grey seas,          See how they waver in the trees,          How stray their spears, how knock their knees,          How wild their watchfires burn!          "The Mother of God goes over them,          Walking on wind and flame,          And the storm-cloud drifts from city and dale,          And the White Horse stamps in the White Horse Vale,          And we all shall yet drink Christian ale          In the village of our name.          "The Mother of God goes over them,          On dreadful cherubs borne;          And the psalm is roaring above the rune,          And the Cross goes over the sun and moon,          Endeth the battle of Ethandune          With the blowing of a horn."          For back indeed disorderly          The Danes went clamouring,          Too worn to take anew the tale,          Or dazed with insolence and ale,          Or stunned of heaven, or stricken pale          Before the face of the King.          For dire was Alfred in his hour          The pale scribe witnesseth,          More mighty in defeat was he          Than all men else in victory,          And behind, his men came murderously,          Dry-throated, drinking death.          And Edgar of the Golden Ship          He slew with his own hand,          Took Ludwig from his lady's bower,          And smote down Harmar in his hour,          And vain and lonely stood the tower —          The tower in Guelderland.          And Torr out of his tiny boat,          Whose eyes beheld the Nile,          Wulf with his war-cry on his lips,          And Harco born in the eclipse,          Who blocked the Seine with battleships          Round Paris on the Isle.          And Hacon of the Harvest-Song,          And Dirck from the Elbe he slew,          And Cnut that melted Durham bell          And Fulk and fiery Oscar fell,          And Goderic and Sigael,          And Uriel of the Yew.          And highest sang the slaughter,          And fastest fell the slain,          When from the wood-road's blackening throat          A crowning and crashing wonder smote          The rear-guard of the Dane.          For the dregs of Colan's company —          Lost down the other road —          Had gathered and grown and heard the din,          And with wild yells came pouring in,          Naked as their old British kin,          And bright with blood for woad.          And bare and bloody and aloft          They bore before their band          The body of the mighty lord,          Colan of Caerleon and its horde,          That bore King Alfred's battle-sword          Broken in his left hand.          And a strange music went with him,          Loud and yet strangely far;          The wild pipes of the western land,          Too keen for the ear to understand,          Sang high and deathly on each hand          When the dead man went to war.          Blocked between ghost and buccaneer,          Brave men have dropped and died;          And the wild sea-lords well might quail          As the ghastly war-pipes of the Gael          Called to the horns of White Horse Vale,          And all the horns replied.          And Hildred the poor hedger          Cut down four captains dead,          And Halmar laid three others low,          And the great earls wavered to and fro          For the living and the dead.          And Gorlias grasped the great flag,          The Raven of Odin, torn;          And the eyes of Guthrum altered,          For the first time since morn.          As a turn of the wheel of tempest          Tilts up the whole sky tall,          And cliffs of wan cloud luminous          Lean out like great walls over us,          As if the heavens might fall.          As such a tall and tilted sky          Sends certain snow or light,          So did the eyes of Guthrum change,          And the turn was more certain and more strange          Than a thousand men in flight.          For not till the floor of the skies is split,          And hell-fire shines through the sea,          Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees,          Cometh such rending of certainties,          As when one wise man truly sees          What is more wise than he.          He set his horse in the battle-breech          Even Guthrum of the Dane,          And as ever had fallen fell his brand,          A falling tower o'er many a land,          But Gurth the fowler laid one hand          Upon this bridle rein.          King Guthrum was a great lord,          And higher than his gods —          He put the popes to laughter,          He chid the saints with rods,          He took this hollow world of ours          For a cup to hold his wine;          In the parting of the woodways          There came to him a sign.          In Wessex in the forest,          In the breaking of the spears,          We set a sign on Guthrum          To blaze a thousand years.          Where the high saddles jostle          And the horse-tails toss,          There rose to the birds flying          A roar of dead and dying;          In deafness and strong crying          We signed him with the cross.          Far out to the winding river          The blood ran down for days,          When we put the cross on Guthrum          In the parting of the ways.