The Ballad of the White Horse Part 8

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 Wess.e.x crescent backwards Crushed, as with b.l.o.o.d.y spear Went Elf roaring and routing, And Mark against Elf yet shouting, Shocked, in his mid-career.

Right on the Roman s.h.i.+eld and sword Did spear of the Rhine maids run; But the s.h.i.+eld s.h.i.+fted 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, "G.o.d hath broken the evil spear Ere the good man's blood was dry."

"Spears at the charge!" yelled Mark amain.

"Death on the G.o.ds of death!

Over the thrones of doom and blood Goeth G.o.d 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; G.o.d of all good things done on earth, All wheels or webs of any worth, The G.o.d that makes the roof, Gurth, The G.o.d that makes the road.

"The G.o.d that heweth kings in oak Writeth songs on vellum, G.o.d of gold and flaming gla.s.s, 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 Wess.e.x arms upflung, The trumpet of the Roman tongue, The thunder of the psalm.

And midmost of that rolling field Ran Ogier ragingly, Las.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+eld of proof; But Mark set one foot on the s.h.i.+eld, 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 s.h.i.+eld Like a tortoise in his dome.

But hate in the buried Ogier Was strong as pain in h.e.l.l, With bare brute hand from the inside He burst the s.h.i.+eld of bra.s.s and hide, And a death-stroke to the Roman's side Sent suddenly and well.

Then the great statue on the s.h.i.+eld 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 s.h.i.+eld.

"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 Wors.h.i.+p a secret sun.

"The blind G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds 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 Wess.e.x 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 Wess.e.x 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 pa.s.s, And patiently would pluck the gra.s.s, 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...o...b..d 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.