The Ballad of the White Horse Part 9

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 bra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ps 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-s.h.i.+eld 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 c.o.c.k crow All we, a thousand strong, Go down the dark road to G.o.d's house, Singing a Wess.e.x 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 s.h.i.+eld-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 h.e.l.l 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 Wess.e.x 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 G.o.d."

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 G.o.d Went roaring down to die.

And when the last arrow Was fitted and was flown, When the broken s.h.i.+eld 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 s.h.a.ggy Ogier To pull his lance in line-- He knew King Alfred's axe on high, He heard it rus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+ver, the barrels spill, The waggons waver and crash and kill The waggoners beneath.

Barriers go backwards, banners rend, Great s.h.i.+elds 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+p 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 battles.h.i.+ps Round Paris on the Isle.

And Hacon of the Harvest-Song, And Dirck from the Elbe he slew, And c.n.u.t that melted Durham bell And Fulk and fiery Oscar fell, And G.o.deric 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 cras.h.i.+ng 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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.