"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 VIII
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.
