For the man dwelt in a lost land Of boulders and broken men, In a great grey cave far off to the south Where a thick green forest stopped the mouth, Giving darkness in his den.
And the man was come like a shadow, From the shadow of Druid trees, Where Usk, with mighty murmurings, Past Caerleon of the fallen kings, Goes out to ghostly seas.
Last of a race in ruin--
He spoke the speech of the Gaels;
His kin were in holy Ireland, Or up in the crags of Wales.
But his soul stood with his mother's folk, That were of the rain-wrapped isle, Where Patrick and Brandan westerly Looked out at last on a landless sea And the sun's last smile.
His harp was carved and cunning, As the Celtic craftsman makes, Graven all over with twisting shapes Like many headless snakes.
His harp was carved and cunning, His sword prompt and sharp, And he was gay when he held the sword, Sad when he held the harp.
For the great Gaels of Ireland Are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, And all their songs are sad.
He kept the Roman order, He made the Christian sign;But his eyes grew often blind and bright, And the sea that rose in the rocks at night Rose to his head like wine.
He made the sign of the cross of God, He knew the Roman prayer, But he had unreason in his heart Because of the gods that were.
Even they that walked on the high cliffs, High as the clouds were then, Gods of unbearable beauty, That broke the hearts of men.
And whether in seat or saddle, Whether with frown or smile, Whether at feast or fight was he, He heard the noise of a nameless sea On an undiscovered isle.
Lifting the great green ivy And the great spear lowering, One said, "I am Alfred of Wessex, And I am a conquered king."And the man of the cave made answer, And his eyes were stars of scorn, "And better kings were conquered Or ever your sires were born.
"What goddess was your mother, What fay your breed begot, That you should not die with Uther And Arthur and Lancelot?
"But when you win you brag and blow, And when you lose you rail, Army of eastland yokels Not strong enough to fail.""I bring not boast or railing,"
Spake Alfred not in ire, "I bring of Our Lady a lesson set, This--that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher."Then Colan of the Sacred Tree Tossed his black mane on high, And cried, as rigidly he rose, "And if the sea and sky be foes, We will tame the sea and sky."Smiled Alfred, "Seek ye a fable More dizzy and more dread Than all your mad barbarian tales Where the sky stands on its head ?
"A tale where a man looks down on the sky That has long looked down on him;A tale where a man can swallow a sea That might swallow the seraphim.
"Bring to the hut by Egbert's Stone All bills and bows ye have."And Alfred strode off rapidly, And Colan of the Sacred Tree Went slowly to his cave.
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, Then laughed; and watched the finches flash, 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.
