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 thi
s 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--
The Essential G. K. Chesterton Page 64
