The Essential G. K. Chesterton

by G. K. Chesterton

  And caught their weapons clumsily, And marvelled how and why-- In such degree, by rule and rod, The people of the peace of God Went roaring down to die.

  And when the last arrow Was fitted and was flown, When the broken shield 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 shaggy Ogier To pull his lance in line-- He knew King Alfred's axe on high, He heard it rushing 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 shiver, the barrels spill, The waggons waver and crash and kill The waggoners beneath.

  Barriers go backwards, banners rend, Great shields 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 God 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 God 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 Ship 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 battleships Round Paris on the Isle.

  And Hacon of the Harvest-Song, And Dirck from the Elbe he slew, And Cnut that melted Durham bell And Fulk and fiery Oscar fell, And Goderic 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 crashing 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 bloody 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.

  And a strange music went with him, Loud and yet strangely far; The wild pipes of the western land, Too keen for the ear to understand, Sang high and deathly on each hand When the dead man went to war.

  Blocked between ghost and buccaneer, Brave men have dropped and died; And the wild sea-lords well might quail As the ghastly war-pipes of the Gael Called to the horns of White Horse Vale, And all the horns replied.

  And Hildred the poor hedger Cut down four captains dead, And Halmar laid three others low, And the great earls wavered to and fro For the living and the dead.

  And Gorlias grasped the great flag, The Raven of Odin, torn; And the eyes of Guthrum altered, For the first time since morn.

  As a turn of the wheel of tempest Tilts up the whole sky tall, And cliffs of wan cloud luminous Lean out like great walls over us, As if the heavens might fall.

  As such a tall and tilted sky Sends certain snow or light, So did the eyes of Guthrum change, And the turn was more certain and more strange Than a thousand men in flight.

  For not till the floor of the skies is split, And hell-fire shines through the sea, Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees, Cometh such rending of certainties, As when one wise man truly sees What is more wise than he.

  He set his horse in the battle-breech Even Guthrum of the Dane, And as ever had fallen fell his brand, A falling tower o'er many a land, But Gurth the fowler laid one hand Upon this bridle rein.

  King Guthrum was a great lord, And higher than his gods-- He put the popes to laughter, He chid the saints with rods,

  He took this hollow world of ours For a cup to hold his wine; In the parting of the woodways There came to him a sign.

  In Wessex in the forest, In the breaking of the spears, We set a sign on Guthrum To blaze a thousand years.

  Where the high saddles jostle And the horse-tails toss, There rose to the birds flying A roar of dead and dying; In deafness and strong crying We signed him with the cross.

  Far out to the winding river The blood ran down for days, When we put the cross on Guthrum In the parting of the ways.

  BOOK VIII. THE SCOURING OF THE HORSE

  In the years of the peace of Wessex, When the good King sat at home; Years following on that bloody boon When she that stands above the moon Stood above death at Ethandune And saw his kingdom come--

  When the pagan people of the sea Fled to their palisades, Nailed there with javelins to cling And wonder smote the pirate king, And brought him to his christening And the end of all his raids.

  (For not till the night's blue slate is wiped Of its last star utterly, And fierce new signs writ there to read, Shall eyes with such amazement heed, As when a great man knows indeed A greater thing than he.)

  And there came to his chrism-loosing Lords of all lands afar, And a line was drawn north-westerly That set King Egbert's empire free, Giving all lands by the northern sea To the sons of the northern star.

  In the days of the rest of Alfred, When all these things were done, And Wessex lay in a patch of peace, Like a dog in a patch of sun--

  The King sat in his orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom And the sunshine on his head.

  And he gathered the songs of simple men That swing with helm and hod, And the alms he gave as a Christian Like a river alive with fishes ran; And he made gifts to a beggar man As to a wandering god.

  And he gat good laws of the ancient kings, Like treasure out of the tombs; And many a thief in thorny nook, Or noble in sea-stained turret shook, For the opening of his iron book, And the gathering of the dooms.

  Then men would come from the ends of the earth, Whom the King sat welcoming, And men would go to the ends of the earth Because of the word of the King.

  For folk came in to Alfred's face Whose javelins had been hurled On monsters that make boil the sea, Crakens and coils of mystery. Or thrust in ancient snows that be The white hair of the world.

  And some had knocked at the nor
thern gates Of the ultimate icy floor, Where the fish freeze and the foam turns black, And the wide world narrows to a track, And the other sea at the world's back Cries through a closed door.

  And men went forth from Alfred's face, Even great gift-bearing lords, Not to Rome only, but more bold, Out to the high hot courts of old, Of negroes clad in cloth of gold, Silence, and crooked swords,

  Scrawled screens and secret gardens And insect-laden skies-- Where fiery plains stretch on and on To the purple country of Prester John And the walls of Paradise.

  And he knew the might of the Terre Majeure, Where kings began to reign; Where in a night-rout, without name, Of gloomy Goths and Gauls there came White, above candles all aflame, Like a vision, Charlemagne.

  And men, seeing such embassies, Spake with the King and said: "The steel that sang so sweet a tune On Ashdown and on Ethandune, Why hangs it scabbarded so soon, All heavily like lead?

  "Why dwell the Danes in North England, And up to the river ride? Three more such marches like thine own Would end them; and the Pict should own Our sway; and our feet climb the throne In the mountains of Strathclyde."

  And Alfred in the orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom, Looked at green leaves and said:

  "When all philosophies shall fail, This word alone shall fit; That a sage feels too small for life, And a fool too large for it.

  "Asia and all imperial plains Are too little for a fool; But for one man whose eyes can see The little island of Athelney Is too large a land to rule.

  "Haply it had been better When I built my fortress there, Out in the reedy waters wide, I had stood on my mud wall and cried: 'Take England all, from tide to tide-- Be Athelney my share.'

  "Those madmen of the throne-scramble-- Oppressors and oppressed-- Had lined the banks by Athelney, And waved and wailed unceasingly, Where the river turned to the broad sea, By an island of the blest.

  "An island like a little book Full of a hundred tales, Like the gilt page the good monks pen, That is all smaller than a wren, Yet hath high towns, meteors, and men, And suns and spouting whales;

  "A land having a light on it In the river dark and fast, An isle with utter clearness lit, Because a saint had stood in it; Where flowers are flowers indeed and fit, And trees are trees at last.

  "So were the island of a saint; But I am a common king, And I will make my fences tough From Wantage Town to Plymouth Bluff, Because I am not wise enough To rule so small a thing."

  And it fell in the days of Alfred, In the days of his repose, That as old customs in his sight Were a straight road and a steady light, He bade them keep the White Horse white As the first plume of the snows.

  And right to the red torchlight, From the trouble of morning grey, They stripped the White Horse of the grass As they strip it to this day.

  And under the red torchlight He went dreaming as though dull, Of his old companions slain like kings, And the rich irrevocable things Of a heart that hath not openings, But is shut fast, being full.

  And the torchlight touched the pale hair Where silver clouded gold, And the frame of his face was made of cords, And a young lord turned among the lords And said: "The King is old."

  And even as he said it A post ran in amain, Crying: "Arm, Lord King, the hamlets arm, In the horror and the shade of harm, They have burnt Brand of Aynger's farm-- The Danes are come again!

  "Danes drive the white East Angles In six fights on the plains, Danes waste the world about the Thames, Danes to the eastward--Danes!"

  And as he stumbled on one knee, The thanes broke out in ire, Crying: "Ill the watchmen watch, and ill The sheriffs keep the shire."

  But the young earl said: "Ill the saints, The saints of England, guard The land wherein we pledge them gold; The dykes decay, the King grows old, And surely this is hard,

  "That we be never quit of them; That when his head is hoar He cannot say to them he smote, And spared with a hand hard at the throat, 'Go, and return no more.'"

  Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power. But he only pointed: bade them heed Those peasants of the Berkshire breed, Who plucked the old Horse of the weed As they pluck it to this hour.

  "Will ye part with the weeds for ever? Or show daisies to the door? Or will you bid the bold grass Go, and return no more?

  "So ceaseless and so secret Thrive terror and theft set free; Treason and shame shall come to pass While one weed flowers in a morass; And like the stillness of stiff grass The stillness of tyranny.

  "Over our white souls also Wild heresies and high Wave prouder than the plumes of grass, And sadder than their sigh.

  "And I go riding against the raid, And ye know not where I am; But ye shall know in a day or year, When one green star of grass grows here; Chaos has charged you, charger and spear, Battle-axe and battering-ram.

  "And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true: If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew.

  "One time I followed a dancing star That seemed to sing and nod, And ring upon earth all evil's knell; But now I wot if ye scour not well Red rust shall grow on God's great bell And grass in the streets of God."

  Ceased Alfred; and above his head The grand green domes, the Downs, Showed the first legions of the press, Marching in haste and bitterness For Christ's sake and the crown's.

  Beyond the cavern of Colan, Past Eldred's by the sea, Rose men that owned King Alfred's rod, From the windy wastes of Exe untrod, Or where the thorn of the grave of God Burns over Glastonbury.

  Far northward and far westward The distant tribes drew nigh, Plains beyond plains, fell beyond fell, That a man at sunset sees so well, And the tiny coloured towns that dwell In the corners of the sky.

  But dark and thick as thronged the host, With drum and torch and blade, The still-eyed King sat pondering, As one that watches a live thing, The scoured chalk; and he said,

  "Though I give this land to Our Lady, That helped me in Athelney, Though lordlier trees and lustier sod And happier hills hath no flesh trod Than the garden of the Mother of God Between Thames side and the sea,

  "I know that weeds shall grow in it Faster than men can burn; And though they scatter now and go, In some far century, sad and slow, I have a vision, and I know The heathen shall return.

  "They shall not come with warships, They shall not waste with brands, But books be all their eating, And ink be on their hands.

  "Not with the humour of hunters Or savage skill in war, But ordering all things with dead words, Strings shall they make of beasts and birds, And wheels of wind and star.

  "They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men.

  "The dear sun dwarfed of dreadful suns, Like fiercer flowers on stalk, Earth lost and little like a pea In high heaven's towering forestry, --These be the small weeds ye shall see Crawl, covering the chalk.

  "But though they bridge St. Mary's sea, Or steal St. Michael's wing-- Though they rear marvels over us, Greater than great Vergilius Wrought for the Roman king;

  "By this sign you shall know them, The breaking of the sword, And man no more a free knight, That loves or hates his lord.

  "Yea, this shall be the sign of them, The sign of the dying fire; And Man made like a half-wit, That knows not of his sire.

  "What though they come with scroll and pen, And grave as a shaven clerk, By this sign you shall know them, That they ruin and make dark;