The Ballad of the White Horse | Page 3

may be used to?indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent form by the program that displays the etext (as is the case, for instance, with most word processors); OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
net profits you derive calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon University" within the 60 days following each?date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".
*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
Many thanks to Paul Bonner of the Herald-Sun for typing this poem. Error messages go to Martin Ward >
THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE
By G.K. Chesterton
DEDICATION
Of great limbs gone to chaos,?A great face turned to night--?Why bend above a shapeless shroud?Seeking in such archaic cloud?Sight of strong lords and light?
Where seven sunken Englands?Lie buried one by one,?Why should one idle spade, I wonder,?Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder?To smoke and choke the sun?
In cloud of clay so cast to heaven?What shape shall man discern??These lords may light the mystery?Of mastery or victory,?And these ride high in history,?But these shall not return.
Gored on the Norman gonfalon?The Golden Dragon died:?We shall not wake with ballad strings?The good time of the smaller things,?We shall not see the holy kings?Ride down by Severn side.
Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured?As the broidery of Bayeux?The England of that dawn remains,?And this of Alfred and the Danes?Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns?Too English to be true.
Of a good king on an island?That ruled once on a time;?And as he walked by an apple tree?There came green devils out of the sea?With sea-plants trailing heavily?And tracks of opal slime.
Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;?His days as our days ran,?He also looked forth for an hour?On peopled plains and skies that lower,?From those few windows in the tower?That is the head of a man.
But who shall look from Alfred's hood?Or breathe his breath alive??His century like a small dark cloud?Drifts far; it is an eyeless crowd,?Where the tortured trumpets scream aloud?And the dense arrows drive.
Lady, by one light only?We look from Alfred's eyes,?We know he saw athwart the wreck?The sign that hangs about your neck,?Where One more than Melchizedek?Is dead and never dies.
Therefore I bring these rhymes to you?Who brought the cross to me,?Since on you flaming without flaw?I saw the sign that Guthrum saw?When he let break his ships of awe,?And laid peace on the sea.
Do you remember when we went?Under a dragon moon,?And `mid volcanic tints of night?Walked where they fought the unknown fight?And saw black trees on the battle-height,?Black thorn on Ethandune??And I thought, "I will go with you,?As man with God has gone,?And wander with a wandering star,?The wandering heart of things that are,?The fiery cross of love and war?That like yourself, goes on."
O go you onward; where you are?Shall honour and laughter be,?Past purpled forest and pearled foam,?God's winged pavilion free to roam,?Your face, that is a wandering home,?A flying home for me.
Ride through the silent earthquake lands,?Wide as a waste is wide,?Across these days like deserts, when?Pride and a little scratching pen?Have dried and split the hearts of men,?Heart of the heroes, ride.
Up through an empty house of stars,?Being what heart you are,?Up the inhuman steeps of space?As on a staircase go in grace,?Carrying the firelight on your face?Beyond the loneliest star.
Take these; in memory of the hour?We strayed a space from home?And saw the smoke-hued hamlets, quaint?With Westland king and Westland saint,?And watched the western glory faint?Along the road to Frome.
BOOK I
THE VISION OF THE KING
Before the gods that made the gods?Had seen their sunrise pass,?The White Horse of the White Horse Vale?Was cut out of the grass.
Before the gods that made the gods?Had drunk at dawn their fill,?The White Horse of the White Horse Vale?Was hoary on the hill.
Age beyond age on British land,?Aeons on aeons gone,?Was peace and war in western hills,?And the White Horse looked on.
For the White Horse knew England?When there was none to know;?He saw the first oar break or bend,?He saw heaven