The Ballad of the White Horse | Page 8

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.
How swiftly and with peril?They gather all good things,?The high horns of the forest beasts,?Or the secret stones of kings.
"For Rome was given to rule the world,?And gat of it little joy--?But we, but we shall enjoy the world,?The whole huge world a toy.
"Great wine like blood from Burgundy,?Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre,?And marble like solid moonlight,?And gold like frozen fire.
"Smells that a man might swill in a cup,?Stones that a man might eat,?And the great smooth women like ivory?That the Turks sell in the street."
He sang the song of the thief of the world,?And the gods that love the thief;?And he yelled aloud at the cloister-yards,?Where men go gathering grief.
"Well have you sung, O stranger,?Of death on the dyke in Wales,?Your chief was a bracelet-giver;?But the red unbroken river?Of a race runs not for ever,?But suddenly it fails.
"Doubtless your sires were sword-swingers?When they waded fresh from foam,?Before they were turned to women?By the god of the nails from Rome;
"But since you bent to the shaven men,?Who neither lust nor smite,?Thunder of Thor, we hunt you?A hare on the mountain height."
King Guthrum smiled a little,?And said, "It is enough,?Nephew, let Elf retune the string;?A boy must needs like bellowing,?But the old ears of a careful king?Are glad of songs less rough."
Blue-eyed was Elf the minstrel,?With womanish hair and ring,?Yet heavy was his hand on sword,?Though light upon the string.
And as he stirred the strings of the harp?To notes but four or five,?The heart of each man moved in him?Like a babe buried alive.
And they felt the land of the folk-songs?Spread southward of the Dane,?And they heard the good Rhine flowing?In the heart of all Allemagne.
They felt the land of the folk-songs,?Where the gifts hang on the tree,?Where the girls give ale at morning?And the tears come easily.
The mighty people, womanlike,?That have pleasure in their pain?As he sang of Balder beautiful,?Whom the heavens loved in vain.
As he sang of Balder beautiful,?Whom the heavens could not save,?Till the world was like a sea of tears?And every soul a wave.
"There is always a thing forgotten?When all the world goes well;?A thing forgotten, as long ago,?When the gods forgot the mistletoe,?And soundless as an arrow of snow?The arrow of anguish fell.
"The thing on the blind side of the heart,?On the wrong side of the door,?The green plant groweth, menacing?Almighty lovers in the spring;?There is always a forgotten thing,?And love is not secure."
And all that sat by the fire were sad,?Save Ogier, who was stern,?And his eyes hardened, even to stones,?As he took the harp in turn;
Earl Ogier of the Stone and Sling?Was odd to ear and sight,?Old he was, but his locks were red,?And jests were all the words he said?Yet he was sad at board and bed?And savage in the fight.
"You sing of the young gods easily?In the days when you are young;?But I go smelling yew and sods,?And I know there are gods behind the gods,?Gods that are best unsung.
"And a man grows ugly for women,?And a man grows dull with ale,?Well if he find in his soul at last?Fury, that does not fail.
"The wrath of the gods behind the gods?Who would rend all gods and men,?Well if the old man's heart hath still?Wheels sped of rage and roaring will,?Like cataracts to break down and kill,?Well for the old man then--
"While there is one tall shrine to shake,?Or one live man to rend;?For the wrath of the gods behind the gods?Who are weary to make an end.
"There lives one moment for a man?When the door at his shoulder shakes,?When the taut rope parts under the pull,?And