The Ballad of the White Horse | Page 8

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.
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