Kitabı oku: «The Ballad of the White Horse», sayfa 4

BOOK VI. ETHANDUNE: THE SLAYING OF THE CHIEFS

 
          As the sea flooding the flat sands
          Flew on the sea-born horde,
          The two hosts shocked with dust and din,
          Left of the Latian paladin,
          Clanged all Prince Harold's howling kin
          On Colan and the sword.
 
 
          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 this 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 —
 
 
          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.