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.

          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 fall and the world end,
          O God, how long ago.

          For the end of the world was long ago,
          And all we dwell to-day
          As children of some second birth,
          Like a strange people left on earth
          After a judgment day.

          For the end of the world was long ago,
          When the ends of the world waxed free,
          When Rome was sunk in a waste of slaves,
          And the sun drowned in the sea.

          When Caesar's sun fell out of the sky
          And whoso hearkened right
          Could only hear the plunging
          Of the nations in the night.

          When the ends of the earth came marching in
          To torch and cresset gleam.
          And the roads of the world that lead to Rome
          Were filled with faces that moved like foam,
          Like faces in a dream.

          And men rode out of the eastern lands,
          Broad river and burning plain;
          Trees that are Titan flowers to see,
          And tiger skies, striped horribly,
          With tints of tropic rain.

          Where Ind's enamelled peaks arise
          Around that inmost one,
          Where ancient eagles on its brink,
          Vast as archangels, gather and drink
          The sacrament of the sun.

          And men brake out of the northern lands,
          Enormous lands alone,
          Where a spell is laid upon life and lust
          And the rain is changed to a silver dust
          And the sea to a great green stone.

          And a Shape that moveth murkily
          In mirrors of ice and night,
          Hath blanched with fear all beasts and birds,
          As death and a shock of evil words
          Blast a man's hair with white.

          And the cry of the palms and the purple moons,
          Or the cry of the frost and foam,
          Swept ever around an inmost place,
          And the din of distant race on race
          Cried and replied round Rome.

          And there was death on the Emperor
          And night upon the Pope:
          And Alfred, hiding in deep grass,
          Hardened his heart with hope.

          A sea-folk blinder than the sea
          Broke all about his land,
          But Alfred up against them bare
          And gripped the ground and grasped the air,
          Staggered, and strove to stand.

          He bent them back with spear and spade,
          With desperate dyke and wall,
          With foemen leaning on his shield
          And roaring on him when he reeled;
          And no help came at all.

          He broke them with a broken sword
          A little towards the sea,
          And for one hour of panting peace,
          Ringed with a roar that would not cease,
          With golden crown and girded fleece
          Made laws under a tree.

          The Northmen came about our land
          A Christless chivalry:
          Who knew not of the arch or pen,
          Great, beautiful half-witted men
          From the sunrise and the sea.

          Misshapen ships stood on the deep
          Full of strange gold and fire,
          And hairy men, as huge as sin
          With horned heads, came wading in
          Through the long, low sea-mire.

          Our towns were shaken of tall kings
          With scarlet beards like blood:
          The world turned empty where they trod,
          They took the kindly cross of God
          And cut it up for wood.

          Their souls were drifting as the sea,
          And all good towns and lands
          They only saw with heavy eyes,
          And broke with heavy hands,

          Their gods were sadder than the sea,
          Gods of a wandering will,
          Who cried for blood like beasts at night,
          Sadly, from hill to hill.

          They seemed as trees walking the earth,
          As witless and as tall,
          Yet they took hold upon the heavens
          And no help came at all.

          They bred like birds in English woods,
          They rooted like the rose,
          When Alfred came to Athelney
          To hide him from their bows

          There was not English armour left,
          Nor any English thing,
          When Alfred came to Athelney
          To be an English king.

          For earthquake swallowing earthquake
          Uprent the Wessex tree;
          The whirlpool of the pagan sway
          Had swirled his sires as sticks away
          When a flood smites the sea.

          And the great kings of Wessex
          Wearied and sank in gore,
          And even their ghosts in that great stress
          Grew greyer and greyer, less and less,
          With the lords that died in Lyonesse
          And the king that comes no more.

          And the God of the Golden Dragon
          Was dumb upon his throne,
          And the lord of the Golden Dragon
          Ran in the woods alone.

          And if ever he climbed the crest of luck
          And set the flag before,
          Returning as a wheel returns,
          Came ruin and the rain that burns,
          And all began once more.

          And naught was left King Alfred
          But shameful tears of rage,
          In the island in the river
          In the end of all his age.

          In the island in the river
          He was broken to his knee:
          And he read, writ with an iron pen,
          That God had wearied of Wessex men
          And given their country, field and fen,
          To the devils of the sea.

          And he saw in a little picture,
          Tiny and far away,
          His mother sitting in Egbert's hall,
          And a book she showed him, very small,
          Where a sapphire Mary sat in stall
          With a golden Christ at play.

          It was wrought in the monk's slow manner,
          From silver and sanguine shell,
          Where the scenes are little and terrible,
          Keyholes of heaven and hell.

          In the river island of Athelney,
          With the river running past,
          In colours of such simple creed
          All things sprang at him, sun and weed,
          Till the grass grew to be grass indeed
          And the tree was a tree at last.

          Fearfully plain the flowers grew,
          Like the child's book to read,
          Or like a friend's face seen in a glass;
          He looked; and there Our Lady was,
          She stood and stroked the tall live grass
          As a man strokes his steed.

          Her face was like an open word
          When brave men speak and choose,
          The very colours of her coat
          Were better than good news.

          She spoke not, nor turned not,
          Nor any sign she cast,
          Only she stood up straight and free,
          Between the flowers in Athelney,
          And the river running past.

          One dim ancestral jewel hung
          On his ruined armour grey,
          He rent and cast it at her feet:
          Where, after centuries, with slow feet,
          Men came from hall and school and street
          And found it where it lay.

          "Mother of God," the wanderer said,
          "I am but a common king,
          Nor will I ask what saints may ask,
          To see a secret thing.

          "The gates of heaven are fearful gates
          Worse than the gates of hell;
          Not I would break the splendours barred
          Or seek to know the thing they guard,
          Which is too good to tell.

          "But for this earth most pitiful,
          This little land I know,
          If that which is for ever is,
          Or if our hearts shall break with bliss,
          Seeing the stranger go?

          "When our last bow is broken, Queen,
          And our last javelin cast,
          Under some sad, green evening sky,
          Holding a ruined cross on high,
          Under warm westland grass to lie,
          Shall we come home at last?"

          And a voice came human but high up,
          Like a cottage climbed among
          The clouds; or a serf of hut and croft
          That sits by his hovel fire as oft,
          But hears on his old bare roof aloft
          A belfry burst in song.

          "The gates of heaven are lightly locked,
          We do not guard our gain,
          The heaviest hind may easily
          Come silently and suddenly
          Upon me in a lane.

          "And any little maid that walks
          In good thoughts apart,
          May break the guard of the Three Kings
          And see the dear and dreadful things
          I hid within my heart.

          "The meanest man in grey fields gone
          Behind the set of sun,
          Heareth between star and other star,
          Through the door of the darkness fallen ajar,
          The council, eldest of things that are,
          The talk of the Three in One.

          "The gates of heaven are lightly locked,
          We do not guard our gold,
          Men may uproot where worlds begin,
          Or read the name of the nameless sin;
          But if he fail or if he win
          To no good man is told.

          "The men of the East may spell the stars,
          And times and triumphs mark,
          But the men signed of the cross of Christ
          Go gaily in the dark.

          "The men of the East may search the scrolls
          For sure fates and fame,
          But the men that drink the blood of God
          Go singing to their shame.

          "The wise men know what wicked things
          Are written on the sky,
          They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings,
          Hearing the heavy purple wings,
          Where the forgotten seraph kings
          Still plot how God shall die.

          "The wise men know all evil things
          Under the twisted trees,
          Where the perverse in pleasure pine
          And men are weary of green wine
          And sick of crimson seas.

          "But you and all the kind of Christ
          Are ignorant and brave,
          And you have wars you hardly win
          And souls you hardly save.

          "I tell you naught for your comfort,
          Yea, naught for your desire,
          Save that the sky grows darker yet
          And the sea rises higher.

          "Night shall be thrice night over you,
          And heaven an iron cope.
          Do you have joy without a cause,
          Yea, faith without a hope?"

          Even as she spoke she was not,
          Nor any word said he,
          He only heard, still as he stood
          Under the old night's nodding hood,
          The sea-folk breaking down the wood
          Like a high tide from sea.

          He only heard the heathen men,
          Whose eyes are blue and bleak,
          Singing about some cruel thing
          Done by a great and smiling king
          In daylight on a deck.

          He only heard the heathen men,
          Whose eyes are blue and blind,
          Singing what shameful things are done
          Between the sunlit sea and the sun
          When the land is left behind.

          Up across windy wastes and up
          Went Alfred over the shaws,
          Shaken of the joy of giants,
          The joy without a cause.

          In the slopes away to the western bays,
          Where blows not ever a tree,
          He washed his soul in the west wind
          And his body in the sea.

          And he set to rhyme his ale-measures,
          And he sang aloud his laws,
          Because of the joy of the giants,
          The joy without a cause.

          The King went gathering Wessex men,
          As grain out of the chaff
          The few that were alive to die,
          Laughing, as littered skulls that lie
          After lost battles turn to the sky
          An everlasting laugh.

          The King went gathering Christian men,
          As wheat out of the husk;
          Eldred, the Franklin by the sea,
          And Mark, the man from Italy,
          And Colan of the Sacred Tree,
          From the old tribe on Usk.

          The rook croaked homeward heavily,
          The west was clear and warm,
          The smoke of evening food and ease
          Rose like a blue tree in the trees
          When he came to Eldred's farm.

          But Eldred's farm was fallen awry,
          Like an old cripple's bones,
          And Eldred's tools were red with rust,
          And on his well was a green crust,
          And purple thistles upward thrust,
          Between the kitchen stones.

          But smoke of some good feasting
          Went upwards evermore,
          And Eldred's doors stood wide apart
          For loitering foot or labouring cart,
          And Eldred's great and foolish heart
          Stood open like his door.

          A mighty man was Eldred,
          A bulk for casks to fill,
          His face a dreaming furnace,
          His body a walking hill.

          In the old wars of Wessex
          His sword had sunken deep,
          But all his friends, he sighed and said,
          Were broken about Ethelred;
          And between the deep drink and the dead
          He had fallen upon sleep.

          "Come not to me, King Alfred, Save always for the ale:
          Why should my harmless hinds be slain
          Because the chiefs cry once again,
          As in all fights, that we shall gain,
          And in all fights we fail?

          "Your scalds still thunder and prophesy
          That crown that never comes;
          Friend, I will watch the certain things,
          Swine, and slow moons like silver rings,
          And the ripening of the plums."

          And Alfred answered, drinking,
          And gravely, without blame,
          "Nor bear I boast of scald or king,
          The thing I bear is a lesser thing,
          But comes in a better name.

          "Out of the mouth of the Mother of God,
          More than the doors of doom,
          I call the muster of Wessex men
          From grassy hamlet or ditch or den,
          To break and be broken, God knows when,
          But I have seen for whom.

          "Out of the mouth of the Mother of God
          Like a little word come I;
          For I go gathering Christian men
          From sunken paving and ford and fen,
          To die in a battle, God knows when,
          By God, but I know why.

          "And this is the word of Mary,
          The word of the world's desire
          'No more of comfort shall ye get,
          Save that the sky grows darker yet
          And the sea rises higher.'"

          Then silence sank. And slowly
          Arose the sea-land lord,
          Like some vast beast for mystery,
          He filled the room and porch and sky,
          And from a cobwebbed nail on high
          Unhooked his heavy sword.

          Up on the shrill sea-downs and up
          Went Alfred all alone,
          Turning but once e'er the door was shut,
          Shouting to Eldred over his butt,
          That he bring all spears to the woodman's hut
          Hewn under Egbert's Stone.

          And he turned his back and broke the fern,
          And fought the moths of dusk,
          And went on his way for other friends
          Friends fallen of all the wide world's ends,
          From Rome that wrath and pardon sends
          And the grey tribes on Usk.

          He saw gigantic tracks of death
          And many a shape of doom,
          Good steadings to grey ashes gone
          And a monk's house white like a skeleton
          In the green crypt of the combe.

          And in many a Roman villa
          Earth and her ivies eat,
          Saw coloured pavements sink and fade
          In flowers, and the windy colonnade
          Like the spectre of a street.

          But the cold stars clustered
          Among the cold pines
          Ere he was half on his pilgrimage
          Over the western lines.

          And the white dawn widened
          Ere he came to the last pine,
          Where Mark, the man from Italy,
          Still made the Christian sign.

          The long farm lay on the large hill-side,
          Flat like a painted plan,
          And by the side the low white house,
          Where dwelt the southland man.

          A bronzed man, with a bird's bright eye,
          And a strong bird's beak and brow,
          His skin was brown like buried gold,
          And of certain of his sires was told
          That they came in the shining ship of old,
          With Caesar in the prow.

          His fruit trees stood like soldiers
          Drilled in a straight line,
          His strange, stiff olives did not fail,
          And all the kings of the earth drank ale,
          But he drank wine.

          Wide over wasted British plains
          Stood never an arch or dome,
          Only the trees to toss and reel,
          The tribes to bicker, the beasts to squeal;
          But the eyes in his head were strong like steel,
          And his soul remembered Rome.

          Then Alfred of the lonely spear
          Lifted his lion head;
          And fronted with the Italian's eye,
          Asking him of his whence and why,
          King Alfred stood and said:

          "I am that oft-defeated King
          Whose failure fills the land,
          Who fled before the Danes of old,
          Who chaffered with the Danes with gold,
          Who now upon the Wessex wold
          Hardly has feet to stand.

          "But out of the mouth of the Mother of God
          I have seen the truth like fire,
          This—that the sky grows darker yet
          And the sea rises higher."

          Long looked the Roman on the land;
          The trees as golden crowns
          Blazed, drenched with dawn and dew-empearled
          While faintlier coloured, freshlier curled,
          The clouds from underneath the world
          Stood up over the downs.

          "These vines be ropes that drag me hard,"
          He said. "I go not far;
          Where would you meet? For you must hold
          Half Wiltshire and the White Horse wold,
          And the Thames bank to Owsenfold,
          If Wessex goes to war.

          "Guthrum sits strong on either bank
          And you must press his lines
          Inwards, and eastward drive him down;
          I doubt if you shall take the crown
          Till you have taken London town.
          For me, I have the vines."

          "If each man on the Judgment Day
          Meet God on a plain alone,"
          Said Alfred, "I will speak for you
          As for myself, and call it true
          That you brought all fighting folk you knew
          Lined under Egbert's Stone.

          "Though I be in the dust ere then,
          I know where you will be."
          And shouldering suddenly his spear
          He faded like some elfin fear,
          Where the tall pines ran up, tier on tier
          Tree overtoppling tree.

          He shouldered his spear at morning
          And laughed to lay it on,
          But he leaned on his spear as on a staff,
          With might and little mood to laugh,
          Or ever he sighted chick or calf
          Of Colan of Caerleon.

          For the man dwelt in a lost land
          Of boulders and broken men,
          In a great grey cave far off to the south
          Where a thick green forest stopped the mouth,
          Giving darkness in his den.

          And the man was come like a shadow,
          From the shadow of Druid trees,
          Where Usk, with mighty murmurings,
          Past Caerleon of the fallen kings,
          Goes out to ghostly seas.

          Last of a race in ruin—
          He spoke the speech of the Gaels;
          His kin were in holy Ireland,
          Or up in the crags of Wales.

          But his soul stood with his mother's folk,
          That were of the rain-wrapped isle,
          Where Patrick and Brandan westerly
          Looked out at last on a landless sea
          And the sun's last smile.

          His harp was carved and cunning,
          As the Celtic craftsman makes,
          Graven all over with twisting shapes
          Like many headless snakes.

          His harp was carved and cunning,
          His sword prompt and sharp,
          And he was gay when he held the sword,
          Sad when he held the harp.

          For the great Gaels of Ireland
          Are the men that God made mad,
          For all their wars are merry,
          And all their songs are sad.

          He kept the Roman order,
          He made the Christian sign;
          But his eyes grew often blind and bright,
          And the sea that rose in the rocks at night
          Rose to his head like wine.

          He made the sign of the cross of God,
          He knew the Roman prayer,
          But he had unreason in his heart
          Because of the gods that were.

          Even they that walked on the high cliffs,
          High as the clouds were then,
          Gods of unbearable beauty,
          That broke the hearts of men.

          And whether in seat or saddle,
          Whether with frown or smile,
          Whether at feast or fight was he,
          He heard the noise of a nameless sea
          On an undiscovered isle.

          Lifting the great green ivy
          And the great spear lowering,
          One said, "I am Alfred of Wessex,
          And I am a conquered king."

          And the man of the cave made answer,
          And his eyes were stars of scorn,
          "And better kings were conquered
          Or ever your sires were born.

          "What goddess was your mother,
          What fay your breed begot,
          That you should not die with Uther
          And Arthur and Lancelot?

          "But when you win you brag and blow,
          And when you lose you rail,
          Army of eastland yokels
          Not strong enough to fail."

          "I bring not boast or railing,"
          Spake Alfred not in ire,
          "I bring of Our Lady a lesson set,
          This—that the sky grows darker yet
          And the sea rises higher."

          Then Colan of the Sacred Tree
          Tossed his black mane on high,
          And cried, as rigidly he rose,
          "And if the sea and sky be foes,
          We will tame the sea and sky."

          Smiled Alfred, "Seek ye a fable
          More dizzy and more dread
          Than all your mad barbarian tales
          Where the sky stands on its head?

          "A tale where a man looks down on the sky
          That has long looked down on him;
          A tale where a man can swallow a sea
          That might swallow the seraphim.

          "Bring to the hut by Egbert's Stone
          All bills and bows ye have."
          And Alfred strode off rapidly,
          And Colan of the Sacred Tree
          Went slowly to his cave.

          In a tree that yawned and twisted
          The King's few goods were flung,
          A mass-book mildewed, line by line,
          And weapons and a skin of wine,
          And an old harp unstrung.

          By the yawning tree in the twilight
          The King unbound his sword,
          Severed the harp of all his goods,
          And there in the cool and soundless woods
          Sounded a single chord.

          Then laughed; and watched the finches flash,
          The sullen flies in swarm,
          And went unarmed over the hills,
          With the harp upon his arm,

          Until he came to the White Horse Vale
          And saw across the plains,
          In the twilight high and far and fell,
          Like the fiery terraces of hell,
          The camp fires of the Danes—

          The fires of the Great Army
          That was made of iron men,
          Whose lights of sacrilege and scorn
          Ran around England red as morn,
          Fires over Glastonbury Thorn—
          Fires out on Ely Fen.

          And as he went by White Horse Vale
          He saw lie wan and wide
          The old horse graven, God knows when,
          By gods or beasts or what things then
          Walked a new world instead of men
          And 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,
          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 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 the barest branch is beautiful
          One moment, while it breaks.

          "So rides my soul upon the sea
          That drinks the howling ships,
          Though in black jest it bows and nods
          Under the moons with silver rods,
          I know it is roaring at the gods,
          Waiting the last eclipse.

          "And in the last eclipse the sea
          Shall stand up like a tower,
          Above all moons made dark and riven,
          Hold up its foaming head in heaven,
          And laugh, knowing its hour.

          "And the high ones in the happy town
          Propped of the planets seven,
          Shall know a new light in the mind,
          A noise about them and behind,
          Shall hear an awful voice, and find
          Foam in the courts of heaven.

          "And you that sit by the fire are young,
          And true love waits for you;
          But the king and I grow old, grow old,
          And hate alone is true."

          And Guthrum shook his head but smiled,
          For he was a mighty clerk,
          And had read lines in the Latin books
          When all the north was dark.

          He said, "I am older than you, Ogier;
          Not all things would I rend,
          For whether life be bad or good
          It is best to abide the end."

          He took the great harp wearily,
          Even Guthrum of the Danes,
          With wide eyes bright as the one long day
          On the long polar plains.

          For he sang of a wheel returning,
          And the mire trod back to mire,
          And how red hells and golden heavens
          Are castles in the fire.

          "It is good to sit where the good tales go,
          To sit as our fathers sat;
          But the hour shall come after his youth,
          When a man shall know not tales but truth,
          And his heart fail thereat.

          "When he shall read what is written
          So plain in clouds and clods,
          When he shall hunger without hope
          Even for evil gods.

          "For this is a heavy matter,
          And the truth is cold to tell;
          Do we not know, have we not heard,
          The soul is like a lost bird,
          The body a broken shell.

          "And a man hopes, being ignorant,
          Till in white woods apart
          He finds at last the lost bird dead:
          And a man may still lift up his head
          But never more his heart.

          "There comes no noise but weeping
          Out of the ancient sky,
          And a tear is in the tiniest flower
          Because the gods must die.

          "The little brooks are very sweet,
          Like a girl's ribbons curled,
          But the great sea is bitter
          That washes all the world.

          "Strong are the Roman roses,
          Or the free flowers of the heath,
          But every flower, like a flower of the sea,
          Smelleth with the salt of death.

          "And the heart of the locked battle
          Is the happiest place for men;
          When shrieking souls as shafts go by
          And many have died and all may die;
          Though this word be a mystery,
          Death is most distant then.

          "Death blazes bright above the cup,
          And clear above the crown;
          But in that dream of battle
          We seem to tread it down.

          "Wherefore I am a great king,
          And waste the world in vain,
          Because man hath not other power,
          Save that in dealing death for dower,
          He may forget it for an hour
          To remember it again."

          And slowly his hands and thoughtfully
          Fell from the lifted lyre,
          And the owls moaned from the mighty trees
          Till Alfred caught it to his knees
          And smote it as in ire.

          He heaved the head of the harp on high
          And swept the framework barred,
          And his stroke had all the rattle and spark
          Of horses flying hard.

          "When God put man in a garden
          He girt him with a sword,
          And sent him forth a free knight
          That might betray his lord;

          "He brake Him and betrayed Him,
          And fast and far he fell,
          Till you and I may stretch our necks
          And burn our beards in hell.

          "But though I lie on the floor of the world,
          With the seven sins for rods,
          I would rather fall with Adam
          Than rise with all your gods.

          "What have the strong gods given?
          Where have the glad gods led?
          When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne
          And asks if he is dead?

          "Sirs, I am but a nameless man,
          A rhymester without home,
          Yet since I come of the Wessex clay
          And carry the cross of Rome,

          "I will even answer the mighty earl
          That asked of Wessex men
          Why they be meek and monkish folk,
          And bow to the White Lord's broken yoke;
          What sign have we save blood and smoke?
          Here is my answer then.

          "That on you is fallen the shadow,
          And not upon the Name;
          That though we scatter and though we fly,
          And you hang over us like the sky,
          You are more tired of victory,
          Than we are tired of shame.

          "That though you hunt the Christian man
          Like a hare on the hill-side,
          The hare has still more heart to run
          Than you have heart to ride.

          "That though all lances split on you,
          All swords be heaved in vain,
          We have more lust again to lose
          Than you to win again.

          "Your lord sits high in the saddle,
          A broken-hearted king,
          But our king Alfred, lost from fame,
          Fallen among foes or bonds of shame,
          In I know not what mean trade or name,
          Has still some song to sing;

          "Our monks go robed in rain and snow,
          But the heart of flame therein,
          But you go clothed in feasts and flames,
          When all is ice within;

          "Nor shall all iron dooms make dumb
          Men wondering ceaselessly,
          If it be not better to fast for joy
          Than feast for misery.

          "Nor monkish order only
          Slides down, as field to fen,
          All things achieved and chosen pass,
          As the White Horse fades in the grass,
          No work of Christian men.

          "Ere the sad gods that made your gods
          Saw their sad sunrise pass,
          The White Horse of the White Horse Vale,
          That you have left to darken and fail,
          Was cut out of the grass.

          "Therefore your end is on you,
          Is on you and your kings,
          Not for a fire in Ely fen,
          Not that your gods are nine or ten,
          But because it is only Christian men
          Guard even heathen things.

          "For our God hath blessed creation,
          Calling it good. I know
          What spirit with whom you blindly band
          Hath blessed destruction with his hand;
          Yet by God's death the stars shall stand
          And the small apples grow."

          And the King, with harp on shoulder,
          Stood up and ceased his song;
          And the owls moaned from the mighty trees,
          And the Danes laughed loud and long.