Thick thunder of the snorting swine,
          Enormous in the gloam,
          Rending among all roots that cling,
          And the wild horses whinnying,
          Were the night's noises when the King
          Shouldering his harp, went home.

          With eyes of owl and feet of fox,
          Full of all thoughts he went;
          He marked the tilt of the pagan camp,
          The paling of pine, the sentries' tramp,
          And the one great stolen altar-lamp
          Over Guthrum in his tent.

          By scrub and thorn in Ethandune
          That night the foe had lain;
          Whence ran across the heather grey
          The old stones of a Roman way;
          And in a wood not far away
          The pale road split in twain.

          He marked the wood and the cloven ways
          With an old captain's eyes,
          And he thought how many a time had he
          Sought to see Doom he could not see;
          How ruin had come and victory,
          And both were a surprise.

          Even so he had watched and wondered
          Under Ashdown from the plains;
          With Ethelred praying in his tent,
          Till the white hawthorn swung and bent,
          As Alfred rushed his spears and rent
          The shield-wall of the Danes.

          Even so he had watched and wondered,
          Knowing neither less nor more,
          Till all his lords lay dying,
          And axes on axes plying,
          Flung him, and drove him flying
          Like a pirate to the shore.

          Wise he had been before defeat,
          And wise before success;
          Wise in both hours and ignorant,
          Knowing neither more nor less.

          As he went down to the river-hut
          He knew a night-shade scent,
          Owls did as evil cherubs rise,
          With little wings and lantern eyes,
          As though he sank through the under-skies;
          But down and down he went.

          As he went down to the river-hut
          He went as one that fell;
          Seeing the high forest domes and spars.
          Dim green or torn with golden scars,
          As the proud look up at the evil stars,
          In the red heavens of hell.

          For he must meet by the river-hut
          Them he had bidden to arm,
          Mark from the towers of Italy,
          And Colan of the Sacred Tree,
          And Eldred who beside the sea
          Held heavily his farm.

          The roof leaned gaping to the grass,
          As a monstrous mushroom lies;
          Echoing and empty seemed the place;
          But opened in a little space
          A great grey woman with scarred face
          And strong and humbled eyes.

          King Alfred was but a meagre man,
          Bright eyed, but lean and pale:
          And swordless, with his harp and rags,
          He seemed a beggar, such as lags
          Looking for crusts and ale.

          And the woman, with a woman's eyes
          Of pity at once and ire,
          Said, when that she had glared a span,
          "There is a cake for any man
          If he will watch the fire."

          And Alfred, bowing heavily,
          Sat down the fire to stir,
          And even as the woman pitied him
          So did he pity her.

          Saying, "O great heart in the night,
          O best cast forth for worst,
          Twilight shall melt and morning stir,
          And no kind thing shall come to her,
          Till God shall turn the world over
          And all the last are first.

          "And well may God with the serving-folk
          Cast in His dreadful lot;
          Is not He too a servant,
          And is not He forgot?

          "For was not God my gardener
          And silent like a slave;
          That opened oaks on the uplands
          Or thicket in graveyard gave?

          "And was not God my armourer,
          All patient and unpaid,
          That sealed my skull as a helmet,
          And ribs for hauberk made?

          "Did not a great grey servant
          Of all my sires and me,
          Build this pavilion of the pines,
          And herd the fowls and fill the vines,
          And labour and pass and leave no signs
          Save mercy and mystery?

          "For God is a great servant,
          And rose before the day,
          From some primordial slumber torn;
          But all we living later born
          Sleep on, and rise after the morn,
          And the Lord has gone away.

          "On things half sprung from sleeping,
          All sleepy suns have shone,
          They stretch stiff arms, the yawning trees,
          The beasts blink upon hands and knees,
          Man is awake and does and sees—
          But Heaven has done and gone.

          "For who shall guess the good riddle
          Or speak of the Holiest,
          Save in faint figures and failing words,
          Who loves, yet laughs among the swords,
          Labours, and is at rest?

          "But some see God like Guthrum,
          Crowned, with a great beard curled,
          But I see God like a good giant,
          That, labouring, lifts the world.

          "Wherefore was God in Golgotha,
          Slain as a serf is slain;
          And hate He had of prince and peer,
          And love He had and made good cheer,
          Of them that, like this woman here,
          Go powerfully in pain.

          "But in this grey morn of man's life,
          Cometh sometime to the mind
          A little light that leaps and flies,
          Like a star blown on the wind.

          "A star of nowhere, a nameless star,
          A light that spins and swirls,
          And cries that even in hedge and hill,
          Even on earth, it may go ill
          At last with the evil earls.

          "A dancing sparkle, a doubtful star,
          On the waste wind whirled and driven;
          But it seems to sing of a wilder worth,
          A time discrowned of doom and birth,
          And the kingdom of the poor on earth
          Come, as it is in heaven.

          "But even though such days endure,
          How shall it profit her?
          Who shall go groaning to the grave,
          With many a meek and mighty slave,
          Field-breaker and fisher on the wave,
          And woodman and waggoner.

          "Bake ye the big world all again
          A cake with kinder leaven;
          Yet these are sorry evermore—
          Unless there be a little door,
          A little door in heaven."

          And as he wept for the woman
          He let her business be,
          And like his royal oath and rash
          The good food fell upon the ash
          And blackened instantly.

          Screaming, the woman caught a cake
          Yet burning from the bar,
          And struck him suddenly on the face,
          Leaving a scarlet scar.

          King Alfred stood up wordless,
          A man dead with surprise,
          And torture stood and the evil things
          That are in the childish hearts of kings
          An instant in his eyes.

          And even as he stood and stared
          Drew round him in the dusk
          Those friends creeping from far-off farms,
          Marcus with all his slaves in arms,
          And the strange spears hung with ancient charms
          Of Colan of the Usk.

          With one whole farm marching afoot
          The trampled road resounds,
          Farm-hands and farm-beasts blundering by
          And jars of mead and stores of rye,
          Where Eldred strode above his high
          And thunder-throated hounds.

          And grey cattle and silver lowed
          Against the unlifted morn,
          And straw clung to the spear-shafts tall.
          And a boy went before them all
          Blowing a ram's horn.

          As mocking such rude revelry,
          The dim clan of the Gael
          Came like a bad king's burial-end,
          With dismal robes that drop and rend
          And demon pipes that wail—

          In long, outlandish garments,
          Torn, though of antique worth,
          With Druid beards and Druid spears,
          As a resurrected race appears
          Out of an elder earth.

          And though the King had called them forth
          And knew them for his own,
          So still each eye stood like a gem,
          So spectral hung each broidered hem,
          Grey carven men he fancied them,
          Hewn in an age of stone.

          And the two wild peoples of the north
          Stood fronting in the gloam,
          And heard and knew each in its mind
          The third great thunder on the wind,
          The living walls that hedge mankind,
          The walking walls of Rome.

          Mark's were the mixed tribes of the west,
          Of many a hue and strain,
          Gurth, with rank hair like yellow grass,
          And the Cornish fisher, Gorlias,
          And Halmer, come from his first mass,
          Lately baptized, a Dane.

          But like one man in armour
          Those hundreds trod the field,
          From red Arabia to the Tyne
          The earth had heard that marching-line,
          Since the cry on the hill Capitoline,
          And the fall of the golden shield.

          And the earth shook and the King stood still
          Under the greenwood bough,
          And the smoking cake lay at his feet
          And the blow was on his brow.

          Then Alfred laughed out suddenly,
          Like thunder in the spring,
          Till shook aloud the lintel-beams,
          And the squirrels stirred in dusty dreams,
          And the startled birds went up in streams,
          For the laughter of the King.

          And the beasts of the earth and the birds looked down,
          In a wild solemnity,
          On a stranger sight than a sylph or elf,
          On one man laughing at himself
          Under the greenwood tree—

          The giant laughter of Christian men
          That roars through a thousand tales,
          Where greed is an ape and pride is an ass,
          And Jack's away with his master's lass,
          And the miser is banged with all his brass,
          The farmer with all his flails;

          Tales that tumble and tales that trick,
          Yet end not all in scorning—
          Of kings and clowns in a merry plight,
          And the clock gone wrong and the world gone right,
          That the mummers sing upon Christmas night
          And Christmas Day in the morning.

          "Now here is a good warrant,"
          Cried Alfred, "by my sword;
          For he that is struck for an ill servant
          Should be a kind lord.

          "He that has been a servant
          Knows more than priests and kings,
          But he that has been an ill servant,
          He knows all earthly things.

          "Pride flings frail palaces at the sky,
          As a man flings up sand,
          But the firm feet of humility
          Take hold of heavy land.

          "Pride juggles with her toppling towers,
          They strike the sun and cease,
          But the firm feet of humility
          They grip the ground like trees.

          "He that hath failed in a little thing
          Hath a sign upon the brow;
          And the Earls of the Great Army
          Have no such seal to show.

          "The red print on my forehead,
          Small flame for a red star,
          In the van of the violent marching, then
          When the sky is torn of the trumpets ten,
          And the hands of the happy howling men
          Fling wide the gates of war.

          "This blow that I return not
          Ten times will I return
          On kings and earls of all degree,
          And armies wide as empires be
          Shall slide like landslips to the sea
          If the red star burn.

          "One man shall drive a hundred,
          As the dead kings drave;
          Before me rocking hosts be riven,
          And battering cohorts backwards driven,
          For I am the first king known of Heaven
          That has been struck like a slave.

          "Up on the old white road, brothers,
          Up on the Roman walls!
          For this is the night of the drawing of swords,
          And the tainted tower of the heathen hordes
          Leans to our hammers, fires and cords,
          Leans a little and falls.

          "Follow the star that lives and leaps,
          Follow the sword that sings,
          For we go gathering heathen men,
          A terrible harvest, ten by ten,
          As the wrath of the last red autumn—then
          When Christ reaps down the kings.

          "Follow a light that leaps and spins,
          Follow the fire unfurled!
          For riseth up against realm and rod,
          A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod,
          The last lost giant, even God,
          Is risen against the world."

          Roaring they went o'er the Roman wall,
          And roaring up the lane,
          Their torches tossed a ladder of fire,
          Higher their hymn was heard and higher,
          More sweet for hate and for heart's desire,
          And up in the northern scrub and brier,
          They fell upon the Dane.

          King Guthrum was a dread king,
          Like death out of the north;
          Shrines without name or number
          He rent and rolled as lumber,
          From Chester to the Humber
          He drove his foemen forth.

          The Roman villas heard him
          In the valley of the Thames,
          Come over the hills roaring
          Above their roofs, and pouring
          On spire and stair and flooring
          Brimstone and pitch and flames.

          Sheer o'er the great chalk uplands
          And the hill of the Horse went he,
          Till high on Hampshire beacons
          He saw the southern sea.

          High on the heights of Wessex
          He saw the southern brine,
          And turned him to a conquered land,
          And where the northern thornwoods stand,
          And the road parts on either hand,
          There came to him a sign.

          King Guthrum was a war-chief,
          A wise man in the field,
          And though he prospered well, and knew
          How Alfred's folk were sad and few,
          Not less with weighty care he drew
          Long lines for pike and shield.

          King Guthrum lay on the upper land,
          On a single road at gaze,
          And his foe must come with lean array,
          Up the left arm of the cloven way,
          To the meeting of the ways.

          And long ere the noise of armour,
          An hour ere the break of light,
          The woods awoke with crash and cry,
          And the birds sprang clamouring harsh and high,
          And the rabbits ran like an elves' army
          Ere Alfred came in sight.

          The live wood came at Guthrum,
          On foot and claw and wing,
          The nests were noisy overhead,
          For Alfred and the star of red,
          All life went forth, and the forest fled
          Before the face of the King.

          But halted in the woodways
          Christ's few were grim and grey,
          And each with a small, far, bird-like sight
          Saw the high folly of the fight;
          And though strange joys had grown in the night,
          Despair grew with the day.

          And when white dawn crawled through the wood,
          Like cold foam of a flood,
          Then weakened every warrior's mood,
          In hope, though not in hardihood;
          And each man sorrowed as he stood
          In the fashion of his blood.

          For the Saxon Franklin sorrowed
          For the things that had been fair;
          For the dear dead woman, crimson-clad,
          And the great feasts and the friends he had;
          But the Celtic prince's soul was sad
          For the things that never were.

          In the eyes Italian all things
          But a black laughter died;
          And Alfred flung his shield to earth
          And smote his breast and cried—

          "I wronged a man to his slaying,
          And a woman to her shame,
          And once I looked on a sworn maid
          That was wed to the Holy Name.

          "And once I took my neighbour's wife,
          That was bound to an eastland man,
          In the starkness of my evil youth,
          Before my griefs began.

          "People, if you have any prayers,
          Say prayers for me:
          And lay me under a Christian stone
          In that lost land I thought my own,
          To wait till the holy horn is blown,
          And all poor men are free."

          Then Eldred of the idle farm
          Leaned on his ancient sword,
          As fell his heavy words and few;
          And his eyes were of such alien blue
          As gleams where the Northman saileth new
          Into an unknown fiord.

          "I was a fool and wasted ale—
          My slaves found it sweet;
          I was a fool and wasted bread,
          And the birds had bread to eat.

          "The kings go up and the kings go down,
          And who knows who shall rule;
          Next night a king may starve or sleep,
          But men and birds and beasts shall weep
          At the burial of a fool.

          "O, drunkards in my cellar,
          Boys in my apple tree,
          The world grows stern and strange and new,
          And wise men shall govern you,
          And you shall weep for me.

          "But yoke me my own oxen,
          Down to my own farm;
          My own dog will whine for me,
          My own friends will bend the knee,
          And the foes I slew openly
          Have never wished me harm."

          And all were moved a little,
          But Colan stood apart,
          Having first pity, and after
          Hearing, like rat in rafter,
          That little worm of laughter
          That eats the Irish heart.

          And his grey-green eyes were cruel,
          And the smile of his mouth waxed hard,
          And he said, "And when did Britain
          Become your burying-yard?

          "Before the Romans lit the land,
          When schools and monks were none,
          We reared such stones to the sun-god
          As might put out the sun.

          "The tall trees of Britain
          We worshipped and were wise,
          But you shall raid the whole land through
          And never a tree shall talk to you,
          Though every leaf is a tongue taught true
          And the forest is full of eyes.

          "On one round hill to the seaward
          The trees grow tall and grey
          And the trees talk together
          When all men are away.

          "O'er a few round hills forgotten
          The trees grow tall in rings,
          And the trees talk together
          Of many pagan things.

          "Yet I could lie and listen
          With a cross upon my clay,
          And hear unhurt for ever
          What the trees of Britain say."

          A proud man was the Roman,
          His speech a single one,
          But his eyes were like an eagle's eyes
          That is staring at the sun.

          "Dig for me where I die," he said,
          "If first or last I fall—
          Dead on the fell at the first charge,
          Or dead by Wantage wall;

          "Lift not my head from bloody ground,
          Bear not my body home,
          For all the earth is Roman earth
          And I shall die in Rome."

          Then Alfred, King of England,
          Bade blow the horns of war,
          And fling the Golden Dragon out,
          With crackle and acclaim and shout,
          Scrolled and aflame and far.

          And under the Golden Dragon
          Went Wessex all along,
          Past the sharp point of the cloven ways,
          Out from the black wood into the blaze
          Of sun and steel and song.

          And when they came to the open land
          They wheeled, deployed and stood;
          Midmost were Marcus and the King,
          And Eldred on the right-hand wing,
          And leftwards Colan darkling,
          In the last shade of the wood.

          But the Earls of the Great Army
          Lay like a long half moon,
          Ten poles before their palisades,
          With wide-winged helms and runic blades
          Red giants of an age of raids,
          In the thornland of Ethandune.

          Midmost the saddles rose and swayed,
          And a stir of horses' manes,
          Where Guthrum and a few rode high
          On horses seized in victory;
          But Ogier went on foot to die,
          In the old way of the Danes.

          Far to the King's left Elf the bard
          Led on the eastern wing
          With songs and spells that change the blood;
          And on the King's right Harold stood,
          The kinsman of the King.

          Young Harold, coarse, with colours gay,
          Smoking with oil and musk,
          And the pleasant violence of the young,
          Pushed through his people, giving tongue
          Foewards, where, grey as cobwebs hung,
          The banners of the Usk.

          But as he came before his line
          A little space along,
          His beardless face broke into mirth,
          And he cried: "What broken bits of earth
          Are here? For what their clothes are worth
          I would sell them for a song."

          For Colan was hung with raiment
          Tattered like autumn leaves,
          And his men were all as thin as saints,
          And all as poor as thieves.

          No bows nor slings nor bolts they bore,
          But bills and pikes ill-made;
          And none but Colan bore a sword,
          And rusty was its blade.

          And Colan's eyes with mystery
          And iron laughter stirred,
          And he spoke aloud, but lightly
          Not labouring to be heard.

          "Oh, truly we be broken hearts,
          For that cause, it is said,
          We light our candles to that Lord
          That broke Himself for bread.

          "But though we hold but bitterly
          What land the Saxon leaves,
          Though Ireland be but a land of saints,
          And Wales a land of thieves,

          "I say you yet shall weary
          Of the working of your word,
          That stricken spirits never strike
          Nor lean hands hold a sword.

          "And if ever ye ride in Ireland,
          The jest may yet be said,
          There is the land of broken hearts,
          And the land of broken heads."

          Not less barbarian laughter
          Choked Harold like a flood,
          "And shall I fight with scarecrows
          That am of Guthrum's blood?

          "Meeting may be of war-men,
          Where the best war-man wins;
          But all this carrion a man shoots
          Before the fight begins."

          And stopping in his onward strides,
          He snatched a bow in scorn
          From some mean slave, and bent it on
          Colan, whose doom grew dark; and shone
          Stars evil over Caerleon,
          In the place where he was born.

          For Colan had not bow nor sling,
          On a lonely sword leaned he,
          Like Arthur on Excalibur
          In the battle by the sea.

          To his great gold ear-ring Harold
          Tugged back the feathered tail,
          And swift had sprung the arrow,
          But swifter sprang the Gael.

          Whirling the one sword round his head,
          A great wheel in the sun,
          He sent it splendid through the sky,
          Flying before the shaft could fly—
          It smote Earl Harold over the eye,
          And blood began to run.

          Colan stood bare and weaponless,
          Earl Harold, as in pain,
          Strove for a smile, put hand to head,
          Stumbled and suddenly fell dead;
          And the small white daisies all waxed red
          With blood out of his brain.

          And all at that marvel of the sword,
          Cast like a stone to slay,
          Cried out. Said Alfred: "Who would see
          Signs, must give all things. Verily
          Man shall not taste of victory
          Till he throws his sword away."

          Then Alfred, prince of England,
          And all the Christian earls,
          Unhooked their swords and held them up,
          Each offered to Colan, like a cup
          Of chrysolite and pearls.

          And the King said, "Do thou take my sword
          Who have done this deed of fire,
          For this is the manner of Christian men,
          Whether of steel or priestly pen,
          That they cast their hearts out of their ken
          To get their heart's desire.

          "And whether ye swear a hive of monks,
          Or one fair wife to friend,
          This is the manner of Christian men,
          That their oath endures the end.

          "For love, our Lord, at the end of the world,
          Sits a red horse like a throne,
          With a brazen helm and an iron bow,
          But one arrow alone.

          "Love with the shield of the Broken Heart
          Ever his bow doth bend,
          With a single shaft for a single prize,
          And the ultimate bolt that parts and flies
          Comes with a thunder of split skies,
          And a sound of souls that rend.

          "So shall you earn a king's sword,
          Who cast your sword away."
          And the King took, with a random eye,
          A rude axe from a hind hard by
          And turned him to the fray.

          For the swords of the Earls of Daneland
          Flamed round the fallen lord.
          The first blood woke the trumpet-tune,
          As in monk's rhyme or wizard's rune,
          Beginneth the battle of Ethandune
          With the throwing of the sword.

          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.