Understanding the character of Colan requires an understanding of Christian paradox. A clear exposition of paradox as a Christian principle is found in the Beatitudes. A helpful tip on understanding the Beatitudes: Even as we hunger, or hear curses, or endure insults in our temporal earthly lives, in the eternal sphere exactly the opposite takes place. In some heavenly fashion, we are filled, or we are blessed, or we are hearing encouraging words from the Lord.
The Beatitudes lead us to look at all the miserable things of this life in the light of eternity; these are occasions for grace and growth, not grounds for complaint. Colan is a mystic who views the world as a living experience of paradox. For Colan, the tears of this world are the laughter of the next, the sufferings of earthly life are the delights of the next world, the insults and blows one experiences here are actually the endearments and caresses of God Himself. Mystics such as Colan have more than one foot in the next world while yet living in this one; their grasp of temporal reality may be a bit loose, but only because their grip on spiritual reality is that much stronger.
They are the contemplatives and the visionaries, living on the fringe of what most would call normal, the oddballs, the misfits, the extremists; indeed, they are the race that God made mad. There would be the great Carmelite saints, John of the Cross with his harrowing renunciation of all earthly consolation and indeed spiritual consolation as well!
A look at the career of St. Symeon of Emesa might be instructive; he is the very model of a Fool for Christ. His icon shows him entering the city dragging a dead dog tied to his belt while bystanders throw stones and beat him with sticks… and his story only gets more interesting from there! In the Old Testament think of Ezekiel sitting in the marketplace of Nineveh, shaving half his beard and throwing the hairs to the wind with a sword, eating bread with interesting ingredients, playing with miniature cities and toy soldiers and generally making a real spectacle of himself.
Chapters 4 and 5 of Ezekiel will impart a real sense of just how very strange the mystical life can be!
The lives of the mystics are all a sort of ongoing street theater, a constant visible reminder that earthly life consists largely of vain pursuits: Moving now to the character of Harold, an easily recognizable pagan type emerges. Harold is the sort of pagan most often found in the modern Western world.
He loves his comfort, his luxury, his wine from Burgundy, marble and gold:. But we, but we shall enjoy the world, the whole huge world a toy. He derides the cloisters of Christianity, finding no value in prayer and self-sacrifice. There is not the slightest tendency in Harold to question himself, to engage in any sort of introspection or self-analysis.
In short, Harold is a thoroughgoing materialist. He sees no lasting future as he says,. But the red unbroken river Of a race runs not for ever, But suddenly it fails. His philosophy of life comes down to seizing what you can today, for tomorrow may never come.
Being a complete materialist, Harold takes no thought for any afterlife. He sees nothing past death. There is no next life demanding any earthly preparation. There is only the one go-round, so each person must make the most of it while he can. The Nordic god named Loki corresponds to Harold; Loki is a god of self-indulgence, mischief and fun.
There is a whiff of elegant decadence about Harold and Loki, a decayed personality still desperately seeking fun and ease even while it is increasingly apparent that such a pursuit is ultimately doomed to failure. The great sin involved is a failure to recognize that growing up and accepting limitation and death is a vital component of human life. Harold completely misses this point in his pursuits, as do all those pathetic moderns who make the futile attempt to remain young forever.
The character of Eldred, the farmer from Wessex, is that of the simple soul. Still, Eldred welcomes Alfred with open hospitality and warm regard:. He is a generous, hearty soul, always ready to share a tankard of beer, some earthy conversation and observations on his own little bit of the earth:. Friend, I will watch the certain things, Swine, and slow moons like silver rings, And the ripening of the plums. He is not concerned with appearances; he has better things to do than to ensure that everything is absolutely shipshape at all times.
He does not need luxury but is satisfied as long as he is getting by in life. Here is the description of a man of the earth, a practical man, a Christian type absolutely essential to the health of the Church. Think here of a saint like King St. Louis of France, who famously supplied a scribe to Aquinas at a feast. Queen Elizabeth of Hungary saw to it that poor people had food and that the sick received decent care. Elizabeth Ann Seton founded an educational network to serve the Catholics of America. Vincent de Paul began a system of charitable work that has endured through the years. These are the saints who tend to the practical affairs of earthly life, the teachers, the prison visitors, those who care for invalids and clothe the naked.
From these folks, the salt of the earth, humble but very great works of charity arise. Their tasks are not glamorous, but they must be appreciated for taking care of the Colans and the Marks of the Church. Someone needs to tell the mystics that they must come in out of the rain and see to it that the intellectuals eat a decent meal now and again! The Ballad describes his journeys into the realm of the Rhine Maidens, at the very heart of Teutonic paganism. He searches for esoteric knowledge and powers beyond those of ordinary mortals. In modern terms, Elf is something of a New Age seeker after wisdom.
The New Age, among other characteristics, is a method of taking questionable short-cuts in the quest for spiritual maturity. Such short-cuts are fraught with dangers. People on this path do not build a solid spiritual life step by step, as Christians must, but rush from guru to cult leader to the latest trend in psychology, never settling into a real program of self-improvement.
New Agers have no real roots and thus Elf sings:.
The Christian knows that only the love of God is secure, to be fully realized only after death; final spiritual satisfaction is not available in mortal life. But this is a reality Elf will never understand; his seeking will never end in finding the truth. Certainly an appreciation for beauty is a Christian virtue, but it is clear in New Age philosophy the beauty to be found is not in God, but rather within the seeker.
In short, the human person becomes an idol and the object of worship. Like Narcissus, a New Age practitioner falls in love with the self, an obviously flawed model for life which can only result in sterility of body, mind and spirit. Turning to Mark the Roman, the Christian intellectual makes an appearance. The long farm lay on the large hill-side, Flat like a painted plan… His fruit trees stood like soldiers Drilled in a straight line. When Alfred arrives and states his purpose, Mark immediately analyzes the positions and tells Alfred exactly what he must do in order to wage a perfect military campaign.
He sees very clearly what must be done, analyzes the situation in an instant and knows the best course of action. But, he is a bit reluctant to enter into it himself. Intellectuals tend to remain in their ivory towers and not be involved in the messy details of life. They are often not practical people; though they can plot out a winning plan, they do not want to have to put it into effect. Of course, the saints overcome this tendency and throw their considerable intellectual weight into the fray.
They realize that standing aloof in the Apocalypse is not an option. The Church has no lack of intellectual giants: Turning to the next of the pagan chiefs, Ogier is perhaps the most terrifying of them all. When all else fails to satisfy as paganism must fail to satisfy all he has left is rage at the unfairness of it all. His response is to destroy all that has failed him. There are, alas, all too many of these pagans in the world. At the lowest level, call to mind teen-age vandals, who wantonly damage property for no reason whatever.
More seriously, the two killers in the Columbine High School massacre certainly fall into this category. Most catastrophically, this sort of paganism becomes horrendously dangerous in the leaders of nations. Perhaps the most extreme example in recent history would be Adolph Hitler. As the final days of his mad empire grew near, he had plans to destroy what little of value was left in Germany. Fortunately, a certain economic infrastructure was left intact and Germany was left with some basis for rebuilding.
Alfred exhibits several complementary characteristics. Certainly he is a type of Christ, or as the term runs in literature, a Christ-figure. He could also represent the authority of Christ on earth, hence the Pope and the magisterium of the Church. He could be looked upon as a personification of the Faith itself, since that is the bond which holds together such disparate characters as Colan, Eldred and Mark. We must actually see Alfred in all these roles.
Although the ultimate victory belongs to Alfred and the forces of Christianity, until the time of that victory we most often see Alfred as a defeated man and a hunted fugitive. He is, in fact, something of a failure: The Church was persecuted by Rome, but eventually Rome disappeared. The Church was over-run by barbarians, but eventually the barbarians were converted.
There was a revolt by the Protestants, but the Church survived. So, too, in our day, the Church is under violent assault by the forces of a newly resurgent and subtle paganism. Like Alfred at Ethandune, the Church will survive this also; in spite of defeat after defeat, the Church endures and will endure to the end. Guthrum represents all that is noble in paganism. Every pagan culture carries within it the seeds of Faith; Greek Stoicism is transformed into Christian asceticism, pagan rhetoric becomes great Christian preaching, the unknown god of Athens becomes the revealed God-Man.
With his humiliation at Ethandune and capture by the humblest Christian soldier, Guthrum finds his soul and his world-weariness is transformed into the joy of new purpose. With Thomas Aquinas, the wisdom of pagan Aristotle is enlisted in the service of presenting a magnificent Summa of the Faith. The theological stage is then set. A clash of theologies is the basis for the Ballad and it only remains to look at the interaction between the chiefs to have the key for poetic understanding. The first stroke at Ethandune is the slaying of Harold by Colan. Even the most hardened materialist might be impressed by the simplicity and other-worldliness of a St.
Francis, as one example. Almost single-handedly, Francis transformed a remorselessly materialistic society in the early Renaissance. It is in the very act of casting away possessions that materialistic tendencies in the soul are overcome. The Ballad teaches that. Thus, the superstitious worldly-wise Elf is able to overcome the mighty Eldred by the thrust of his intriguing magical spear. In his turn, Elf is undone by the intellectual Mark.
A true intellectual is well able to discern the falsity of modern claims and to overwhelm the so-called sophisticates with a stern application of solid, rock-hard truth. The vagueness and vapidity of the New Age or the Higher Criticism, for instance, simply cannot hold up under the scrutiny of a Mark, well-schooled in the reasonableness of the Faith. Christian rationality will eventually triumph over the emotionally driven and in our own time, politically correct ravings that pass for intellectuality among the new pagans.
Alas, there are some to whom the appeal to reason is utterly lost. Mark for a time restrains the raging Ogier, trapped under his own shield. But Ogier is well beyond any intellectual appeal. Eventually the brutish hatred of Ogier is strong enough to burst the bonds of the mind and deal a death blow to Mark. There is in the modern world no lack of examples; there really is such a thing as a hate crime, for instance; crime based upon the color of human flesh or ethnic origin can in no way be called rational.
A person steeped in racial hatred will not listen to calmer heads who will clearly explain that both good and not-so-good people exist in all skin shades. There clearly is no rational way to maintain that a given ethnic group is evil simply on the evidence of color. 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. 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, Then laughed; and watched the finches flash, Till a rally of Danes with shield and bill Rolled drunk over the dome of the hill, And, hearing of his harp and skill, They dragged him to their play.
And as they went through the high green grass They roared like the great green sea; But when they came to the red camp fire They were silent suddenly. And as they went up the wastes away They went reeling to and fro; But when they came to the red camp fire They stood all in a row. 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. 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. 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. 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. And a man may still lift up his head But never more his heart. 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.
Where have the glad gods led? When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne And asks if he is dead? Here is my answer then. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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?
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. 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.
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. For riseth up against realm and rod, A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod, The last lost giant, even God, Is risen against the world. 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 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.
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? 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.
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: For what their clothes are worth I would sell them for a song. 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. 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. Verily Man shall not taste of victory Till he throws his sword away. 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.
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. 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. Eldred the Good is fallen-- Are you too good to fall? Slaves, and I make you free! Hold, Halfgar, with the other hand, Halmer, hold up on knee! 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. Over the thrones of doom and blood Goeth God that is a craftsman good, And gold and iron, earth and wood, Loveth and laboureth.
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: 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.
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.
Project Gutenberg's The Ballad of the White Horse, by G.K. Chesterton This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions. The Ballad of the White Horse is a poem by G. K. Chesterton about the idealised exploits of the Saxon King Alfred the Great, published in Written in ballad.
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: 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. 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. Now is a war of men. 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.
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: 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. 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! 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 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. 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.