The Ballad of the White Horse

Prefatory Note

This ballad needs no historical notes, for the simple reason that it does not profess to be historical. All of it that is not frankly fictitious, as in any prose romance about the past, is meant to emphasize tradition rather than history. King Alfred is not a legend in the sense that King Arthur may be a legend; that is, in the sense that he may possibly be a lie. But King Alfred is a legend in this broader and more human sense, that the legends are the most important things about him.

The cult of Alfred was a popular cult, from the darkness of the ninth century to the deepening twilight of the twentieth. It is wholly as a popular legend that I deal with him here. I write as one ignorant of everything, except that I have found the legend of a King of Wessex still alive in the land. I will give three curt cases of what I mean. A tradition connects the ultimate victory of Alfred with the valley in Berkshire called the Vale of the White Horse. I have seen doubts of the tradition, which may be valid doubts. I do not know when or where the story started; it is enough that it started somewhere and ended with me; for I only seek to write upon a hearsay, as the old balladists did. For the second case, there is a popular tale that Alfred played the harp and sang in the Danish camp; I select it because it is a popular tale, at whatever time it arose. For the third case, there is a popular tale that Alfred came in contact with a woman and cakes; I select it because it is a popular tale, because it is a vulgar one. It has been disputed by grave historians, who were, I think, a little too grave to be good judges of it. The two chief charges against the story are that it was first recorded long after Alfred's death, and that (as Mr. Oman urges) Alfred never really wandered all alone without any thanes or soldiers. Both these objections might possibly be met. It has taken us nearly as long to learn the whole truth about Byron, and perhaps longer to learn the whole truth about Pepys, than elapsed between Alfred and the first writing of such tales. And as for the other objection, do the historians really think that Alfred after Wilton, or Napoleon after Leipsic, never walked about in a wood by himself for the matter of an hour or two? Ten minutes might be made sufficient for the essence of the story. But I am not concerned to prove the truth of these popular traditions. It is enough for me to maintain two things: that they are popular traditions; and that without these popular traditions we should have bothered about Alfred about as much as we bother about Eadwig.

One other consideration needs a note. Alfred has come down to us in the best way (that is, by national legends) solely for the same reason as Arthur and Roland and the other giants of that darkness, because he fought for the Christian civilization against the heathen nihilism. But since this work was really done by generation after generation, by the Romans before they withdrew, and by the Britons while they remained, I have summarised this first crusade in a triple symbol, and given to a fictitious Roman, Celt, and Saxon, a part in the glory of Ethandune. I fancy that in fact Alfred's Wessex was of very mixed bloods; but in any case, it is the chief value of legend to mix up the centuries while preserving the sentiment; to see all ages in a sort of splendid foreshortening. That is the use of tradition: it telescopes history.

G.K.C.

DEDICATION

 
          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.
 

BOOK I. THE VISION OF THE KING

 
          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.