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And Mark had fought because all arms
Rang like the name of Rome.

And Colan fought with a double mind,
Moody and madly gay;
But Alfred fought as gravely
As a good child at play.

He saw wheels break and work run back,
And all things as they were;
And his heart was orbed like victory,
And simple like despair.

Therefore is Mark forgotten,

That was wise with his tongue and

brave;

And the cairn over Colan crumbled, And the cross on Eldred's grave.

Their great souls went on a wind away,
And they have not tale or tomb;
And Alfred born in Wantage
Rules England till the doom.

Because in the forest of all fears,
Like a strange fresh gust from sea,
Struck him that ancient innocence

That is more than mastery.

And as a child whose bricks fall down,
Re-piles them o'er and o'er;
Came ruin and the rain that burns,
Returning as a wheel returns,
And crouching in the furze and ferns

He began his life once more.

He took his ivory horn unslung
And smiled, but not in scorn;
"Endeth the Battle of Ethandune
With the blowing of a horn."

On a dark horse at the double way

He saw great Guthrum ride;
Heard roar of brass and ring of steel,
The laughter and the trumpet peal,
The pagan in his pride,

And Ogier's red and hated head

Moved in some talk or task;

But the men seemed scattered in the

brier,

And some of them had lit a fire,
And one had broached a cask.
And waggons one or two stood up,
Like tall ships in sight,
As if an outpost were encamped
At the cloven ways for night.

And joyous of the sudden stay
Of Alfred's routed few,
Sat one upon a stone to sigh;
And some slipped up the road to fly,
Till Alfred in the fern hard by

Set horn to mouth and blew.

And they all abode like statues

One sitting on the stone,

One half-way through the thorn hedge tall,

One with a leg across a wall;

And one looked backwards, very small,
Far up the road, alone.

Grey twilight and a yellow star

Hung over thorn and hill. Two spears and a cloven war-shield lay Loose on the road as cast-away, The horn died faint in the forests grey, And the fleeing men stood still. "Brothers at arms," said Alfred, "On this side lies the foe; Are slavery and starvation flowers That you should pluck them so? "For whether is it better

To be prodded with Danish poles, Having hewn a chamber in a ditch, And hounded like a howling witch,

Or smoked to death in holes?

"Or that before the red cock crow,
All we, a thousand strong,
Go down the dark road to God's house,
Singing a Wessex song?

"To sweat a slave to a race of slaves, To drink up infamy?

No, brothers, by your leave, I think
Death is a better ale to drink;
And by all the stars of Christ that sink,
The Danes shall drink with me.

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Her eyes were sad withouten art,
And seven swords were in her heart-
But one was in her hand.

Then the last charge went blindly,

And all too lost for fear;

The Danes closed round, a roaring ring,
And twenty clubs rose o'er the King,
Four Danes hewed at him, halloing,
And Ogier of the Stone and Sling

Drove at him with a spear.

But the Danes were wild with laughter,
And the great spear swung wide,
The point stuck to a straggling tree,
And either host cried suddenly,

As Alfred leapt aside.

Short time had shaggy Ogier
To pull his lance in line-

He knew King Alfred's axe on high,
He heard it rushing through the sky,

He cowered beneath it with a cry-
It split him to the spine;
And Alfred sprang over him dead,
And blew the battle sign.

Then bursting all and blasting,

Came Christendom like death, Kicked from such catapults of will The staves shiver, the barrels spill, The waggons waver and crash and kill The waggoners beneath.

Barriers go backwards, banners rend,
Great shields groan like a gong-
Horses like horns of nightmare
Neigh horribly and long.

Horses ramp high and rock and boil

And break their golden reins, And slide on carnage clamorously, Down where the bitter blood doth lie, Where Ogier went on foot to die,

In the old way of the Danes.

"The high tide!" King Alfred cried;

"The high tide and the turn! As a tide turns on the tall grey seas, See how they waver in the trees,

How stray their spears, how knock their knees,

How wild their watchfires burn! "The Mother of God goes over them, Walking on wind and flame,

And the storm-cloud drifts from city and dale,

And the White Horse stamps in the White Horse Vale,

And we all shall yet drink Christian ale,
In the village of our name.

"The Mother of God goes over them,
On dreadful Cherubs borne;
And the psalm is roaring above the rune.
And the cross goes over the sun and

moon;

Endeth the Battle of Ethandune,
With the blowing of the horn."
For back indeed disorderly

The Danes went clamouring,
Too worn to take anew the tale,
Or dazed with insolence and ale,
Or stunned of heaven, or stricken pale
Before the face of the King.

For dire was Alfred in his hour
The pale scribe witnesseth,
More mighty in defeat was he
Than all men else in victory;

And behind, his men came murderously,
Dry-throated, drinking death.

And Edgar of the Golden Ship

He broke with his own hand,
Took Ludwig from his lady's bower,
And smote down Harmer in his hour,
And vain and lonely stood the tower-
The tower in Guelderland.

And Torr out of his tiny boat,

Whose eyes beheld the Nile, Wulf with his war cry on his lips, And Hacro born in the eclipse, Who blocked the Seine with battle-ships Round Paris on the Isle.

And Hacon of the Harvest-song,

And Dirck from the Elbe he slew,

And Cnut that melted Durham bell,

And Fulk and fiery Oscar fell,

And Goderic and Sigael,

And Uriel of the Yew.

And highest sang the slaughter,

And fastest fell the slain,

When from the wood-road's blackening

throat

A crowning and crashing wonder smote
The rear-guard of the Dane.

For the dregs of Colan's company-
Lost down the other road,

Had gathered and grown and heard the din,

And with wild yells came pouring in
Naked as their old British kin

And bright with blood for woad.

And bare and bloody and aloft

They bore before their band
The body of their mighty lord,
Colan of Caerleon, and the 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 Halfgar laid seven others low, And the great earls wavered to and fro

For the living and the dead.

And Gorlias grasped the great flag,

The Raven of Odin, torn;
And the eyes of Guthrum altered,
For the first time since morn,

As a turn of the wheel of tempest

Tilts up the whole sky tall, And cliffs of wan cloud luminous Lean out like great walls over us,

As if the heavens might fall;

As such a tall and tilted sky

Sends certain snow or light,

So did the eyes of Guthrum change,
And the turn was more certain and more

strange

Than a thousand men in flight.

For not till the floor of the skies is split

And hell-fire shines through the sea, Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees,

Cometh such rending of certainties,
As when one wise man truly sees
What is more wise than he.

He set his horse in the battle-breach
Even Guthrum of the Dane,
And as ever had fallen fell his brand,
A falling tower o'er many a land,
But Gurth the Fowler laid one hand
Upon this bridle rein.

King Guthrum was a great lord,

And higher than his godsHe put the popes to laughter, He chid the saints with rods.

He took this hollow world of ours
For a cup to hold his wine;
In the parting of the woodways
There came to him a sign.

In Wessex in the forest,

In the breaking of the spears, We set a sign on Guthrum

To blaze a thousand years.

Where the high saddles jostle
And the horse-tails toss,
There rose to the birds flying
A roar of dead and dying;
In deafness and strong crying
We signed him with the cross.

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"ONCE there were two sailors; and one of them was Joe, and the other one was Jerry, and they were fishermen. And they'd a young apprentice-feller, and his name was Jim. And Joe was a great one for his pot, and Jerry was a wonder at his pipe; and Jim did all the work, and both of them banged him. So one time Joe and Jerry were in the beer-house, and there was a young parson there, telling the folks about foreign things, about plants and that. 'Ah,' he says, 'what wonders there are in the west.'

"What sort of wonders, begging your pardon, sir,' says Joe. 'What sort of wonders might them be?'

"Why, all sorts of wonders,' says the parson. 'Why, in the west,' he says, 'there's things you wouldn't believe. No, you wouldn't be

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