Part 4 (1/2)
”So rides my soul upon the sea That drinks the howling s.h.i.+ps, Though in black jest it bows and nods Under the moons with silver rods, I know it is roaring at the G.o.ds, Waiting the last eclipse.
”And in the last eclipse the sea Shall stand up like a tower, Above all moons made dark and riven, Hold up its foaming head in heaven, And laugh, knowing its hour.
”And the high ones in the happy town Propped of the planets seven, Shall know a new light in the mind, A noise about them and behind, Shall hear an awful voice, and find Foam in the courts of heaven.
”And you that sit by the fire are young, And true love waits for you; But the king and I grow old, grow old, And hate alone is true.”
And Guthrum shook his head but smiled, For he was a mighty clerk, And had read lines in the Latin books When all the north was dark.
He said, ”I am older than you, Ogier; Not all things would I rend, For whether life be bad or good It is best to abide the end.”
He took the great harp wearily, Even Guthrum of the Danes, With wide eyes bright as the one long day On the long polar plains.
For he sang of a wheel returning, And the mire trod back to mire, And how red h.e.l.ls and golden heavens Are castles in the fire.
”It is good to sit where the good tales go, To sit as our fathers sat; But the hour shall come after his youth, When a man shall know not tales but truth, And his heart fail thereat.
”When he shall read what is written So plain in clouds and clods, When he shall hunger without hope Even for evil G.o.ds.
”For this is a heavy matter, And the truth is cold to tell; Do we not know, have we not heard, The soul is like a lost bird, The body a broken sh.e.l.l.
”And a man hopes, being ignorant, Till in white woods apart He finds at last the lost bird dead: And a man may still lift up his head But never more his heart.
”There comes no noise but weeping Out of the ancient sky, And a tear is in the tiniest flower Because the G.o.ds must die.
”The little brooks are very sweet, Like a girl's ribbons curled, But the great sea is bitter That washes all the world.
”Strong are the Roman roses, Or the free flowers of the heath, But every flower, like a flower of the sea, Smelleth with the salt of death.
”And the heart of the locked battle Is the happiest place for men; When shrieking souls as shafts go by And many have died and all may die; Though this word be a mystery, Death is most distant then.
”Death blazes bright above the cup, And clear above the crown; But in that dream of battle We seem to tread it down.
”Wherefore I am a great king, And waste the world in vain, Because man hath not other power, Save that in dealing death for dower, He may forget it for an hour To remember it again.”
And slowly his hands and thoughtfully Fell from the lifted lyre, And the owls moaned from the mighty trees Till Alfred caught it to his knees And smote it as in ire.
He heaved the head of the harp on high And swept the framework barred, And his stroke had all the rattle and spark Of horses flying hard.
”When G.o.d put man in a garden He girt him with a sword, And sent him forth a free knight That might betray his lord;
”He brake Him and betrayed Him, And fast and far he fell, Till you and I may stretch our necks And burn our beards in h.e.l.l.
”But though I lie on the floor of the world, With the seven sins for rods, I would rather fall with Adam Than rise with all your G.o.ds.
”What have the strong G.o.ds given?
Where have the glad G.o.ds led?
When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne And asks if he is dead?