Part 5 (1/2)

Dim green or torn with golden scars, As the proud look up at the evil stars, In the red heavens of h.e.l.l.

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 gra.s.s, As a monstrous mushroom lies; Echoing and empty seemed the place; But opened in a little s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d shall turn the world over And all the last are first.

”And well may G.o.d with the serving-folk Cast in His dreadful lot; Is not He too a servant, And is not He forgot?

”For was not G.o.d my gardener And silent like a slave; That opened oaks on the uplands Or thicket in graveyard gave?

”And was not G.o.d 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 pa.s.s and leave no signs Save mercy and mystery?

”For G.o.d 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 G.o.d like Guthrum, Crowned, with a great beard curled, But I see G.o.d like a good giant, That, labouring, lifts the world.

”Wherefore was G.o.d 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.