Part 6 (1/2)

”Follow a light that leaps and spins, Follow the fire unfurled!

For riseth up against realm and rod, A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod, The last lost giant, even G.o.d, Is risen against the world.”

Roaring they went o'er the Roman wall, And roaring up the lane, Their torches tossed a ladder of fire, Higher their hymn was heard and higher, More sweet for hate and for heart's desire, And up in the northern scrub and brier, They fell upon the Dane.

BOOK V. ETHANDUNE: THE FIRST STROKE

King Guthrum was a dread king, Like death out of the north; Shrines without name or number He rent and rolled as lumber, From Chester to the Humber He drove his foemen forth.

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 Hamps.h.i.+re beacons He saw the southern sea.

High on the heights of Wess.e.x 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 s.h.i.+eld.

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 fas.h.i.+on 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 once I took my neighbour's wife, That was bound to an eastland man, In the starkness of my evil youth, Before my griefs began.

”People, if you have any prayers, Say prayers for me: 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.”

Then Eldred of the idle farm Leaned on his ancient sword, As fell his heavy words and few; And his eyes were of such alien blue As gleams where the Northman saileth new Into an unknown fiord.

”I was a fool and wasted ale-- My slaves found it sweet; I was a fool and wasted bread, And the birds had bread to eat.

”The kings go up and the kings go down, And who knows who shall rule; Next night a king may starve or sleep, But men and birds and beasts shall weep At the burial of a fool.

”O, drunkards in my cellar, Boys in my apple tree, The world grows stern and strange and new, And wise men shall govern you, And you shall weep for me.

”But yoke me my own oxen, Down to my own farm; My own dog will whine for me, My own friends will bend the knee, And the foes I slew openly Have never wished me harm.”

And all were moved a little, But Colan stood apart, Having first pity, and after Hearing, like rat in rafter, That little worm of laughter That eats the Irish heart.