Part 11 (1/2)

Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power.

But he only pointed: bade them heed Those peasants of the Berks.h.i.+re breed, Who plucked the old Horse of the weed As they pluck it to this hour.

”Will ye part with the weeds for ever?

Or show daisies to the door?

Or will you bid the bold gra.s.s Go, and return no more?

”So ceaseless and so secret Thrive terror and theft set free; Treason and shame shall come to pa.s.s While one weed flowers in a mora.s.s; And like the stillness of stiff gra.s.s The stillness of tyranny.

”Over our white souls also Wild heresies and high Wave prouder than the plumes of gra.s.s, And sadder than their sigh.

”And I go riding against the raid, And ye know not where I am; But ye shall know in a day or year, When one green star of gra.s.s grows here; Chaos has charged you, charger and spear, Battle-axe and battering-ram.

”And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true: If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew.

”One time I followed a dancing star That seemed to sing and nod, And ring upon earth all evil's knell; But now I wot if ye scour not well Red rust shall grow on G.o.d's great bell And gra.s.s in the streets of G.o.d.”

Ceased Alfred; and above his head The grand green domes, the Downs, Showed the first legions of the press, Marching in haste and bitterness For Christ's sake and the crown's.

Beyond the cavern of Colan, Past Eldred's by the sea, Rose men that owned King Alfred's rod, From the windy wastes of Exe untrod, Or where the thorn of the grave of G.o.d Burns over Glas...o...b..ry.

Far northward and far westward The distant tribes drew nigh, Plains beyond plains, fell beyond fell, That a man at sunset sees so well, And the tiny coloured towns that dwell In the corners of the sky.

But dark and thick as thronged the host, With drum and torch and blade, The still-eyed King sat pondering, As one that watches a live thing, The scoured chalk; and he said,

”Though I give this land to Our Lady, That helped me in Athelney, Though lordlier trees and l.u.s.tier sod And happier hills hath no flesh trod Than the garden of the Mother of G.o.d Between Thames side and the sea,

”I know that weeds shall grow in it Faster than men can burn; And though they scatter now and go, In some far century, sad and slow, I have a vision, and I know The heathen shall return.

”They shall not come with wars.h.i.+ps, They shall not waste with brands, But books be all their eating, And ink be on their hands.

”Not with the humour of hunters Or savage skill in war, But ordering all things with dead words, Strings shall they make of beasts and birds, And wheels of wind and star.

”They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men.

”The dear sun dwarfed of dreadful suns, Like fiercer flowers on stalk, Earth lost and little like a pea In high heaven's towering forestry, --These be the small weeds ye shall see Crawl, covering the chalk.

”But though they bridge St. Mary's sea, Or steal St. Michael's wing-- Though they rear marvels over us, Greater than great Vergilius Wrought for the Roman king;

”By this sign you shall know them, The breaking of the sword, And man no more a free knight, That loves or hates his lord.