<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Book III: The Harp of Alfred</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In a tree that yawned and twisted<br>The King's few goods were flung,<br>A mass-book mildewed, line by line,<br>And weapons and a skin of wine,<br>And an old harp unstrung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By the yawning tree in the twilight<br>The King unbound his sword,<br>Severed the harp of all his goods,<br>And there in the cool and soundless woods<br>Sounded a single chord.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then laughed; and watched the finches flash,<br>The sullen flies in swarm,<br>And went unarmed over the hills,<br>With the harp upon his arm,<br>Until he came to the White Horse Vale<br>And saw across the plains,<br>In the twilight high and far and fell,<br>Like the fiery terraces of hell,<br>The camp fires of the Danes--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fires of the Great Army<br>That was made of iron men,<br>Whose lights of sacrilege and scorn<br>Ran around England red as morn,<br>Fires over Glastonbury Thorn--<br>Fires out on Ely Fen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And as he went by White Horse Vale<br>He saw lie wan and wide<br>The old horse graven, God knows when,<br>By gods or beasts or what things then<br>Walked a new world instead of men<br>And scrawled on the hill-side.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when he came to White Horse Down<br>The great White Horse was grey,<br>For it was ill scoured of the weed,<br>And lichen and thorn could crawl and feed,<br>Since the foes of settled house and creed<br>Had swept old works away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">King Alfred gazed all sorrowful<br>At thistle and mosses grey,<br>Then laughed; and watched the finches flash,<br>Till a rally of Danes with shield and bill<br>Rolled drunk over the dome of the hill,<br>And, hearing of his harp and skill,<br>They dragged him to their play.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And as they went through the high green grass<br>They roared like the great green sea;<br>But when they came to the red camp fire<br>They were silent suddenly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And as they went up the wastes away<br>They went reeling to and fro;<br>But when they came to the red camp fire<br>They stood all in a row.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For golden in the firelight,<br>With a smile carved on his lips,<br>And a beard curled right cunningly,<br>Was Guthrum of the Northern Sea,<br>The emperor of the ships--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With three great earls King Guthrum<br>Went the rounds from fire to fire,<br>With Harold, nephew of the King,<br>And Ogier of the Stone and Sling,<br>And Elf, whose gold lute had a string<br>That sighed like all desire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Earls of the Great Army<br>That no men born could tire,<br>Whose flames anear him or aloof<br>Took hold of towers or walls of proof,<br>Fire over Glastonbury roof<br>And out on Ely, fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Guthrum heard the soldiers' tale<br>And bade the stranger play;<br>Not harshly, but as one on high,<br>On a marble pillar in the sky,<br>Who sees all folk that live and die--<br>Pigmy and far away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Alfred, King of Wessex,<br>Looked on his conqueror--<br>And his hands hardened; but he played,<br>And leaving all later hates unsaid,<br>He sang of some old British raid<br>On the wild west march of yore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He sang of war in the warm wet shires,<br>Where rain nor fruitage fails,<br>Where England of the motley states<br>Deepens like a garden to the gates<br>In the purple walls of Wales.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He sang of the seas of savage heads<br>And the seas and seas of spears,<br>Boiling all over Offa's Dyke,<br>What time a Wessex club could strike<br>The kings of the mountaineers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Till Harold laughed and snatched the harp,<br>The kinsman of the King,<br>A big youth, beardless like a child,<br>Whom the new wine of war sent wild,<br>Smote, and began to sing--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And he cried of the ships as eagles<br>That circle fiercely and fly,<br>And sweep the seas and strike the towns<br>From Cyprus round to Skye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How swiftly and with peril<br>They gather all good things,<br>The high horns of the forest beasts,<br>Or the secret stones of kings.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"For Rome was given to rule the world,<br>And gat of it little joy--<br>But we, but we shall enjoy the world,<br>The whole huge world a toy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Great wine like blood from Burgundy,<br>Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre,<br>And marble like solid moonlight,<br>And gold like frozen fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Smells that a man might swill in a cup,<br>Stones that a man might eat,<br>And the great smooth women like ivory<br>That the Turks sell in the street."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He sang the song of the thief of the world,<br>And the gods that love the thief;<br>And he yelled aloud at the cloister-yards,<br>Where men go gathering grief.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Well have you sung, O stranger,<br>Of death on the dyke in Wales,<br>Your chief was a bracelet-giver;<br>But the red unbroken river<br>Of a race runs not for ever,<br>But suddenly it fails.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Doubtless your sires were sword-swingers<br>When they waded fresh from foam,<br>Before they were turned to women<br>By the god of the nails from Rome;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"But since you bent to the shaven men,<br>Who neither lust nor smite,<br>Thunder of Thor, we hunt you<br>A hare on the mountain height."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">King Guthrum smiled a little,<br>And said, "It is enough,<br>Nephew, let Elf retune the string;<br>A boy must needs like bellowing,<br>But the old ears of a careful king<br>Are glad of songs less rough."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Blue-eyed was Elf the minstrel,<br>With womanish hair and ring,<br>Yet heavy was his hand on sword,<br>Though light upon the string.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And as he stirred the strings of the harp<br>To notes but four or five,<br>The heart of each man moved in him<br>Like a babe buried alive.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And they felt the land of the folk-songs<br>Spread southward of the Dane,<br>And they heard the good Rhine flowing<br>In the heart of all Allemagne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They felt the land of the folk-songs,<br>Where the gifts hang on the tree,<br>Where the girls give ale at morning<br>And the tears come easily.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The mighty people, womanlike,<br>That have pleasure in their pain<br>As he sang of Balder beautiful,<br>Whom the heavens loved in vain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As he sang of Balder beautiful,<br>Whom the heavens could not save,<br>Till the world was like a sea of tears<br>And every soul a wave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"There is always a thing forgotten<br>When all the world goes well;<br>A thing forgotten, as long ago,<br>When the gods forgot the mistletoe,<br>And soundless as an arrow of snow<br>The arrow of anguish fell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"The thing on the blind side of the heart,<br>On the wrong side of the door,<br>The green plant groweth, menacing<br>Almighty lovers in the spring;<br>There is always a forgotten thing,<br>And love is not secure."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And all that sat by the fire were sad,<br>Save Ogier, who was stern,<br>And his eyes hardened, even to stones,<br>As he took the harp in turn;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Earl Ogier of the Stone and Sling<br>Was odd to ear and sight,<br>Old he was, but his locks were red,<br>And jests were all the words he said<br>Yet he was sad at board and bed<br>And savage in the fight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"You sing of the young gods easily<br>In the days when you are young;<br>But I go smelling yew and sods,<br>And I know there are gods behind the gods,<br>Gods that are best unsung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"And a man grows ugly for women,<br>And a man grows dull with ale,<br>Well if he find in his soul at last<br>Fury, that does not fail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"The wrath of the gods behind the gods<br>Who would rend all gods and men,<br>Well if the old man's heart hath still<br>Wheels sped of rage and roaring will,<br>Like cataracts to break down and kill,<br>Well for the old man then--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"While there is one tall shrine to shake,<br>Or one live man to rend;<br>For the wrath of the gods behind the gods<br>Who are weary to make an end.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"There lives one moment for a man<br>When the door at his shoulder shakes,<br>When the taut rope parts under the pull,<br>And the barest branch is beautiful<br>One moment, while it breaks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"So rides my soul upon the sea<br>That drinks the howling ships,<br>Though in black jest it bows and nods<br>Under the moons with silver rods,<br>I know it is roaring at the gods,<br>Waiting the last eclipse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"And in the last eclipse the sea<br>Shall stand up like a tower,<br>Above all moons made dark and riven,<br>Hold up its foaming head in heaven,<br>And laugh, knowing its hour.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"And the high ones in the happy town<br>Propped of the planets seven,<br>Shall know a new light in the mind,<br>A noise about them and behind,<br>Shall hear an awful voice, and find<br>Foam in the courts of heaven.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"And you that sit by the fire are young,<br>And true love waits for you;<br>But the king and I grow old, grow old,<br>And hate alone is true."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Guthrum shook his head but smiled,<br>For he was a mighty clerk,<br>And had read lines in the Latin books<br>When all the north was dark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He said, "I am older than you, Ogier;<br>Not all things would I rend,<br>For whether life be bad or good<br>It is best to abide the end."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He took the great harp wearily,<br>Even Guthrum of the Danes,<br>With wide eyes bright as the one long day<br>On the long polar plains.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For he sang of a wheel returning,<br>And the mire trod back to mire,<br>And how red hells and golden heavens<br>Are castles in the fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"It is good to sit where the good tales go,<br>To sit as our fathers sat;<br>But the hour shall come after his youth,<br>When a man shall know not tales but truth,<br>And his heart fail thereat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"When he shall read what is written<br>So plain in clouds and clods,<br>When he shall hunger without hope<br>Even for evil gods.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"For this is a heavy matter,<br>And the truth is cold to tell;<br>Do we not know, have we not heard,<br>The soul is like a lost bird,<br>The body a broken shell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"And a man hopes, being ignorant,<br>Till in white woods apart<br>He finds at last the lost bird dead:<br>And a man may still lift up his head<br>But never more his heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"There comes no noise but weeping<br>Out of the ancient sky,<br>And a tear is in the tiniest flower<br>Because the gods must die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"The little brooks are very sweet,<br>Like a girl's ribbons curled,<br>But the great sea is bitter<br>That washes all the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Strong are the Roman roses,<br>Or the free flowers of the heath,<br>But every flower, like a flower of the sea,<br>Smelleth with the salt of death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"And the heart of the locked battle<br>Is the happiest place for men;<br>When shrieking souls as shafts go by<br>And many have died and all may die;<br>Though this word be a mystery,<br>Death is most distant then.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Death blazes bright above the cup,<br>And clear above the crown;<br>But in that dream of battle<br>We seem to tread it down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Wherefore I am a great king,<br>And waste the world in vain,<br>Because man hath not other power,<br>Save that in dealing death for dower,<br>He may forget it for an hour<br>To remember it again."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And slowly his hands and thoughtfully<br>Fell from the lifted lyre,<br>And the owls moaned from the mighty trees<br>Till Alfred caught it to his knees<br>And smote it as in ire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He heaved the head of the harp on high<br>And swept the framework barred,<br>And his stroke had all the rattle and spark<br>Of horses flying hard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"When God put man in a garden<br>He girt him with a sword,<br>And sent him forth a free knight<br>That might betray his lord;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"He brake Him and betrayed Him,<br>And fast and far he fell,<br>Till you and I may stretch our necks<br>And burn our beards in hell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"But though I lie on the floor of the world,<br>With the seven sins for rods,<br>I would rather fall with Adam<br>Than rise with all your gods.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"What have the strong gods given?<br>Where have the glad gods led?<br>When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne<br>And asks if he is dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Sirs, I am but a nameless man,<br>A rhymester without home,<br>Yet since I come of the Wessex clay<br>And carry the cross of Rome,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"I will even answer the mighty earl<br>That asked of Wessex men<br>Why they be meek and monkish folk,<br>And bow to the White Lord's broken yoke;<br>What sign have we save blood and smoke?<br>Here is my answer then.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"That on you is fallen the shadow,<br>And not upon the Name;<br>That though we scatter and though we fly,<br>And you hang over us like the sky,<br>You are more tired of victory,<br>Than we are tired of shame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"That though you hunt the Christian man<br>Like a hare on the hill-side,<br>The hare has still more heart to run<br>Than you have heart to ride.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"That though all lances split on you,<br>All swords be heaved in vain,<br>We have more lust again to lose<br>Than you to win again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Your lord sits high in the saddle,<br>A broken-hearted king,<br>But our king Alfred, lost from fame,<br>Fallen among foes or bonds of shame,<br>In I know not what mean trade or name,<br>Has still some song to sing;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Our monks go robed in rain and snow,<br>But the heart of flame therein,<br>But you go clothed in feasts and flames,<br>When all is ice within;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Nor shall all iron dooms make dumb<br>Men wondering ceaselessly,<br>If it be not better to fast for joy<br>Than feast for misery.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Nor monkish order only<br>Slides down, as field to fen,<br>All things achieved and chosen pass,<br>As the White Horse fades in the grass,<br>No work of Christian men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Ere the sad gods that made your gods<br>Saw their sad sunrise pass,<br>The White Horse of the White Horse Vale,<br>That you have left to darken and fail,<br>Was cut out of the grass.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Therefore your end is on you,<br>Is on you and your kings,<br>Not for a fire in Ely fen,<br>Not that your gods are nine or ten,<br>But because it is only Christian men<br>Guard even heathen things.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"For our God hath blessed creation,<br>Calling it good. I know<br>What spirit with whom you blindly band<br>Hath blessed destruction with his hand;<br>Yet by God's death the stars shall stand<br>And the small apples grow."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the King, with harp on shoulder,<br>Stood up and ceased his song;<br>And the owls moaned from the mighty trees,<br>And the Danes laughed loud and long.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=G.K.+Chesterton">G.K. Chesterton</a> from <i>The Ballad of the White Horse</i><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117662" data-title="Book III: The Harp of Alfred de G.K. Chesterton" data-description="In a tree that yawned and twisted/The King's few goods were flung,/A mass-book mildewed, line by line,/And weapons and a skin of wine,/And an old harp unstrung./By the yawning tree in the twilight/The King unbound his sword,/Severed the harp of al..."></div> </div> </div>

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