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    The Ballad of the White Horse
    The Ballad of the White Horse
    The Ballad of the White Horse
    Ebook112 pages1 hour

    The Ballad of the White Horse

    By G. K. Chesterton

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    About this ebook

    "The Ballad of the White Horse" is a poem by G. K. Chesterton. It tells about the idealized exploits of the Saxon King Alfred the Great. The work has been described as one of the last great traditional epic poems ever written in the English language. The poem speaks of the deeds of Alfred, who was able to defeat the invading Danes at the Battle of Ethandun with the aid of the Virgin Mary.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigiCat
    Release dateMay 28, 2022
    ISBN8596547010067
    The Ballad of the White Horse
    Author

    G. K. Chesterton

    G. K. Chesterton was one of the most beloved and prolific authors of the twentieth century. He wrote dozens of popular books on a variety of topics and thousands of essays. His works include Orthodoxy, The Everlasting Man, The Man Who Was Thursday, and the Father Brown mystery stories.

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      Book preview

      The Ballad of the White Horse - G. K. Chesterton

      G. K. Chesterton

      The Ballad of the White Horse

      EAN 8596547010067

      DigiCat, 2022

      Contact: [email protected]

      Table of Contents

      BOOK I. THE VISION OF THE KING

      BOOK II. THE GATHERING OF THE CHIEFS

      BOOK III. THE HARP OF ALFRED

      BOOK IV. THE WOMAN IN THE FOREST

      BOOK V. ETHANDUNE: THE FIRST STROKE

      BOOK VI. ETHANDUNE: THE SLAYING OF THE CHIEFS

      BOOK VII. ETHANDUNE: THE LAST CHARGE

      BOOK VIII. THE SCOURING OF THE HORSE

      DEDICATION

      Table of Contents

      Of great limbs gone to chaos,

      A great face turned to night—

      Why bend above a shapeless shroud

      Seeking in such archaic cloud

      Sight of strong lords and light?

      Where seven sunken Englands

      Lie buried one by one,

      Why should one idle spade, I wonder,

      Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder

      To smoke and choke the sun?

      In cloud of clay so cast to heaven

      What shape shall man discern?

      These lords may light the mystery

      Of mastery or victory,

      And these ride high in history,

      But these shall not return.

      Gored on the Norman gonfalon

      The Golden Dragon died:

      We shall not wake with ballad strings

      The good time of the smaller things,

      We shall not see the holy kings

      Ride down by Severn side.

      Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured

      As the broidery of Bayeux

      The England of that dawn remains,

      And this of Alfred and the Danes

      Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns

      Too English to be true.

      Of a good king on an island

      That ruled once on a time;

      And as he walked by an apple tree

      There came green devils out of the sea

      With sea-plants trailing heavily

      And tracks of opal slime.

      Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;

      His days as our days ran,

      He also looked forth for an hour

      On peopled plains and skies that lower,

      From those few windows in the tower

      That is the head of a man.

      But who shall look from Alfred's hood

      Or breathe his breath alive?

      His century like a small dark cloud

      Drifts far; it is an eyeless crowd,

      Where the tortured trumpets scream aloud

      And the dense arrows drive.

      Lady, by one light only

      We look from Alfred's eyes,

      We know he saw athwart the wreck

      The sign that hangs about your neck,

      Where One more than Melchizedek

      Is dead and never dies.

      Therefore I bring these rhymes to you

      Who brought the cross to me,

      Since on you flaming without flaw

      I saw the sign that Guthrum saw

      When he let break his ships of awe,

      And laid peace on the sea.

      Do you remember when we went

      Under a dragon moon,

      And 'mid volcanic tints of night

      Walked where they fought the unknown fight

      And saw black trees on the battle-height,

      Black thorn on Ethandune?

      And I thought, "I will go with you,

      As man with God has gone,

      And wander with a wandering star,

      The wandering heart of things that are,

      The fiery cross of love and war

      That like yourself, goes on."

      O go you onward; where you are

      Shall honour and laughter be,

      Past purpled forest and pearled foam,

      God's winged pavilion free to roam,

      Your face, that is a wandering home,

      A flying home for me.

      Ride through the silent earthquake lands,

      Wide as a waste is wide,

      Across these days like deserts, when

      Pride and a little scratching pen

      Have dried and split the hearts of men,

      Heart of the heroes, ride.

      Up through an empty house of stars,

      Being what heart you are,

      Up the inhuman steeps of space

      As on a staircase go in grace,

      Carrying the firelight on your face

      Beyond the loneliest star.

      Take these; in memory of the hour

      We strayed a space from home

      And saw the smoke-hued hamlets, quaint

      With Westland king and Westland saint,

      And watched the western glory faint

      Along the road to Frome.

      BOOK I. THE VISION OF THE KING

      Table of Contents

      Before the gods that made the gods

      Had seen their sunrise pass,

      The White Horse of the White Horse Vale

      Was cut out of the grass.

      Before the gods that made the gods

      Had drunk at dawn their fill,

      The White Horse of the White Horse Vale

      Was hoary on the hill.

      Age beyond age on British land,

      Aeons on aeons gone,

      Was peace and war in western hills,

      And the White Horse looked on.

      For the White Horse knew England

      When there was none to know;

      He saw the first oar break or bend,

      He saw heaven fall and the world end,

      O God, how long ago.

      For the end of the world was long ago,

      And all we dwell to-day

      As children of some second birth,

      Like a strange people left on earth

      After a judgment day.

      For the end of the world was long ago,

      When the ends of the world waxed free,

      When Rome was sunk in

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