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BOOK III
THE HARP OF ALFRED
IN a tree that yawned and twisted
The Kingās 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 all his goods,
And there in the cool and soundless woods
Then laughed, and watched the finches flash,
The sullen flies in swarm,
And went unarmed over the hills,
With the harp upon his arm,
Until he came to the White Horse Vale
And saw across the plains,
In the twilight high and far and fell,
Like the fiery terraces of hell.
The camp fires of the Danesā
The fires of the Great Army
That was made of iron men;
Whose fires of sacrilege and scorn
Ran around England red as morn;
Fires over Glastonbury Thornā
And as he went by White Horse Vale
The old horse graven, God knows when,
By gods or beasts or what things then
Walked a new world instead of men,
And scrawled on the hill-side.
And when he came to White Horse Down
The great white horse was grey,
For it was ill scoured of the weed;
And lichen and thorn could crawl and feed
Since the foes of settled house and creed
Had swept old works away.
King Alfred gazed all sorrowful
At thistle and mosses grey,
Till a rally of Danes with shield and bill
Rolled drunk over the dome of the hill,
And, hearing of his harp and skill,
They dragged him to their play.
And as they went through the high green grass
They roared like the great green sea;
But when they came to the red camp fire
They were silent suddenly.
And as they went up the wastes away
They went reeling to and fro;
But when they came to the red camp fire
For golden in the firelight,
With a smile carved on his lips,
And a beard curled right cunningly,
Was Guthrum of the Northern Sea,
The emperor of the shipsā
With three great earls King Guthrum
Went the rounds from fire to fire,
With Harold, nephew of the King,
And Ogier of the Stone and Sling,
And Elf, whose gold lute had a string
That sighed like all desire.
The Earls of the Great Army
That no men born could tire;
Whose flames anear him or aloof
Took hold of towers or walls of proof,
Fire over Glastonbury roof
And Guthrum heard the soldiersā tale
And bade the stranger play;
Not harshly, but as one on high,
On a marble pillar in the sky,
Who sees all folks that live and dieā
And Alfred, King of Wessex,
Looked on his conquerorā
And his hands hardened; but he played;
And leaving all later hates unsaid,
He sang of some old British raid
On the wild west march of yore.
He sang of war in the warm wet shires
Where rain nor fruitage fails,
Where England of the motley states
Deepens like a garden to the gates
In the purple walls of Wales.
He sang of the seas of savage beads,
And the seas and seas of spears
Boiling all over Offaās Dyke;
What time a Wessex club could strike
The kings of the mountaineers.
Till Harold laughed and snatched the harp,
A big youth, beardless like a child,
Whom the new wine of war sent wild,
Smote, and began to sing.
And he cried of the ships as eagles
That circle fiercely and fly
And sweep the seas and strike the towns
From Cyprus round to Skye.
Now swiftly and with peril
They gather all good things,
The high horns of the forest beasts
Or the secret stones of Kings.
āFor Rome was given to rule the world,
And gat of it little joyā
But we, but we shall enjoy the world,
The whole huge world a toy.
āGreat wine like blood from Burgundy,
Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre,
And marble like solid moonlight
And gold like frozen fire.
āSmells th...
