The Ballad of the White Horse

G. K. Chesterton

• Editore: Dover Publications
• Anno: 2013
• ISBN:
  9780486120843
• Argomento: Literatura
• Categoria: Poesía europea

More than a thousand years ago, the ruler of a beleaguered kingdom saw a vision of the Virgin Mary that moved him to rally his chiefs and make a last stand. Alfred the Great freed his realm from Danish invaders in the year 878 with an against-all-odds triumph at the Battle of Ethandune. In this ballad, G. K. Chesterton equates Alfred's struggles with Christianity's fight against nihilism and heathenism—a battle that continues to this day.
One of the last great epic poems, this tale unfolds in the Vale of the White Horse, where Alfred fought the Danes in a valley beneath an ancient equine figure etched upon the Berkshire hills. Chesterton employs the mysterious image as a symbol of the traditions that preserve humanity. His allegory of the power of faith in the face of an invasive foe was much quoted in the dark days of 1940, when Britain was under attack by Nazis. This new edition offers an authoritative, inexpensive version of Chesterton's inspiring work.

BOOK III

THE HARP OF ALFRED

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 all his goods,
And there in the cool and soundless woods

Sounded a single chord.

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 Danes—

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 Thorn—

Fires out on Ely Fen.

And as he went by White Horse Vale

He saw lie wan and wide

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

They stood all in a row.

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 ships—

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 out on Ely, fire.

And Guthrum heard the soldiers’ 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 die—

Pigmy and far away.

And Alfred, King of Wessex,

Looked on his conqueror—

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 Offa’s Dyke;
What time a Wessex club could strike

The kings of the mountaineers.

Till Harold laughed and snatched the harp,

The kinsman of the king,

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.

“For Rome was given to rule the world,

And gat of it little joy—

But we, but we shall enjoy the world,

The whole huge world a toy.

“Great wine like blood from Burgundy,

Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre,

And marble like solid moonlight

And gold like frozen fire.

“Smells th...