THE BALLED OF THE WHITE HORSE This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Joshua Christensen, July 2007. THE BALLED OF THE WHITE HORSE by G. K. Chesterton Preventory note and dedication Preventory note to the first edition This ballad needs no historical notes for the simple reason that it is not professed to be historical. All of it that is not frankly fictitious, as in any prose romance about the past, is meant to emphasize tradition rather than history. King Alfred is not a legend in the sense that King Arthur may be a legend, that is, in the sense that he may possibly be a lie, but King Alfred is a legend in this broader and more human sense, that the legends are the most important things about him. The Cult of Alfred was a popular cult from the darkness of the 9th century to the deepening twilight of the 20th. It is holy as a popular legend that I deal with him here.  I will give three curt cases of what I mean. A tradition connects the ultimate victory of Alfred with the valley in Berkshire called the Vale of the White Horse. I have seen doubts of the tradition, which may be valid doubts. I do not know when or where the story started. It is enough that it started somewhere and ended with me, for I only seek to write upon a hearsay as the old balladists did. For the second case, there is a popular tale that Alfred played the harp and sang in the Danish camp. I select it because it is a popular tale at whatever time it arose. For the third case, there is a popular tale that Alfred came in contact with a woman and cakes. I select it because it is a popular tale, because it is a vulgar one. It has been disputed by grave historians who were, I think, a little too grave to be good judges of it. The two chief charges against the story are that it was first recorded long after Alfred's death and that, as Mr. Oman urges, Alfred never really wandered all alone without any thanes or soldiers. Both these objections might possibly be met. It has taken us nearly as long to learn the whole truth about Byron and perhaps longer to learn the whole truth about Pepis than a lapse between Alfred and the first writing of such tales. As for the other objection, do the historians really think that Alfred after Wilton or Napoleon after Leipzig never walked about in a wood by himself for the matter of an hour or two? Ten minutes might be made sufficient for the essence of the story. But I am not concerned to prove the truth of these popular traditions. It is enough for me to maintain two things, that they are popular traditions and that without these popular traditions we should have bothered about Alfred about as much as we bother about Edwig. One other consideration needs a note. Alfred has come down to us in the best way, that is by national legends, solely for the same reason as Arthur and Roland and the other giants of that darkness, as he fought for the Christian civilization against the heathen nihilism. But since this work was really done by generation after generation, by the Romans before they withdrew, and by the Britons while they remained, I have summarized this first crusade in a triple symbol and given to a fictitious Roman, Kelt and Saxon, a part in the glory of Ethan Dune. I fancy that in fact Alfred's Wessex was a very mixed bloods, but in any case it is the chief value of legend to mix up the centuries while preserving the sentiment, to see all ages in a sort of splendid foreshortening. That is the use of tradition. It telescopes history. Why bend above a shapeless shroud, seeking in such archaic cloud sight of strong lords and light?  In cloud of clay socast 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 gunfalon, 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 colored as the broidery of Bayou, the England of that dawn remains, and this of Alfred and the Danes seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns to 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 fairytale. 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 sentry 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 a thwart 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. But on you flaming without flaw I saw the sign that Gotherm 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 Ethan-dune? 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 honor and laughter be past purpled forest and purled foam God's winged pavilion free to roam your face that is a wandering home, a flying home for me. Pride 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 fire-light on your face beyond the loneliest star. Like these in memory of the hour we strayed a space from home and saw the smoke-cute hamlets quaint with Westland King and Westland Saint and watched the Western glory faint along the road to from. GKC End of Dedication The Ballad of the White Horse, Book 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Joshua Christensen, August 2007 The Ballad of the White Horse by GK Chesterton Book 1, The Vision of the King 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 lands, eons on eons 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 ore break or bend. He saw heaven fall and the world end. Oh God, how long ago! For the end of the world was long ago, and all we dwell today 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 a waste of slaves and the sun drowned in the sea. When Caesar's sun fell out of the sky and who so hearkened right could only hear the plunging of the nations in the night. When the ends of the earth came marching in to torch and crescent gleam and the roads of the world that lead to Rome were filled with faces that moved like foam, like faces in a dream. And men rode out of the eastern lands, broad river and burning plain, trees that are tightened flowers to see and tiger skies striped horribly with tints of tropic rain. Where inns enameled peaks arise around that inmost one, where ancient eagles on its brink, vast as archangels gather and drink the sacraments of the sun. And men break out of the northern lands enormous lands alone where a spell is laid upon life and lust and the rain is changed to a silver dust and the sea to a great green stone. And a shape that moveeth merkily in mirrors of ice and night hath blanched with fear all beasts and birds as death and a shock of evil words blast a man's hair with white. And the cry of the palms and the purple moons or the cry of the frost and foam swept ever around in inmost place and in of distant race on race cried and replied round Rome. And there was death on the emperor and night upon the pope and Alfred hiding in deep grass hardened his heart with hope. A sea folk blinder than the sea broke all about his land but Alfred up against them bare and gripped the ground and grasped the air staggered and strove to stand. He bent them back with spear and spade with desperate dyke and wall with foam and leaning on his shield and roaring on him when he reeled and no help came at all. He broke them with a broken sword a little towards the sea and for one hour of panting peace ringed with a roar that would not cease with golden crown and girded fleece made laws under a tree. The Northmen came about our land a Christless chivalry who knew not of the arch or pen great beautiful half-witted men from the sunrise and the sea. Miss Shapen ships stood on the deep full of strange gold and fire and hairy men as huge as sin with horned heads came wading in through the long low sea mire. Our towns were shaken of tall kings with scarlet beards like blood the world turned empty where they trod they took the kindly cross of God and cut it up for wood. Their souls were drifting as the sea and all good towns and lands they only saw with heavy eyes and broke with heavy hands. Their gods were sadder than the sea gods of a wandering will who cried for blood like beasts at night sadly from hill to hill they seemed as trees walking the earth as witless and as tall yet they took hold upon the heavens and no help came at all. They bred like birds in English woods they rooted like the rose when Alfred came to Athelnae to hide him from their bows. There was not English armour left nor any English thing when Alfred came to Athelnae to be an English king. For earthquake swallowing earthquake up rent the Wessex tree the whirlpool of the pagan sway had swirled his sires as sticks away when a flood smites the sea and the great kings of Wessex wearied and sank in gore and even their ghosts in that great stress grew greyer and greyer less and less with the lords that died in lioness and the king that comes no more and the god of the golden dragon was dumb upon his throne and the lord of the golden dragon ran in the woods alone and if ever he climbed the crest of luck and set the flag before returning as a wheel returns came ruin and the rain that burns and all began once more and not was left king Alfred but shameful tears of rage in the island in the river in the end of all his age in the island in the river he was broken to his knee and he read writ with an iron pen that god had wearied of Wessex men and given their country field and fen to the devils of the sea and he saw in a tiny picture tiny and far away his mother sitting in Egbert's hall and a book she showed him very small where a sapphire merry sat in stall with a golden Christ at play it was wrought in the monk's slow manner from silver and sanguine shell where the scenes are little and terrible keyholes of heaven and hell in the river island of Athelney with the river running past in colors of such simple creed all things sprang at him sun and weed till the grass grew to be grass indeed and the tree was a tree at last fearfully plain the flowers grew like the child's book to read or like a friend's face seen in a glass he looked and there our lady was she stood and stroked the tall live grass as a man strokes his steed her face was like an open word when brave men speak and choose the very colors of her coat were better than good news she spoke not nor turned not nor any sign she cast only she stood up straight and free between the flowers in Athelney and the river running past one dim ancestral jewel hung on his ruined armor gray he rent and cast it at her feet where after centuries with slow feet men came from hall and school and street and found it where it lay mother of God the wonderer said I am but a common king nor will I ask what saints may ask to see a secret thing the gates of heaven are fearful gates worse than the gates of hell nor would I break the splendor's bard or seek to know the things they guard which is too good to tell but for this earth most pitiful this little land I know if that which is forever is or if our heart should break with bliss seeing the stranger go when our last bow is broken queen and our last javelin cast under some sad green evening sky holding a ruined cross on high under warm wrestling grass to lie shall we come home at last and a voice came human but high up like a cottage climbed among the clouds or a surf of hut and croft that sits by his hovel fire is off but hears on his old bare roof aloft a belfry burst in song the gates of heaven are lightly locked we do not guard our gain the heaviest hind may easily come silently and suddenly upon me in a lane and any little maid that walks ingred thoughts apart may break the guard of the three kings and see the dear and dreadful things I hid within my heart the meanest man in gray fields gone behind the set of sun hearth between star and other star through the door of the darkness fall in a jar the council eldest of things that are the talk of the three in one the gates of heaven are lightly locked we do not guard our gold men may uproot where worlds begin or read the name of the nameless sin but if you fail or if you win to know good man is told the men of the east may spell the stars and times and triumphs mark but the men signed of the cross of Christ go gaily in the dark the men of the east may search the scrolls force your fates and fame but the men that drink the blood of God go singing to their shame the wise men know what wicked things are written on the sky they trim sad lamps they touch sad strings hearing the heavy purple wings where the forgotten serif kings still plot how God shall die the wise men know all evil things under the twisted trees where the perverse and pleasure pine and men are weary of green wine and sick of crimson seas but you and all the kind of Christ are ignorant and brave and you have wars you hardly win and souls you hardly save I tell you not for your comfort yea not for your desire save that the sky grows darker yet and the sea rises higher night shall be thrice night over you and heaven and iron cope do you have joy without a cause? yea faith without hope even as she spoke she was not nor any word said he he only heard still as he stood under the old night's nodding hood the sea folk breaking down the wood like a high tide from sea he only heard the heathen men whose eyes are blue and bleak singing about some cruel thing done by a great and smiling king in daylight on a deck he only heard the heathen men whose eyes are blue and blind singing what shameful things are done between the sunlet sea and the sun when the land is left behind end of book one the ballad of the white horse book two this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org read by Joshua Christensen August 2007 the ballad of the white horse by G.K. Chesterton book two the gathering of the chiefs up across windy wastes and up went Alfred over the shards shaken of the joy of giants the joy without a cause in the slopes away to the western bays where blows not ever a tree he washed his soul in the west wind and his body in the sea and he set to rhyme his ale measures and he sang aloud his laws because of the joy of the giants the joy without a cause for the king went gathering Wessex men as grain out of the chaff the few that were alive to die laughing as littered skulls that lie after lost battles turned to the sky and everlasting laugh the king went gathering Christian men as wheat out of the husk Eldred the Franklin by the sea and Mark the man from Italy and Colin of the sacred tree from the old tribe on usk the rook croaked homeward heavily the west was clear and warm the smoke of evening food and ease rose like a blue tree in the trees when he came to Eldred's farm but Eldred's farm was fallen awry like an old crippled's bones and Eldred's tools were red with rust and on his well was a green crust and purple thistles upward thrust between the kitchen stones but smoke of some good feasting went upwards evermore and Eldred's doors stood wide apart for loitering foot or laboring cart and Eldred's great and foolish heart stood open like his door a mighty man was Eldred a bulk for casks to fill his face a dreaming furnace his body a walking hill in the old wars of Wessex his sword had sunk in deep but all his friends he sighed and said were broken about Ethelred and between the deep drink and the dead he had fallen upon sleep come not to me King Alfred save always for the ale why should my harmless hinds be slain because the chiefs cry once again as in all fights that we shall gain and in all fights we fail your scalds still thunder and prophesy that crown that never comes friend I will watch the certain things swine in slow moons like silver rings and the ripening of the plums and Alfred answered drinking and gravely without blame nor bear I boast of scald or king the thing I bear is a lesser thing but comes in a better name out of the mouth of the mother of God more than the doors of doom I call the muster of Wessex men from grassy hamlet or ditch or den to break and be broken God knows when but I have seen for whom out of the mouth of the mother of God like a little word come I for I go gathering Christian men from sunken paving and forward and fen to die in a battle God knows when by God but I know why and this is the word of Mary the word of the world's desire no more of comfort shall you get save that the sky grows darker yet and the sea rises higher then silence sank and slowly arose the sea land lord like some vast beast for mystery he filled the room and porch and sky and from a cobweb to nail on high unhooked his heavy sword up on the shrill sea downs and up went Alfred all alone turning but once if the door was shut shouting to Eldred over his but that he bring all spears to the woodman's hut hewn under Egbert's stone and he turned his back and broke the fern and fought the moths of dusk and went on his way for other friends friends fallen of all the wide world's ends from Rome that wrath importance ends and the great tribes on us he saw gigantic tracks of death and many a shape of doom good steadings to gray ashes gone and a monk's house white like a skeleton in the gray crypt of the comb and in many a Roman villa earth and her ivies eat saw colored pavements sink and fade in flowers and the windy colonnade like the specter of a street but the cold stars clustered among the cold pines ere he was half on his pilgrimage over the western lines and the white dawn widened ere he came to the last pine where Mark the man from Italy still made the Christian sign the long farm lay on the large hillside flat like a painted plan and by the side the low white house where dwelt the Southland man a bronzed man with a bird's bright eye and a strong bird's beak and brow his skin was brown like buried gold and of certain of his sires was told that they came in the shining ship of old with Caesar in the prow his fruit trees stood like soldiers drilled in a straight line his strange stiff olives did not fail and all the kings of the earth drank ale but he drank wine wide over-wasted British plains stood never in arch or dome only the trees to toss and reel the tribes to bigger, the beasts to squeal but the eyes in his head were strong like steel and his soul remembered Rome then Alfred of the lonely spear lifted his lion head and fronted with the Italian's eye asking him of his wence and why King Alfred stood and said I am that oft-defeated king whose failure fills the land who fled before the Danes of old who chaffered with the Danes with gold who now upon the Wessex world hardly has feet to stand but out of the mouth of the mother of God I have seen the truth like fire this that the sky grows darker yet and the sea rises higher long looked the Roman on the land the trees as golden crowns blaze drenched with dawn and dew imperiled while faintly or colored, freshly or curled the clouds from underneath the world stood up over the downs these vines be ropes that drag me hard he said I go not far where would you meet for you must hold half-wilt share and the white horse wold and the Thames bank to Owensfold if Wessex goes to war Guthram sits strong on either bank I knew must press his lines inwards and eastward drive him down I doubt if you shall take the crown till you have taken London town for me I have the vines if each man on the judgment day meet God on a plane alone said Alfred I will speak for you as for myself and call it true that you brought all fighting folk you knew lined under Egbert's stone though I be in the dust air then I know where you will be and shouldering suddenly his spear he faded like some elven fear where the tall pines ran up tear on tear tree over toppling tree he shouldered his spear at morning and laughed to lay it on but he leaned on his spear as on a staff with might and little mood to laugh or every sighted chick or calf of Cologne of Cologne for the man dwelt in a lost land of boulders and broken men in a great gray cave far off to south where a thick green forest stopped the mouth giving darkness in his den and the man was come like a shadow from the shadow of druid trees where usk with mighty murmurings pass carefully on of the fallen kings goes out to ghostly seas last of a race and ruin he spoke the speech of the gales his kin were in holy Ireland or up in the crags of Wales but his soul stood with his mother's folk that were of the rain-wrapped isle where Patrick and Brandon Westerly looked out at last on a landless sea and the sun's last smile his harp was carved and cunning as the Celtic craftsman makes graven all over with twisting shapes like many headless snakes his harp was carved and cunning his sword prompt and sharp and he was gay when he held the sword sad when he held the harp for the great gales of Ireland are the men that God made mad for all their wars are merry and all their songs are sad he kept the Roman order he made the Christian sign but his eyes grew often blind and bright and the sea that rose in the rocks at night rose to his head like wine he made the sign of the cross of God he knew the Roman prayer but he had unreason in his heart because of the gods that were even they that walked on the high cliffs high as the clouds were then gods of unbearable beauty that broke the hearts of men and whether in seat or saddle whether with frown or smile whether at feast or fight was he he heard the noise of a nameless sea on an undiscovered isle lifting the great green ivy and the great spear lowering one said I am Alfred of Wessex and I am a conquered king and the man of the cave made answer and his eyes were stars of scorn and better kings were conquered or every orciers were born what goddess was your mother what fey your breed begot that you should not die with Uther and Arthur and Lancelot but when you win you brag and blow and when you lose you rail army of Eastland yokels not strong enough to fail I bring not boast or railing spake Alfred not in ire I bring of our lady a lesson set this that our sky grows darker yet and the sea rises higher then colon of the sacred tree tossed his black mane on high and cried as rigidly he rose and if the sea and sky be foes we will tame the sea and sky smiled Alfred seek ye a fable more dizzy and more dread than all your mad barbarian tales where the sky stands on its head a tale where a man looks down on the sky that is long looked down on him a tale where a man can swallow a sea that might swallow the seraphim bring to the hut by Egbert Stone all bills and bows ye have and Alfred strode off rapidly and colon of the sacred tree went slowly to his cave end of book two the ballad of the white horse book three this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org read by Joshua Christensen August 2007 the ballad of the white horse by G.K. Chesterton book three 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 and swarm and went unarmed over the hills with a harp upon his arm until he came to the white horse veil and saw across the plains in the twilight high and far and fell like the fiery terraces of hell the campfires of the Danes the fires of the great army that was made of iron men whose lights of sacrilege and scorn ran around England red as morn fires over Glastonbury Thorn fires out on Eli Finn and as he went by white horse veil he saw lie one 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 hillside and when he came to White Horse Down the great White Horse was gray 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 gray 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 campfire 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 campfire 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 Guthram of the northern sea the emperor of the ships with three great earls King Guthram went the rounds from fire to fire with Harold, nephew of the king and Ogir of the stone and sling and Elf whose gold loot had a string that sighed like all desire the earls of the great army that no men born could tire whose flames in near him or aloof took hold of towers or walls of proof fire over Glastonbury roof and out on Eli fire and Guthram heard the soldier's tale and bade the stranger play not harshly but as one on high on a marble pillar in the sky who sees all folk that live and die and dig me and far away and Alfred, king of Wessex looked on his conqueror and his hands hardened but he played and leaving all later hate's unsaid he sang of some old British raid on the wild west march of Yor he sang of war in the warm wet shires where rain or frutage 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 heads and the seas and seas of spears boiling all over off a dyke what time a Wessex club could strike the kings of the mountaineers till Harold laughed and snatched the harp the kinsmen 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 sky how 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 gath 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 that a man might swill in a cup stones that a man might eat and the great smooth women like ivory that the Turks sell in the street he sang the throne of the thief of the world and the gods that love the thief and he yelled aloud at the cloister yards where men go gathering grief well have you sung O stranger of death on the dyke in Wales your chief was a bracelet giver but the red unbroken river race runs not forever but suddenly it fails doubtless your sires were sword swingers when they waited fresh from foam before they were turned to women by the god of the nails from Rome but since you bent to the shaven men who neither lust nor smite thunder of Thor we hunt you a hair on the mountain height King Gothram smiled a little and said it is enough nephew let elf retune the string a boy must needs like bellowing but the old ears of a careful king are glad of songs less rough blue eyed was elf the minstrel with womanish hair and ring yet heavy was his hand on sword the light upon the string and as he stirred the strings of the harp to notes but four or five the heart of each man moved in him like a babe buried alive and they felt the land of the folk songs spread southward of the Dane and they heard the good Rhine flowing and the heart of all Alamein they felt the land of the folk songs where the gifts hang on the tree where the girls give ale at morning and the tears come easily the mighty people woman like that of pleasure in their pain as he sang of Baldur beautiful whom the heavens loved in vain as he sang of Baldur beautiful whom the heavens could not save till the world was like a sea of tears and every soul the wave there is always a thing forgotten when all the world goes well a thing forgotten as long ago when the gods forgot the mistletoe and soundless as an arrow of snow the arrow of anguish fell the thing on the blind side of the heart on the wrong side of the door the green plant groweth menacing almighty lovers in the spring there is always a forgotten thing and love is not secure and love is not secure and all that sat by the fire were sad save Ogir who was stern and his eyes hardened even to stones as he took the harp and turn Earl Ogir of the stone and sling was odd to ear in sight old he was but his locks were red and jests were all the words he said yet he was sad at board and bed and savage in the fight you sing of the young gods easily in the days when you are young but I go smelling you in sods and I know there are gods behind the gods gods that are best unsung and a man grows ugly for women and a man grows dull with ale well if he find in his soul at last fury that does not fail the wrath of the gods behind the gods who would rend all gods and men well of the old man's heart hath still wheeled sped of rage and roaring will like cataracts to break down and kill and a man grows ugly for women and a man grows dull with ale like cataracts to break down and kill well for the old man then while there is one tall shrine to shake or one live man to rend for the wrath of the gods behind the gods who are weary to make an end there lives one moment for a man when the door at his shoulder shakes when the taut rope parts under the pole and the barest branch is beautiful one moment while it breaks so rides my soul upon the sea that drinks the howling ships wind black jest at bows and nods under the moons with silver rods I know it is roaring at the gods waiting the last eclipse and in the last eclipse the sea shall stand up like a tower above all moons made dark and riven hold up its foaming head to heaven and laugh knowing its hour and the high ones in the happy town propped of the planet seven shall know a new light in the mind and noise about them and behind shall hear an awful voice and find foam in the courts of heaven and you that sit by the fire are young and true loves wait for you but the king and I grow old grow old and hate alone is true and Guthram shook his head but smiled for he was a mighty clerk and had read lines in the Latin books when all the north was dark he said to the new ogir not all things would I rend for whether life be bad or good it is best to abide the end he took the great harp wearily even Guthram of the Danes with wide eyes bright as the one long day on the long polar plains for he sang of a wheel returning and the mire trod back to mire and how red hells and golden heavens are castles in the fire it is good to sit where the good tales go to sit as our father sat but the hour shall come after his youth when a man shall know not tales but truth and his heart fail there at when he shall read what is written so plain in clouds and clods when he shall hunger without hope even for evil gods for this is a heavy matter and the truth is called to tell do we not know have we not heard the soul is like a lost bird the body a broken shell and a man hopes being ignorant till in white woods apart he finds at last the lost bird dead and a man may still lift up his head but nevermore his heart there comes no noise but weeping out of the ancient sky and a tear is in the tiniest flower because the gods must die the little brooks are very sweet like a girl's ribbon curled but the great sea is bitter that washes all the world strong are the roman roses or the free flowers of the heath but every flower like a flower of the sea smelleth but the salt of death and the heart of the locked battle is the happiest place for men where shrieking souls as shafts go by and many have died and all may die though this word be a mystery death is most distant then death blazes bright above the cup and clear above the crown but in that dream of battle we seem to tread it down wherefore I am a great king and waste the world in vain because man hath not other power save that in dealing death for dour he may forget it for an hour to remember it again and slowly his hands and thoughtfully fell from the lifted liar and the owls moaned from the mighty trees till Alfred caught it to his knees and smote it as in ire he heaved the head of the harp on high and swept the framework barred and his stroke had all the rattle and spark of horses flying hard when god put man in a garden he girt him with a sword and sent him forth a free night that might betray his lord he break him and betrayed him and fast and far he fell till you and I may stretch our necks and burn our beards in hell but though I lie on the floor of the world with the seven sins for rods I would rather fall with Adam than rise with all your gods what have the strong gods given where have the glad gods led when Gutham sits on a hero's throne and asks if he is dead sirs I am but a nameless man a rhymester without home yet since I come of the Wessex clay and carry the cross of Rome I will even answer the mighty earl that asked of Wessex men why they be meek and monkish folk and bow to the white lord's broken yoke what sign have we saved blood and smoke? here is my answer then that on you is fallen the shadow and not upon the name though we scatter and though we fly and you hang over us like the sky you are more tired of victory than we are tired of shame that though you hunt the Christian man like a hare on the hillside the hare has still more heart to run than you have heart to ride that though our lances split on you all swords be heaved in vain we have more lust again to lose than you to win again your lord's it's high in the saddle a broken hearted king but our king Alfred lost from fame fallen among foes or bonds of shame in I know not what mean trade or name has still some song to sing our monks go robed in rain and snow but the heart of flame they're in but you go clothed in feasts and flames when all is ice within nor shall all iron dooms make dumb men wondering ceaselessly if it be not better to fast for joy than feast for misery nor monkish order only slides down as fields defend all things achieved and chosen pass as the white horse fades in the grass no work of Christian man ere the sad gods that made your gods saw their sad sunrise pass the white horse of the white horse veil that you have left to darken and fail was cut out of the grass therefore your end is on you is on you and your kings not for a fire in Eli fan not that your gods are nine or ten but because it is only Christian men guard even heathen things for our god hath blessed creation calling it good I know what spirit with whom you blindly banned hath blessed destruction with his hand yet by god's death the stars shall stand and the small apples grow and the king with harp on shoulder stood up and ceased his song and the owls moaned from the mighty trees and the Danes laughed loud and long end of book three the ballad of the white horse book four this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org read by Joshua Christensen October 2007 the ballad of the white horse by G.K. Chesterton book four the woman in the forest thick thunder of the snorting swine enormous in the gloom rending among all roots that cling and the wild horses whinnying were the night's noises when the king shouldering his harp went home with eyes of owl and feet of fox full of all thoughts he went he marked the tilt of the pagan camp the paling of pine the sentry's tramp and the one great stolen altar lamp over Gothram in his tent by scrub and thorn and ethendoon that night the foe had lain whence ran across the heather gray the old stones of a Roman way and in a wood not far away the pale road split in twain he marked the wood and the cloven ways with an old captain's eyes and he thought how many a time had he sought to see doom he could not see how ruin had come and victory and both were a surprise even so had he watched and wondered under ashtown from the plains with Ethelred praying in his tent till the white hawthorn swung and bent as Alfred rushed his spears and rent the shield wall of the Danes even so had he watched and wondered knowing neither less nor more till all his lords lay dying and axes on axes plying flung him and drove him flying like a pirate to the shore wise he had been before defeat and wise before success wise in both hours and ignorant knowing neither more nor less as he went down to the river hut he knew a nightshade scent owls did as evil cherubs rise with little wings and lantern eyes as though he sank through the under skies but down and down he went as he went down to the river hut he went as one that fell seeing the high forest domes and spars dim green or torn with golden scars as the proud look up at the evil stars in the red heavens of hell for he must meet by the river hut them he had bitten to arm mark from the towers of Italy and colon of the sacred tree and Eldred who beside the sea held heavily his farm the roof leaned gaping to the grass as a monstrous mushroom lies echoing an empty seemed the place but opened in a little space a great grey woman with scarred face and strong and humbled eyes king Alfred was but a meagre man bright eyed but lean and pale and swordless with his harp and rags he seemed a beggar such as lags looking for crusts and ale and the woman with the woman's eyes of pity at once and ire said when that she had glared a span there is a cake for any man if he will watch the fire and Alfred bowing heavily sat down the fire to stir and even as the woman pitied him so did he pity her saying oh great heart in the night oh best cast forth for worst twilight shall melt in morning stir and no kind thing shall come to her till God shall turn the world over and all the last are first and well may God with the serving folk cast in his dreadful lot is not he too a servant and is not he forgot for was not God my gardener and silent like a slave that opened oaks on the uplands or thicket in graveyard gave and was not God my armorer all patient and unpaid that sealed my skull as a helmet and ribs for hobbock made did not a great gray servant of all my sires and me build this pavilion of the pines and heard the fowls and fill the vines remember and pass and leave no signs save mercy and mystery for God is a great servant and rose before the day from some primordial slumber torn but all we living later born sleep on and rise after the morn and the Lord has gone away on things half sprung from sleeping all sleepy sons have shone they stretch stiff arms the yawning trees the beasts blink upon hands and knees man is awake and doesn't sees but heaven has done and gone for who shall guess the good riddle or speak of the holiest save and faint figures and failing words who loves yet laughs among the swords labors and is it rest but some see God like Guthram crowned with a great beard curled but I see God like a good giant that laboring lifts the world wherefore was God in Golgotha slain as a surface slain and hate he had of prince and peer and love he had and made good cheer of them that like this woman here go powerfully in pain but in this gray morn of man's life come at some time to the mind a little light that leaps and flies like a star blown on the wind a star of nowhere a nameless star a light that spins in swirls and cries that even in hedge and hill even on earth it may go ill at last with the evil earls a dancing sparkle a doubtful star on the waist wind world and driven but it seems to sing of a wilder worth a time discround of doom and birth and the kingdom of the poor on earth come as it is in heaven but even though such days endure how shall it profit her who shall go mourning to the grave with many a meek and mighty slave field breaker and fisher on the wave and woodman and wagoner bake he the big world all again a cake with kinder leaven yet these are sorry ever more unless there be a little door a little door in heaven and as he wept for the woman he let her business be and like his royal oath and rash the good food fell upon the ash and blackened instantly screaming the woman caught a cake yet burning from the bar and struck him suddenly on the face leaving a scarlet scar king Alfred stood up wordless a man dead with surprise and torture stood and the evil things that are in the childish hearts of kings and instant in his eyes and even as he stood and stared drew round him in the dusk his friends creeping from far off farms Marcus with all his slaves and arms and the strange spears hung with ancient charms of colon of the usk with one whole farm marching afoot the trampled road resounds farmhands and farm beasts blundering by and jars of mead and stores of rye where Eldred strode above his high and thunder throated hounds and gray cattle and silver load against the unlifted mourn and straw clung to the spear shafts tall and a boy went before them all blowing a ram's horn as mocking such rude revelry the dim clan of the gale came like a bad king's burial end with dismal robes that drop and rend and demon pipes that wail in long outlandish garments torn though of antique worth with druid beards and druid spears as a resurrected race appears out of an elder earth and though the king had called them forth and knew them for his own so still each eye stood like a gem so spectral hung each broidered hem gray carven men he fancied them hewn in an age of stone and the two wild peoples of the north stood fronting in the gloom and heard and knew each in its mind the third great thunder on the wind the living walls that hedge mankind the walking walls of Rome marks were the mixed tribes of the west of many a hue and strain girth with rank hair like yellow grass and the cornish fissure gorelias and helmer come from his first mass lately baptized a dain but like one man in armor those hundreds trod the field from red arabia to the tine the earth had heard that marching line since the cry on the hill capitoline and the fall of the golden shield and the earth shook and the king stood still under the greenwood bow and the smoking cake lay at his feet and the blow was on his brow then alfred laughed out suddenly like thunder in the spring till shook allowed the lintel beams and the squirrels stirred in dusty dreams and the startled birds went up in streams for the laughter of the king the giant laughter of Christian men that roars through a thousand tales where greed is an ape and pride is an ass and jacks away with his master's lass and the miser is banged with all his brass the farmer with all his flails tales that tumble and tales that trick yet end not all in scorning of kings and clowns in a merry plight and the clock gone wrong and the world gone right that the murmurs sing upon Christmas night and Christmas day in the morning now here is a good warrant cried alfred by my sword for he that is struck for an ill servant should be a kind lord he that has been a servant knows more than priests and kings but he that has been an ill servant he knows all earthly things pride flings frail palaces at the sky as a man flings up sand but the firm feet of humility take hold of heavy land pride juggles with their toppling towers they strike the sun and cease but the firm feet of humility they grip the ground like trees he that has failed in a little thing has a sign upon his brow and the urls of the great army have no such seal to show the red print on my forehead small flame for a red star in the van of the violent marching then when the sky is torn of the trumpets ten and the hands of the happy falling men fling wide the gates of war this blow that I return not ten times will I return on kings and urls of all degree and armies wide as empire's be shall slide like landslips to the sea if the red star burn one man shall drive a hundred as the dead kings drave before me rocking hosts be driven and battering cohorts backward driven for I am the first king that has been struck like a slave up on the old white road brothers up on the roman walls for this is the night of the drawing of swords and the tainted tower of the heathen hordes leans to our hammers fires and cords leans a little and falls follow the star that lives and leaps follow the sword that sings for we go gathering heathen men a terrible harvest ten by ten the wrath of the last red autumn then when Christ reaps down the kings follow a light that leaps and spins follow the fire unfurled for riseth up against realm and rod a thing forgotten a thing downtrod the last lost giant even god is risen against the world roaring they went or the roman wall and roaring up the lane their torches tossed a ladder of fire higher their hymn was heard and higher more sweet for hate and for heart's desire and up in the northern scrub and briar they fell upon the dane end of book four the ballad of the white horse book five this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org read by Joshua Christensen October 2007 the ballad of the white horse by G.K. Chesterton book five Ethan Dune the first stroke King Gothram was a dread king like death out of the north shrines without name or number he rent and rolled his lumber from Chester to the Humber he drove his foeman forth the roman villas heard him in the valley of the Thames come over the hills roaring above their roofs and pouring on spire and stair and flooring brimstone and pitch and flames sheer of the great chalk uplands and the hill of the horse went he till high on Hampshire beacons he saw the southern sea high on the heights of Wessex he saw the southern brine and turned him to a conquered land where the northern thornwood stand and the road parts on either hand there came to him a sign King Gothram was a war chief a wise man in the field and though he prospered well and knew how Alfred's folk were sad and few not less with weighty care he drew long lines for pike and shield King Gothram lay on the upper land on a single road at gaze and his foe must come with lean array up the left arm of the cloven way to the meeting of the ways and long ere the noise of armor an hour ere the break of light the woods awoke with crash and cry and the birds spring clamoring harsh and high and the rabbits ran like an elves army ere Alfred came in sight the live wood came at Gothram on foot and claw and wing the nests were noisy overhead for Alfred and the star of red all life went forth and the forest fled before the face of the king but halted in the wood ways Christ's few were grim and gray and each with a small far bird like sight saw the high folly of the fight and those strange joys had grown in the night despair grew with the day and when white dawn crawled through the wood like cold foam of a flood then weakened every warrior's mood in hope though not in hardy-hood and each man sorrowed as he stood in the fashion of his blood for the Saxon Franklin sorrowed for the things that had been fair for the dear dead woman crimson clad and the great feasts and the friends he had but the Celtic prince's soul was sad for the things that never were in the eyes Italian all things but a black laughter died and Alfred flung shealed to earth and smote his breast and cried I wronged a man to his slaying and a woman to her shame and once I looked on a sworn maid that was wed to the holy name and once I took my neighbor's wife that was bound to an Eastland man in the starkness of my evil youth before my griefs began people if you have any prayers say prayers for me and lay me under a Christian stone in that lost land I thought my own to wait till the holy horn is blown and all poor men are free then Eldred of the idle farm leaned on his ancient sword as fell his heavy words and few and his eyes were of such alien blue as gleams where the Northman saleth new into an unknown fjord I was a fool and wasted ale my slaves found it sweet I was a fool and wasted bread and the birds had bread to eat the kings go up and the kings go down and who knows who shall rule next night a king may starve or sleep but men and birds and beasts shall weep at the burial of a fool oh drunkards in my cellar boys in my apple tree the world grows stern and strange and new and wise men shall govern you and you shall weep for me but yoke me my own oxen down to my own farm my own dog will whine for me my own friends will bend the knee and the foes I slew openly have never wished me harm and all were moved a little but cold and stood apart having first pity and after hearing like rat and rafter that little worm of laughter that eats the Irish heart and his grey green eyes were cruel and the smile of his mouth waxed hard and he said and when did Britain become your burying yard before the Romans lit the land when schools and monks were none we reared such stones to the sun god as might put out the sun the tall trees of Britain we worshipped and were wise but you shall raid the whole land through and never a tree shall talk to you though every leaf is a tongue taught true and the forest is full of eyes on one round hill to the seaward the trees grow tall and grey and the trees talk together when all men are away or a few round hills forgotten the trees grow tall and rings and the trees talk together of many pagan things yet I could lie and listen with a cross upon my clay and hear unhurt forever with the trees of Britain say a proud man was the Roman his speech a single one but his eyes were like eyes that is staring at the sun dig for me where I die he said if first or last I fall dead on the fell at the first charge or dead by wantage wall lift not my head from bloody ground bear not my body home for all the earth is Roman earth and I shall die in Rome then Alfred king of England bade blow the horns of war and fling the golden dragon out with crackle and a claim and shout scrawled in a flame and far and under the golden dragon went Wessex all along past the sharp point of the cloven ways out from the black wood into the blaze of sun and steel and song and when they came to the open land they wheeled, deployed and stood midmost were Marcus and the king and Eldred on the right-hand wing and leftward's colon darkling the last shade of the wood but the earls of the great army lay like a long half-moon ten poles before their palisades with wide-winged helms and runic blades read giants of an age of raids in the Thorland of Aethendoon midmost the saddles rose and swayed and a stir of horses mains were Gothram and a few rode high on horses seized in victory but Ogir went on foot to die in the old way of the Danes far to the king's left Elf the Bard led on the eastern wing with songs and spells that changed the blood and on the king's right Herald stood, the kingsman of the king young Herald coarse with colors gay smoking with oil and musk and the pleasant violence of the young pushed through his people giving tongue forwards where gray as cobwebs hung the banners of the usk but as he came before his line a little space along his beardless face broke into mirth and he cried what broken bits of earth are here for what their clothes are worth I would sell them for a song for Cullen was hung with raiment tattered like autumn leaves and his men were all as thin as saints and all as poor as thieves no bows nor slings nor bolts they bore but bills and pikes still made and none but Cullen bore a sword and Rusty was its blade and Cullen's eyes with mystery and iron laughter stirred and he spoke aloud but likely not laboring to be heard oh truly we be broken hearts for that cause it is said we light our candles to that lord that broke himself for bread but though we hold but bitterly what land the Saxon leaves though Ireland be but a land of saints and Wales a land of thieves I say you yet shall weary of the working of your sword that stricken spirits never strike nor lean hands hold a sword and if ever you ride in Ireland the jest may yet be said there is the land of broken hearts and the land of broken heads not less barbarian laughter choked herald like a flood and shall I fight with scarecrows that em of Gothram's blood meeting may be of warmen where the best warman wins but all this carry and a man shoots before the fight begins and stopping in his onward strides he snatched a bow in scorn from some mean slave and bent it on Cullen whose doom grew dark and shone stars evil over carefully on in the place where he was born for Cullen had not bow nor sling on a lonely sword leaned he like Arthur on Excalibur in the battle by the sea to his great gold earring herald tugged back the feathered tail and swift had sprung the arrow but swifter sprang the gale whirling the one sword round his head a great wheel and the sun he sent it splendid through the sky flying before the shaft could fly it smote Earl herald over the eye and blood began to run Cullen stood bare and weaponless Earl herald as in pain strove for a smile put hand ahead stumbled and suddenly fell dead and the small white daisies all waxed red with blood out of his brain and all at that marvel of the sword cast like a stone to slay cried out said Alfred who would see signs must give all things verily man shall not taste a victory till he throws his sword away then Alfred Prince of England and all the Christian earls unhooked their swords and held them up each offered to Cullen like a cup of chrysalis and pearls and the king said do thou take my sword who have done this deed of fire for this is the manner of Christian men whether of steel or priestly pen that they cast their hearts out of their ken to get their hearts desire and whether you swear a hive of monks or one fair wife to friend this is the manner of Christian men that their oath endures the end for love our lord at the end of the world sits a red horse like a throne with a brazen helm and an iron bow but one arrow alone love with a shield of the broken heart ever his bow doth bend with a single shaft for a single prize and the ultimate bolt that parts and flies comes with a thunder of split skies and a sound of souls that rend so shall you earn a king sword who cast your sword away and the king took with a random eye a rude axe from a hind hard by and turned him to the fray for the swords of the earls of dainland flamed round the fallen lord the first blood woke the trumpet tune as in monks rhyme or wizards rune beginneth the battle of ethendoon with a throwing of the sword end of book five the ballad of the white horse book six this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org read by Joshua Christensen November 2007 the ballad of the white horse by G.K. Chesterton book six ethendoon the slaying of the chiefs as the sea flooding the flat sands flew on the seaborn horde the two hosts shocked with dust and dinn left of the lascian paladin clanged all prince herald's howling kin on colon and the sword crashed in the midst of marcus ogir with guthermbay and eastward of such central stir far to the right and faintlier the house of elf the heart player struck eldreds with a cry the center swat for weariness stemming the screaming horde and wearily went colon's hands that swung king alfred's sword but like a cloud of mourning to eastward easily tall eldred broke the sea of spears as a tall ship breaks the sea his face like a sanguine sunset his shoulder a wessex down his hands like a windy hammer stroke men could not count the crests he broke so fast the crests went down as the tall white devil of the plague moves out of asian skies with his foot on a waste of cities and his head in a cloud of flies or purple and peacock skies grow dark with a moving locus tower or tawny sand winds tall and dry like hell's red banners beat and fly when death comes out of araby was eldred in his hour but while he moved like a massacre he murmured as in sleep and his words were all of low hedges and little fields and sheep even as he strode like a pestilence that strides from rine to Rome he thought how tall his beans might be if ever he were home spoke some stiff piece of childish prayer dull as the distant chimes that thanked our god for good eating and corn and quiet times till on the helm of a high chief fell shatteringly his brand and the helm broke and the bone broke and the sword broke in his hand then from the yelling northmen driven splintering on him ran full seven spears and the seventh was never made by man seven spears and the seventh was wrought as the fairy blades and given to elf the minstrel by the monstrous water-maids by them that dwell where luridly lost waters of the rine move among roots of nations being sunken for a sign under all graves they murmur they murmur and rebel down to the buried kingdoms creep and like a lost rain roar and weep or the red heavens of hell thrice drowned was elf the minstrel and washed his dead on sand and the third time men found him the spear was in his hand seven spears went about eldred like stays about a mast but there was a sorrow by the sea for the driving of the last six spears thrust upon eldred were splintered when he laughed one spear thrust into eldred three feet of blade and shaft and from the great heart grievously came forth the shaft and blade and he stood with the face of a dead man stood a little and swayed then fell as falls a battle-tower smashed and struggling spears cast down from some unconquered town that rushing earthward carries down loads of live men of all renown archers and engineers and a great clamour of Christian men went up in agony crying fallen is the tower of Wessex that stood beside the sea center and right the Wessex guard grew pale for doubt and fear and the flank failed at the advance on the wizard lance the star of the evil spear stand like an oak, cried Marcus stand like a Roman wall eldred the good is fallen are you too good to fall when we were one and bloodless he gave you ale and o the pirates deal with him as dung god are you bloodless now grip wolf and gorlius grip the ash slaves and I make you free stamp hildred hard in English land stand girth, stand gorlius, go and stand hold health car with the other hand, helmer hold up the knee the lamps are dying in your homes, the fruits upon your bow, even now your old thatch smolders girth now is the judgment of the earth now is the death grip, now for thunder of the captain not less the Wessex line leaned back and reeled the space to rear as elf charge with the rein made the spear and roaring like the rain for the men were born by the waving walls of woods and clouds that pass by dizzy planes and drifting sea and they mixed god with glamoury god with the gods of the burning tree and the wizards tower in glass but mark was come of the glittering towns where hot white details show where men can number and expound and his faith grew in a hard ground of doubt and reason and falsehood found where no spirits could grow belief that grew of all beliefs when moment back was blown and belief that stood on unbelief stood up iron and alone the Wessex crescent backwards crushed as with bloody spear when elf roaring and routing and mark against elf yet shouting shocked in his mid career right on the roman shield and sword did spear of the rein maids run but the shield shifted never the sword bearing down to sever the great rein saying forever and the songs of elf were done and a great thunder of Christian men went up against the sky saying god had broken the evil spear if the good man's blood was dry spears of the charge yelled mark a main death on the gods of death over the thrones of doom and blood go with god that is a craftsman good and golden iron earth and wood love and labor earth the fruit sleep up in all your farms the lamps in each abode god of all good things done on earth all wheels or webs of any worth the god that makes the roof girth the god that makes the road the god that heweth kings and oak writheth songs on vellum god of gold and flaming glass confriget potentius arcruum scrutum gorlius gladium at vellum steel and lightning broke about him battle bays and palm all the sea kings swayed among woods of the wessex arms up flung the trumpet of the roman tongue the thunder of the psalm and midmost of that rolling field ran ogre raging lee lashing at mark who turned his blow and break the helm about his brow and broke him to his knee then ogre heaved over his head his huge round shield of proof but marks at one foot on the shield on one some sundered rock up peeled and towered among the tossing field a statue on a roof dealing far blows about the fight like thunderbolts a roam like birds about the battlefield while ogre writhed under his shield like a tortoise in his dome but hate in the buried ogre was strong as pain in hell with bare brute hand from the inside he burst the shield of brass and a death stroke to the roman side sent suddenly and well then the great statue on the shield looked his last look around with level and imperial eye and mark the man from Italy fell in the sea of agony and died without a sound and ogre leaping up alive hurled as huge shield away flying as when a juggler flings a whizzing plate in play and held two arms up rigidly and roared to all the Danes fallen is Rome, yea fallen the city of the plains shall no man born remember that breaketh wood or wheeled how long she stood on the roof of the world as he stood on my shield the new wild world forgetteth her as foam fades on the sea how long she stood with her foot on man as he with his foot on me no more shall the brown men of the south move like the ants in lines to quiet men with olives or madden men with vines no more shall the white towns of the south where Tiber and Nylis run sitting around a secret sea worship a secret sun the blind gods roar for Rome fallen and Forum and Garland gone for the ice of the north is broken and the sea of the north comes on the blind gods roar and rave and dream of all cities under the sea for the heart of the north is broken and the blood of the north is free down from the dome of the world we come rivers on rivers down under us swirl the sacks and hordes and the high dooms we drown down from the dome of the world and down struck flying as a skiff on the river in spate is spun and swirled until we come to the end of the world the break short like a cliff and when we come to the end of the world for me I count it fit to take the leap like a good river shot shrieking over it but what so have at the end of the world where nothing is struck and sounds it is not by Thor these monkish men these humbled Wessex hounds not this pale line of Christian Heinz this one white string of men shall keep us back from the end of the world and the things that happen then it is not Alfred's dwarfish sword nor Egbert's pygmy crown shall stay us now that descend in thunder rending the realms and realms there under down through the world and down there was that in the wild men back of him there was that in his own wild song a dizzy throbbing a drunkard smoke the days to death all Wessex folk and swept their spears along vainly the sword of Cullen and the axe Alfred plied the Danes poured in like a brainless plague and knew not when they died Prince Cullen slew a score of them and was stricken to his knee King Alfred slew a score in seven and was born back on a tree back to the black gate of the woods back of the single way back by the place of the parting ways Christ's knights were whirled away and when they came to the parting ways Doom's heaviest hammer fell for the king was beaten blind at bay down the right lane with his array but Cullen swept the other way where he smoked great strokes and fell the thornwoods over ethendoon stand sharp and thick as spears by night and furs and forest harms far sundered were the friends in arms the loud lost blows the last alarms came not to Alfred's ears the thornwoods over ethendoon stand stiff as spikes in mail as to the hout king came at morn dead Rowland on a doubtful horn seemed unto Alfred lightly born the last cry of the gale End of book 6 The Ballad of the White Horse Book 7 This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org Read by Joshua Christensen November, 2007 The Ballad of the White Horse by G.K. Chesterton Book 7 Ethendoon The Last Charge Away in the waste of White Horse down an idle child alone played some small game through hours that pass and patiently would pluck the grass patiently push the stone on the lean green edge forever where the blank chalk touched the turf the child played on alone divine as a child plays on the last line that sunders sand and surf for he dwelleth in high divisions too simple to understand seeing on what mourn of mystery the uncreated rent the sea with roaring from the land through the long infant hours he built one tower in vain piled up small stones to make a town and ever more the stones fell down and he piled them up again and crimson kings on battle towers and saints on gothic spires and hermits on their peaks of snow and heroes on their pyres and patriots riding royally that rush the rocking town stretch hands in hunger and aspire seeking to mount where high and higher the child whom time can never tire sings over white horse down and this was the might of Alfred at the ending of the way that of such smithers wise or wild he was least distant from the child piling the stones all day for Eldred fought like a frank hunter that killeth and goeth home and Mark had fought because all arms rang like the name of Rome and Colin fought with a double mind moody and madly gay but Alfred fought as gravely as a good child at play he saw wheels break and work run back and all things as they were and his heart was orbed like victory and simple like despair therefore is Mark forgotten that was wise with his tongue and brave and the cairn over Colin crumbled and the cross on Eldred's grave great souls went on a wind away and they have not tail or tomb and Alfred born in wantage rules England till the doom because in the forest of all fears like a strange fresh gust from sea struck him that ancient innocence that is more than mastery and as a child whose bricks fall down repiles them ore and ore came ruin and the rain that burns returning as a wheel returns and crouching the furs and ferns he began his life once more he took his ivory horn on slung and smiled but not in scorn and it's the battle of ethendoon with the blowing of a horn on a dark horse at the double way he saw a great Gotham ride heard roar of brass and ring of steel the laughter and the trumpet peel the pagan in his pride and ogre's red and hated head moved in some talk or task but the men seemed scattered in the briar and some of them had lit a fire and one had brooched a cask and wagons one or two stood up like tall ships in sight as if in outpost were encamped at the cloven ways for night and joyous of the sudden stay of Alfred's routed few sat one upon a stone to sigh and some slipped up the road to fly till Alfred in the fern hard by set horn to mouth and blue and they all abode like statues one sitting on the stone one halfway through the thorn hedge tall one with a leg across a wall and one look backwards very small far up the road alone gray twilight and a yellow star hung over thorn and hill two spears in a cloven war shield lay loose on the road is cast away the horn died faint in the forest gray and the fleeing men stood still brothers at arms said Alfred on this side lies the foe are slavery and starvation flowers that you should pluck them so for whether is it better to be prodded with Danish poles having you in a chamber in a ditch and hounded like a howling witch or smoke to death and hold or that before the red cock crow all we a thousand strong go down the dark road to God's house singing a song to sweat a slave to a race of slaves to drink up infamy no brothers by your leave I think death is a better ale to drink and by all the stars of Christ that sink the Dane shall drink with me to grow old cowed in a conquered land with the sun itself this crown to see trees crouch and cattle slink death is a better ale to drink and by high death on the fell that flag and shall go round though dead are all the paladins whom glory had in ken though all your thunder sordid thanes with proud hearts died among the Danes while a man remains great war remains now is a war of men the men that tear the furrows the men that fell the trees when all their lords be lost and dead the bondsmen of the earth shall tread the tyrants of the seas the wheels of the roaring stillness of all labours under the sun speed the wild work as well at least as the whole world's work is done let hildred hack the shield wall clean as he hacks the hedge let girth the fowler stand as cool as he stands on the chasm's edge let gorlius ride the sea kings as gorlius rides the sea then let all hell and Denmark drive yelling to all its fiends alive and not a rag care we when alfred's word was ended stood firm that feeble line each in his place with club or spear and fury deeper than deep fear and smiles as sour as brine and the king held up the horn and said see ye, my father's horn that Egbert blew in his empery once when he rode out commonly twice when he rode for venery and thrice on the battle-mourne but heavier fates have fallen the horn of the wessex kings and I blew once the writing-sign to call you to the fighting-line and glory and all good things and now two blasts the hunting-sign because we turn to bay but I will not blow the three-blasts till we be lost or they and now I blow the hunting-sign charge some by rule and rod but when I blow the battle-sign charge all and go to god wild stared the danes at the double ways where they loitered all at large as that dark line for the last time doubled the need to charge and caught their weapons clumsily and marveled how and why in such degree by rule and rod the people of the peace of god went roaring down to die and when the last arrow was fitted and was flown when the broken shield hung on the breast and the hopeless lance was laid in rest and the hopeless horn blown the king looked up and what he saw was a great light-like death for our lady stood on the standards rent as lonely and as innocent as when between white walls she went and the lilies of Nazareth one instant in a still light he saw our lady then her dress was soft as western sky and she was a queen most womanly but she was a queen of men over the iron forest he saw our lady stand her eyes were sad without an art and seven swords were in her heart but one was in her hand then the last charge went blindly and all too lost for fear the danes closed round a roaring ring and twenty clubs rose over the king four danes hewed at him hallowing an ogre of the stone and sling drove at him with a spear and when the last arrow drove at him with a spear but the danes were wild with laughter and the great spear swung wide the point stuck to a straggling tree and either host cried suddenly as Alfred leapt aside short time had shaggy ogre to pull his lance in line he knew king Alfred's axe on high he heard it rushing through the sky he cowered beneath it with a cry it split him to the spine and Alfred sprang over him dead and blew the battle sign then bursting all and blasting came chrysandum like death kicked of such catapults of will the stave shiver the barrels spill the wagons waver and crash and kill the wagoners beneath barriers go backwards banners rend great shields grown like a gong horses like horns of nightmare nay horribly and long horses ramp high and rock and boil and break their golden reins and slide on carnage clamorously down with a bitter blood doth lie where ogre went on foot to die in the old way of the danes the high tide king Alfred cried the high tide and the turn as the tide turns on the tall grey seas see how they waver in the trees how stray their spears how knock their knees how wild their watchfires burn the god goes over them walking on wind and flame and the storm cloud drifts from city and dale and the white horse stamps in the white horse veil and we all shall yet drink christian ale in the village of our name the mother of god goes over them on dreadful cherubs born and the psalms roaring above the rune and the cross goes over the sun and moon end the battle of ethendoon with the blowing of a horn for back indeed disorderly the danes went clamoring too worn to take anew the tale or dazed with insolence and ale or stunned of heaven or stricken pale before the face of the king for dire was alfred in his hour the pale scribe witnesses more mighty in defeat was he than all men else in victory and behind his men came murderously dry-throated drinking death an edgar of the golden ship he slew with his own hand took ludwig from his lady's bower and smoked down harmor in his hour and vain and lowly stood the tower the tower in gilderland and tore out of his tiny boat whose eyes beheld an ale wolf with his war cry on his lips and harko born in the eclipse who blocked the scene with battleships round paris on the ale and hecon of the harvest song and dirk from the ale he slew and knute the melted durham bell and hecon of the harvest song and knute the melted durham bell and fulcan fiery oscar fell and goderic and sigale and uriel of the you and heist sang the slaughter and fastest fell the slain when from the wood-roads blackening throat a crowning and crashing wonder smote the rear-guard of the dane for the dregs of colin's company lost down the other road had gathered and grown and heard the din and with wild yells came pouring in naked as their old british kin and bright with blood for wode and bare and bloody and aloft they bore before their band the body of the mighty lord colin of carillon and its horde that bore king alfred's battle-sword broken in his left hand and a strange music went with him loud and yet strangely far the wild pipes of the western land too keen for the ear to understand sang high and deathly on each hand when the dead man went to war blocked between ghost and buccaneer brave men have dropped and died and the wild sea-lords might well quail as the ghastly war-pipes of the gale called to the horns of white-horse veil and all the horns replied and hildred the poor hedger cut down four captains dead and helm are laid three others low and the great earl's wavered too and fro for the living and the dead and gored to the dead and gorlius grasped the great flag the raven of odin torn and the eyes of guthrum altered for the first time since mourn as a turn of the wheel of tempest tilts up the whole sky tall and cliffs of wan-clouds luminous lean out like great walls over us as if the heavens might fall as such a tall and tilted sky sends certain snow or light so did the eyes of guthrum change and the turn was more complex and the eyes of guthrum altered so did the eyes of guthrum change and the turn was more certain and more strange than a thousand men in flight for not till the floor of the skies is split and the hellfire shines through the sea or the stars look up to the rent-earth's knees come of such rendings of certainties as when one wise man truly sees what is more wise than he he set his horse in the battle-breach even guthrum of the dane the fowler had fallen fell his brand a falling tower or many a land but girth the fowler laid one hand upon this bridal rain king guthrum was a great lord and higher than his gods he put the popes to laughter he chid the saints with rods he took this hollow world of ours for a cup to hold his wine in the parting of the woodways there came to him a sign in wessex in the forest in the breaking of the spears we set a sign on guthrum to blaze a thousand years where the high saddles jostle and the horsetails toss there rose to the birds flying a roar of dead and dying in deafness and strong crying we signed him with the cross far out to the winding river the blood ran down for days when we put the cross on guthrum in the parting of the ways End of book 7 The Ballad of the White Horse Book 8 This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org Read by Joshua Christensen November 2007 The Ballad of the White Horse by G.K. Chesterton Book 8 The Scouring of the Horse In the years of the peace of Wessex when the good king sat at home years following on that bloody boon when she that stands above the moon stood above death at Aethendoon and saw his kingdom come when the pagan people of the sea fled to their palisades nailed there with javelins to cling and wonder smote the pirate king brought him to his christening and the end of all his raids for not till the night's blue slate is wiped of its last star utterly and fierce new signs writ there to read shall eyes with such amazement heed as when a great man knows indeed a greater thing than he and there came to his chrism loosing lords of all lands afar and a line was drawn northwesterly that gave King Egbert's empire free giving all lands by the northern sea to the sons of the northern star in the days of the rest of Alfred when all these things were done and Wessex lay in a patch of peace like a dog in a patch of sun the king sat in his orchard among apples green and red with a little book in his bosom and the sunshine on his head and he gathered the songs of simple men that swing with helmen-hod and the alms that he gave as a Christian like a river alive with fishes ran and he made gifts to a beggar man as to a wandering god and he got good laws of the ancient kings like treasure out of the tombs and many a thief in thorny nook or noble in sea-stained turrets shook for the opening of his iron book and the gathering of the dooms then men would come from the ends of the earth whom the king sat welcoming and men would go to the ends of the earth because of the word of the king for folk came in to Alfred's face whose javelins had been hurled on monsters that make boil the sea kraken and coils of mystery or thrust in ancient snows that be the white hair of the world and some had knocked at the northern gates of the ultimate icy floor where the fish freeze and the foam turns black and the wide world narrows to a track and the other sea at the world's back cries through a closed door and men went forth from Alfred's face even great gift-bearing lords not to roam only but more bold out to the high-hot courts of old of negroes clad in cloth of gold silenced in crooked swords scrawled screens and secret gardens and insect-laden skies where fiery planes stretch on and on to the purple country where the sun and the walls of paradise and he knew the might of the Terre-Major where kings began to reign where in a night-route without name of gloomy Goths and Gauls there came white above candles all aflame like a vision Charlemagne and men seeing such embassies spake with the king and said the steel that's saying so sweet a tune on Ashdown and on Ethendoon why hangs it scabbarded so soon all heavily like lead wide while the Danes in north England and up to the river-ride three more such marches like thine own would end them and the pic should own our sway and our feet climbed the throne in the mountains of Strathclyde and Alfred in the orchard among apples green and red with the little book in his bosom looked at green leaves and said when all philosophies shall fail this word alone shall fit that a sage feels too small for life and a fool too large for it Asia and all imperial planes are too little for a fool but for one man whose eyes can see the little isle of Athelney is too large a land to rule happily it had been better when I built my fortress there out in the reedy waters wide I had stood on my mud wall and cried take England all from tide to tide be Athelney my share those madmen of the throne scramble oppressors and oppressed had lined the banks by Athelney and waved and wailed unceasingly where the river turned to the broad sea by an island of the blessed an island like a little book full of a hundred tales like the guilt page the good monk's pen that is all smaller than a ren yet hath high towns, meteors and men and sons and spouting wales a land having a light on it in the river dark and fast an isle with utter clearness lit because a state had stood in it where flowers are flowers indeed and fit and trees are trees at last so were the island of a saint but I am a common king and I will make my fences tough from Wontage town to Plymouth because I am not wise enough to rule so small a thing and it fell in the days of Alfred in the days of his repose that as old customs in his sight were a straight road and a steady light he bade them keep the white horse white as the first plume of the snows and right to the red torchlight from the trouble of morning gray they stripped the white horse of the grass as they strip it to this day and under the red torchlight he went dreaming as though dull of his old companions slain like kings and the rich irrevocable things of a heart that hath not openings but his shut fast being full and the torchlight touched the pale hair where silver clouded gold and the frame of his face was made of cords and a young lord turned among the lords and said the king is old and even as he said it a post ran in a main crying arm lord king the hamlets arm in the horror and the shade of harm they have burnt brand of Unger's farm the Danes are come again Danes dried the white east angles in six fights on the plains Danes waste the world about the Thames Danes to the eastward Danes and as he stumbled on one knee the Thanes broke out in ire the watchmen watch and ill the sheriffs keep the shire but the young Earl said ill the saints, the saints of England guard the land wherein we pledge them gold the dykes decay the king grows old and surely this is hard that we be never quit of them that when his head is whore he cannot say to them he smote and spared with a hand hard at the throat go and return no more then Alfred smiled and the smile of him was like the sun for power but he only pointed those peasants of the Berkshire breed who plucked the old horse of the weed as they pluck it to this hour will he part with the weeds forever or show daisies to the door or will you bid the bold grass go and return no more so ceaseless and so secret thrive terror and theft set free reason and shame shall come to pass when one weed flowers in a morass and like the stillness of stiff grass the stillness of tyranny over our white souls also wild heresies and high wave prouder than the plumes of grass and sadder than their sigh and I go riding against the raid and you know not where I am but ye shall know in a day or year when one green star of grass grows here chaos has charged you charger and spear battleaxe 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 evils now but now I watch if you score not well red rust shall grow on God's great bell and grass in the streets of God 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 in the crowns beyond the cavern of Cullen past eldrids by the sea rose men that owned King Alfred's rod from the windy wastes of X untrod or where the thorn of the grave of God burns over Glastonbury far northward and far westward the distant tribes grew nigh planes beyond planes fell beyond fell that a man at sunset sees so well and the tiny colored 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 forward chock and said though I give this land to our lady that helped me in Athelney though lordlier trees and luster your sod and happier hills hath no flesh trod than the garden of the mother of God between tame side and the sea I know that weed 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 warships they shall not waste with brands but books be all their eating and ink be on their hands not with the humor of hunters or savage skill in war but ordering all things with dead words string shall they make of beasts and birds and wheels of wind and star they shall come mild as clerks with many a scroll and pen and backward shall you 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 stock 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 the bridge St. Mary see or steal St. Michael's wing though they rear marbles over us greater than great Virgilius wrought for the Roman king by this sign shall you know them the breaking of the sword and man know more a free night that loves or hates his lord ye this shall be the sign of them the sign of the dying fire and man made like a half-wit that knows not of his sire what though they come with scroll and pen and grave is a shaven clerk by this sign shall you know them that they ruin and make dark by all men bond to nothing being slaves without a lord by one blind idiot world obeyed too blind to be abhorred by terror and the cruel tales of curse in bone and kin by weird and weakness winning a curse from the beginning by detail of the sinning and denial of the sin by thought a crawling ruin by life a leaping mire by a broken heart in the breast of the world and the end of the world's desire by God and man dishonored by death and life made vain know ye the old barbarian the barbarian come again when is great talk of trend and tide destiny hail that undying heathen that is sadder than the sea in what wise men shall smite him or the cross stand up again or charity or chivalry my vision sayeth not and I see no more but now ride doubtfully to the battle of the plain and the grass edge of the great down was cut clean as a lawn while the levees thronged from near and far the warm woods of the western star and the king went out to his last war on a tall grey horse at dawn and news of his far off fighting came slowly and brokenly from the land of the east Saxons from the sunrise and the sea from the plains of the white sunrise and said St. Edmund's crown where the pools of Essex pale and gleam out beyond London town in mighty and doubtful fragments like faint or fabled wars climbed the old hills of his renown where the bald brow of white horse down as close to the cold stars but away in the eastern places the wind of death walked high and a raid was driven a thwart the raid the sky reddened and the smoke swayed and the tall grey horse went by the gates of the great river were breached as with a barge the wall sink crowded say the scribes the towers populous with tribes seemed leaning from the charge smoke like rebellious heavens rolled curled over coloured flames mirrored in monstrous purple dreams in the mighty pools of Thames loud was the war on London wall and loud in London gates and loud the seekings in the cloud broke through their dreaming gods and loud cried on their dreadful fates and all the while on Whitehorse hill the horse lay long and wan the turf crawled and the fungus crept and the little sorrel while all men slept unwrought the work of man with velvet finger velvet foot the fierce soft mosses then crept on a large white common wheel all folk had striven to strip and peel and the grass like a great green witches wheel unwound the toils of men and clover and silent thistle throw and buds burst silently with little care for the Thames valley or what things there might be that away on the widening river in the eastern plains for crown stood up in the pale purple sky one turret of smoke like ivory and the smoke changed and the wind went by and the king took London town End of book 8 End of the Ballad of the Whitehorse by G.K. Chesterton