Book II: The Gathering of the Chiefs

Up across windy wastes and upWent Alfred over the shaws,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 windAnd 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.

The King went gathering Wessex men,As grain out of the chaffThe few that were alive to die,Laughing, as littered skulls that lieAfter lost battles turn to the skyAn 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 Colan 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 easeRose like a blue tree in the treesWhen he came to Eldred's farm.

But Eldred's farm was fallen awry,Like an old cripple'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 feastingWent upwards evermore,And Eldred's doors stood wide apartFor loitering foot or labouring cart,And Eldred's great and foolish heartStood 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 WessexHis sword had sunken deep,But all his friends, he sighed and said,Were broken about Ethelred;And between the deep drink and the deadHe had fallen upon sleep.

"Come not to me, King Alfred, Save always for the ale:Why should my harmless hinds be slainBecause the chiefs cry once again,As in all fights, that we shall gain,And in all fights we fail?

"Your scalds still thunder and prophesyThat crown that never comes;Friend, I will watch the certain things,Swine, and 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 menFrom 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 GodLike a little word come I;For I go gathering Christian menFrom sunken paving and ford 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 ye get,Save that the sky grows darker yetAnd the sea rises higher.'"

Then silence sank. And slowlyArose the sea-land lord,Like some vast beast for mystery,He filled the room and porch and sky,And from a cobwebbed nail on highUnhooked his heavy sword.

Up on the shrill sea-downs and upWent Alfred all alone,Turning but once e'er the door was shut,Shouting to Eldred over his butt,That he bring all spears to the woodman's hutHewn 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 friendsFriends fallen of all the wide world's ends,From Rome that wrath and pardon sendsAnd the grey tribes on Usk.

He saw gigantic tracks of deathAnd many a shape of doom,Good steadings to grey ashes goneAnd a monk's house white like a skeletonIn the green crypt of the combe.

And in many a Roman villaEarth and her ivies eat,Saw coloured pavements sink and fadeIn flowers, and the windy colonnadeLike the spectre of a street.

But the cold stars clusteredAmong the cold pinesEre he was half on his pilgrimageOver the western lines.

And the white dawn widenedEre he came to the last pine,Where Mark, the man from Italy,Still made the Christian sign.

The long farm lay on the large hill-side,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 toldThat they came in the shining ship of old,With Caesar in the prow.

His fruit trees stood like soldiersDrilled 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 plainsStood never an arch or dome,Only the trees to toss and reel,The tribes to bicker, the beasts to squeal;But the eyes in his head were strong like steel,And his soul remembered Rome.

Then Alfred of the lonely spearLifted his lion head;And fronted with the Italian's eye,Asking him of his whence and why,King Alfred stood and said:

"I am that oft-defeated KingWhose failure fills the land,Who fled before the Danes of old,Who chaffered with the Danes with gold,Who now upon the Wessex woldHardly has feet to stand.

"But out of the mouth of the Mother of GodI have seen the truth like fire,This--that the sky grows darker yetAnd the sea rises higher."

Long looked the Roman on the land;The trees as golden crownsBlazed, drenched with dawn and dew-empearledWhile faintlier coloured, freshlier curled,The clouds from underneath the worldStood 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 holdHalf Wiltshire and the White Horse wold,And the Thames bank to Owsenfold,If Wessex goes to war.

"Guthrum sits strong on either bankAnd you must press his linesInwards, and eastward drive him down;I doubt if you shall take the crownTill you have taken London town.For me, I have the vines."

"If each man on the Judgment DayMeet God on a plain alone,"Said Alfred, "I will speak for youAs for myself, and call it trueThat you brought all fighting folk you knewLined under Egbert's Stone.

"Though I be in the dust ere then,I know where you will be."And shouldering suddenly his spearHe faded like some elfin fear,Where the tall pines ran up, tier on tierTree overtoppling tree.

He shouldered his spear at morningAnd laughed to lay it on,But he leaned on his spear as on a staff,With might and little mood to laugh,Or ever he sighted chick or calfOf Colan of Caerleon.

For the man dwelt in a lost landOf boulders and broken men,In a great grey cave far off to the southWhere 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,Past Caerleon of the fallen kings,Goes out to ghostly seas.

Last of a race in ruin--He spoke the speech of the Gaels;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 Brandan westerlyLooked out at last on a landless seaAnd the sun's last smile.

His harp was carved and cunning,As the Celtic craftsman makes,Graven all over with twisting shapesLike 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 Gaels of IrelandAre 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 nightRose 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 heartBecause 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 seaOn an undiscovered isle.

Lifting the great green ivyAnd 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 conqueredOr ever your sires were born.

"What goddess was your mother,What fay your breed begot,That you should not die with UtherAnd Arthur and Lancelot?

"But when you win you brag and blow,And when you lose you rail,Army of eastland yokelsNot 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 the sky grows darker yetAnd the sea rises higher."

Then Colan of the Sacred TreeTossed 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 fableMore dizzy and more dreadThan all your mad barbarian talesWhere the sky stands on its head?

"A tale where a man looks down on the skyThat has long looked down on him;A tale where a man can swallow a seaThat might swallow the seraphim.

"Bring to the hut by Egbert's StoneAll bills and bows ye have."And Alfred strode off rapidly,And Colan of the Sacred TreeWent slowly to his cave.