The Ballad of the White Horse [with Biographical Introduction]

by G.K. Chesterton

because he fought for the Christian civilization against the heathen nihilism.

That is the use of tradition: it telescopes history.

Hardened his heart with hope.

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.

All things sprang at him, sun and weed,

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.

"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 In good 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 grey fields gone Behind the set of sun, Heareth between star and other star, Through the door of the darkness fallen ajar, 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 he fail or if he win To no good man is told. "The men of the East may spell the stars,

"The men of the East may search the scrolls For sure fates and fame, But the men that drink the blood of God Go singing to their shame.

"But you and all the kind of Christ Are ignorant and brave, And you have wars you hardly win And souls you hardly save.

He only heard the heathen men, Whose eyes are blue and blind, Singing what shameful things are done Between the sunlit sea and the sun When the land is left behind.

For the great Gaels of Ireland Are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, And all their songs are sad.

But we, but we shall enjoy the world, The whole huge world a toy.

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 I know there are gods behind the gods, Gods that are best unsung.

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.

And you that sit by the fire are young, And true love waits for you; But the king and I grow old, grow old, And hate alone is true.

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 never more his heart.

Death blazes bright above the cup, And clear above the crown; But in that dream of battle We seem to tread it down.

When God put man in a garden He girt him with a sword, And sent him forth a free knight That might betray his lord;

That on you is fallen the shadow, And not upon the Name; That 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 hill-side, The hare has still more heart to run Than you have heart to ride.

Our monks go robed in rain and snow, But the heart of flame therein, 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.

Ere the sad gods that made your gods Saw their sad sunrise pass, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale, 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 Ely fen, 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 band 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.

But I see God like a good giant, That, labouring, lifts the world.

Bake ye the big world all again A cake with kinder leaven; Yet these are sorry evermore— Unless there be a little door, A little door in heaven.

One man shall drive a hundred, As the dead kings drave; Before me rocking hosts be riven, And battering cohorts backwards driven, For I am the first king known of Heaven That has been struck like a slave.

Follow the star that lives and leaps, Follow the sword that sings, For we go gathering heathen men, A terrible harvest, ten by ten, As the wrath of the last red autumn—then When Christ reaps down the kings.

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.

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.

Oh, truly we be broken hearts, For that cause, it is said, We light our candles to that Lord That broke Himself for bread.

Colan stood bare and weaponless, Earl Harold, as in pain, Strove for a smile, put hand to head, Stumbled and suddenly fell dead; And the small white daisies all waxed red With blood out of his brain.

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 heart's desire.

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 the 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.

Spears at the charge!" yelled Mark amain. "Death on the gods of death! Over the thrones of doom and blood Goeth God that is a craftsman good, And gold and iron, earth and wood, Loveth and laboureth.

Through the long infant hours like days He built one tower in vain— Piled up small stones to make a town, And evermore the stones fell down, And he piled them up again.

And this was the might of Alfred, At the ending of the way; That of such smiters, wise or wild, He was least distant from the child, Piling the stones all day.

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.

And Alfred born in Wantage Rules England till the doom.

"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 Danes shall drink with me.

To grow old cowed in a conquered land, With the sun itself discrowned, To see trees crouch and cattle slink— Death is a better ale to drink, And by high Death on the fell brink That flagon shall go round.

The bondsmen of the earth shall tread The tyrants of the seas.

And fury deeper than deep fear, And smiles as sour as brine.

And caught their weapons clumsily, And marvelled how and why— In such degree, by rule and rod, The people of the peace of God Went roaring down to die.