The Ballad of the White Horse [with Biographical Introduction]

by G.K. Chesterton

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—

Over the iron forest He saw Our Lady stand, Her eyes were sad withouten art, And seven swords were in her heart— But one was in her hand.

The Mother of God goes over them, On dreadful cherubs borne; And the psalm is roaring above the rune, And the Cross goes over the sun and moon, Endeth the battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn.

For dire was Alfred in his hour The pale scribe witnesseth, More mighty in defeat was he Than all men else in victory, And behind, his men came murderously, Dry-throated, drinking death.

For not till the floor of the skies is split, And hell-fire shines through the sea, Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees,

Cometh such rending of certainties, As when one wise man truly sees What is more wise than he.

King Guthrum was a great lord, And higher than his gods—

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 Ethandune And saw his kingdom come—

And brought him to his christening And the end of all his raids.

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.

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 Wantage Town to Plymouth Bluff, Because I am not wise enough To rule so small a thing."

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 is shut fast, being full.

If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew.

I know that weeds 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.

They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men.

"By terror and the cruel tales Of curse in bone and kin, By weird and weakness winning, Accursed from the beginning, By detail of the sinning, And denial of the sin;

And all the while on White Horse 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.