Part 17 (2/2)

Ogier in his turn avenges Elf:

”But hate in the buried Ogier Was strong as pain in h.e.l.l, With bare brute hand from the inside He burst the s.h.i.+eld of bra.s.s and hide, And a death-stroke to the Roman's side Sent suddenly and well.

Then the great statue on the s.h.i.+eld 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.”

The Danes in their triumph sing:

”'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.'

There was that in the wild men back of him [Ogier], There was that in his own wild song, A dizzy throbbing, a drunkard smoke, That dazed to death all Wess.e.x folk, And swept their spears along.

Vainly the sword of Colan And the axe of Alfred plied-- The Danes poured in like brainless plague, And knew not when they died.

Prince Colan slew a score of them, And was stricken to his knee; King Alfred slew a score and seven And was borne back on a tree.”

The King was beaten, blind, at bay, and we are taken on to Book VII., ”The Last Change,” where Alfred is compared to a small child building one tower in vain, piling up small stones to make a town, and evermore the stones fall down and he piles 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.

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 Colan 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...o...b..d like victory And simple like despair.

Therefore is Mark forgotten, That was wise with his tongue and brave; And the cairn over Colan crumbled, And the cross on Eldred's grave.

Their great souls went on a wind away, And they have not tale 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 so Alfred began his life once more and took his ivory horn unslung and smiled, but not in scorn:

”'Endeth the Battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn.'”

He collects his remnants and incites them to a last desperate effort:

”'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.' ...

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-morn.'”

So

” ... the last charge went blindly, And all too lost for fear: The Danes closed round, a roaring ring, And twenty clubs rose o'er the King, Four Danes hewed at him, halloing, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling Drove at him with a spear.”

But the Danes were careless, and Alfred split Ogier to the spine: the tide miraculously turned and the Danes gave way and retreated clamouring, disorderly:

”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.”

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