large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_07_chesterton_64kb_58
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_07_chesterton_64kb
English
5754
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, and hunger and aspire, Seeking to mount where high and higher, The child whom Time can never tire, Sings over White Horse Down. 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 DESPIRE SEEKING TO MOUNT WHERE HIGH AND HIGHER THE CHILD WHOM TIME CAN NEVER TIRE SINGS OVER WHITE HORSE DOWN
d forest-harms Far sundered were the friends in arms; The loud lost blows, the last alarms, Came not to Alfred's ears. The thorn-woods over Ethandune Stand stiff as spikes in mail; As to the Haut King came at morn Dead Roland on a doubtful horn, Seemed unto Alfred lightly borne The last cry of the Gael. BOOK VII. ETHANDUNE: 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 for ever, 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 morn of mystery The Uncreated rent the sea With roarings, from the land. 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.  BOOK SEVEN OF THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE BY G CHESTERTON THIS LIVER BOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN BOOK SEVEN ETHELDON 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 FOR EVER 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 MORN OF MYSTERY THE UNCREATED RED THE SEA WITH ROARINGS FROM THE LAND 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
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