large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_07_chesterton_64kb_51
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_07_chesterton_64kb
English
5754
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. 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
. Vainly the sword of Colan And the axe of Alfred plied-- The Danes poured in like a 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. Back to the black gate of the woods, Back up the single way, Back by the place of the parting ways Christ's knights were whirled away. And when they came to the parting ways Doom's heaviest hammer fell, For the King was beaten, blind, at bay, Down the right lane with his array, But Colan swept the other way, Where he smote great strokes and fell. The thorn-woods over Ethandune Stand sharp and thick as spears, By night and furze and 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 SEVEN OF THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE BY G CHESTERTON THIS LIVER BOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_07_chesterton_64kb
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