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A Ballad of Canterbury
- ACROSS the grim, gray northern sea
- The Danish warships went,
- Snake‐shaped, and manned by mighty men
- On blood and plunder bent;
- And they landed on a smiling land—
- The garden‐land of Kent.
- They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn,
- They set the ricks aflame;
- They slew the men with axe and sword,
- They slew the maids with shame;
- Until, to Canterbury town,
- Made mad with blood, they came.
- Archbishop Alphege walked the wall
- And looked down on the foe.
- ‘Now fly, my lord!’ his monks implored,
- ‘While yet a man may go!’
- ‘Shame on you, monks of mine,’ he cried,
- ‘To shame your bishop so!
- ‘What, would you have the shepherd flee
- Like any hireling knave?
- What, leave my church, my poor—God’s poor,
- To a dark and prayerless grave?
- No! by the body of my Lord,
- My skin I will not save!’
- And when men heard his true, strong word,
- They bore them as men should,
- For twenty nights and twenty days
- The foemen they withstood,
- And, day and night, shone tapers bright,
- And incense veiled the rood.
- The warriors manned the walls without,
- The monks prayed on within,
- Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer
- And valour fared to win,
- Whispered a traitor, who stole out
- And let the foemen in.
- Then through the quiet church there ran
- A sudden breath of fear;
- The monks made haste to bar the door,
- And hide the golden gear;
- And to their lord once more they cried,
- ‘Hide, hide! the foe is here!’
- Through all the church’s windows showed
- The sudden laugh of flame;
- Along the street went trampling feet,
- And through the smoke there came
- The voice of women, calling shrill
- Upon the Saviour’s name.
- And ‘Hide! oh, hide!’ the monks all cried,
- ‘Nor meet such foes as these!’
- ‘Be still,’ he said, ‘hide if ye will,
- Live on, and take your ease!
- By my Lord’s death, my latest breath,
- Like His, shall speak of peace!’
- He strode along the dusky aisle,
- And flung the church doors wide;
- Bright armour shone, and blazing homes
- Lit up the world outside,
- And in the streets reeled to and fro
- A bloody human tide.
- The mailed barbarians laughed aloud
- To see the brave blood flow;
- They trampled on the breast and hair
- Of girls their swords laid low,
- And on the points of reeking spears
- Tossed babies to and fro.
- Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed
- Against the dark red tide.
- ‘Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!
- Your sins are red,’ he cried;
- ‘Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom
- The King of Heaven died!’
- Drunken with blood and lust of fight,
- Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane.
- ‘Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep
- Before thy foolish fane!
- Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep,
- That thou mayst know their pain!’
- He stood, and saw his monks all slain;
- The altar steps ran red;
- In horrid heaps men lay about,
- The dying with the dead;
- And the east brightened, and the sky
- Grew rosy overhead.
- Then from the church a tiny puff
- Of smoke rose ’gainst the sky,
- Out broke the fire, and flame on flame
- Leaped palely out on high,
- Till but the church’s walls were left
- For men to know it by.
- And when the sweet sun laughed again
- O’er fields and furrows brown,
- The brave archbishop hid his eyes,
- Until the tears dropped down
- On the charred blackness of the wreck
- Of Canterbury town.
- ‘Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word
- Unto thy timid sheep,
- And bid them greaten up their hearts,
- And to our feet dare creep,
- And bring a ransom here which we,
- Instead of thee, may keep.’
* * * *
- Archbishop Alphege stood alone,
- Bruised, beaten, weary‐eyed;
- Loaded with chains, with aching heart,
- And wounded in the side;
- And in his hour of utmost pain
- Thus to the Dane replied:
- ‘Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow
- Before this thing shall be;
- If I be held till ransom come,
- I never shall be free;
- For by God’s heart, God’s poor shall never
- Be robbed to ransom me!’
- They flung him in a dungeon dark,
- They heaped on him fresh chains,
- They promised him unnumbered ills
- And unimagined pains;
- But still he said, ‘No English shall
- Be taxed to profit Danes!’
- The months passed by; no ransom came;
- Their threats had almost ceased,
- When Thorkill held, on Easter‐Eve,
- A great and brutal feast;
- And they sent and dragged the Christian man
- Before the pagan beast.
- Down the great hall, from east to west,
- The long rough tables ran;
- They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer,
- And then the drink began—
- At last in all that mighty hall
- Was not one sober man.
- ’Twas then they brought the bishop forth
- Before the drunken throng;
- And ‘Send for ransom!’ Thorkill cried,
- ‘You are weak, and we are strong,
- Or, by the hand of Thor, you die—
- We have borne with you too long!’
- The savage faces of the Danes
- Leered redly all around;
- The bones of beasts and empty cups
- Lay heaped upon the ground,
- And ’mid the crowd of howling wolves
- The Christian saint stood bound.
- He looked in Thorkill’s angry eyes
- And knew what thing should be,
- Then spake: ‘By God, who died to save
- The poor, and me, and thee,
- Thou art not strong enough—God’s poor
- Shall not be taxed for me!’
- ‘Gold! Give us gold, or die!’ All round
- The rising tumult ran.
- ‘I give my life, I give God’s word,
- I give what gifts I can!
- Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?
- Find you some other man!’
- And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose
- With one fierce shout and yell;
- They flung at him the bones of beasts,
- They aimed right strong and well.
- ‘O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!’
- The bishop cried—and fell.
- And so men call him ‘Saint,’ yet some
- Deemed this an unearned crown,
- Since ’twas not for the Church or faith
- He laid his brave life down;
- But otherwise men deemed of it
- In Canterbury town.
* * * *
- ‘Not for the Church he died,’ they said,
- ‘Yet he our saint shall be,
- Since for Christ’s poor he gave his life,
- So for Christ’s self died he.
- “Who does it to the least of these,
- Has done it unto Me!”
