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    The Ballad of the White Horse
    The Ballad of the White Horse
    The Ballad of the White Horse
    Ebook116 pages1 hour

    The Ballad of the White Horse

    By G.K Chesterton

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    About this ebook

    The Ballad of the White Horse is a poem by G. K. Chesterton about the idealised exploits of the Saxon King Alfred the Great, first published in 1911. Written in ballad form, the work is usually considered one of the last great traditional epic poems ever written in the English language. The poem narrates how Alfred was able to defeat the invading Danes at the Battle of Ethandun under the auspices of God working through the agency of the Virgin Mary. In addition to being a narration of Alfred's military and political accomplishments, it is also considered a Catholic allegory. Chesterton incorporates a significant amount of philosophy into the basic structure of the story.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateApr 15, 2014
    ISBN9781473393509
    Author

    G.K Chesterton

    G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936) was a prolific English journalist and author best known for his mystery series featuring the priest-detective Father Brown and for the metaphysical thriller The Man Who Was Thursday. Baptized into the Church of England, Chesterton underwent a crisis of faith as a young man and became fascinated with the occult. He eventually converted to Roman Catholicism and published some of Christianity’s most influential apologetics, including Heretics and Orthodoxy. 

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    • 4/5
      Epic poetry is hard, especially for those of us who don't come from a strong oral storytelling tradition. The opening and closing chapters were strong, but in the middle I kind of struggled to keep going with it. I read this on my kindle at night and was also intermittently listening to the Illiad as an audio book in the car. The Ballad of the White Horse didn't compare well -- the timing was just slightly off, and it didn't have the polish of so many, many centuries of re-telling. Still, it was a good effort, and I might try re-reading it in the future.

    Book preview

    The Ballad of the White Horse - G.K Chesterton

    BOOK I

    THE VISION OF THE KING

    BEFORE the gods that made the gods

    Had seen their sunrise pass,

    The White Horse of the White Horse Vale

    Was cut out of the grass.

    Before the gods that made the gods

    Had drunk at dawn their fill,

    The White Horse of the White Horse Vale

    Was hoary on the hill.

    Age beyond age on British land,

    Æons on æons gone,

    Was peace and war in western hills,

    And the White Horse looked on.

    For the White Horse knew England

    When there was none to know;

    He saw the first oar break or bend,

    He saw heaven fall and the world end,

    O God, how long ago.

    For the end of the world was long ago—

    And all we dwell to-day

    As children of some second birth,

    Like a strange people left on earth

    After a judgment day.

    For the end of the world was long ago.

    When the ends of the world waxed free,

    When Rome was sunk in a waste of slaves,

    And the sun drowned in the sea.

    When Cæsar’s sun fell out of the sky

    And whoso hearkened right

    Could only hear the plunging

    Of the nations in the night.

    When the ends of the earth came marching in

    To torch and cresset gleam,

    And the roads of the world that lead to Rome

    Were filled with faces that moved like foam,

    Like faces in a dream.

    And men rode out of the eastern lands,

    Broad river and burning plain;

    Trees that are Titan flowers to see,

    And tiger skies, striped horribly,

    With tints of tropic rain.

    Where Ind’s enamelled peaks arise

    Around that inmost one,

    Where ancient eagles on its brink,

    Vast as archangels, gather and drink

    The sacrament of the sun.

    And men brake out of the northern lands,

    Enormous lands alone,

    Where a spell is laid upon life and lust

    And the rain is changed to a silver dust

    And the sea to a great green stone.

    And a Shape that moveth murkily

    In mirrors of ice and night,

    Hath blanched with fear all beasts and birds,

    As death and a shock of evil words

    Blast a man’s hair with white.

    And the cry of the palms and the purple moons,

    Or the cry of the frost and foam,

    Swept ever around an inmost place,

    And the din of distant race on race

    Cried and replied round Rome.

    And there was death on the

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