Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY, by EDITH BLAND NESBIT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Across the grim, gray northern sea
Last Line: "has done it unto me!"
Alternate Author Name(s): Nesbit, E.; Bland, Mrs. Hubert
Subject(s): Canterbury, England


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!"







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