And Alfred sprang over him dead,
And blew the battle sign.'

The last part of the poem is that which gives an account of the scouring
of the White Horse, in the years of peace:

'When the good king sat at home.'

But through everything the White Horse remained--

'Untouched except by the hand of Nature:
The turf crawled and the fungus crept,
And the little sorrel, while all men slept,
Unwrought the work of man.'

'The Ballad of the White Horse' is in its way one of the best things
Chesterton has done: it is a fine poem about a very picturesque piece of
English legend, which may or may not be based on history. Poetry can,
and very often does, fulfil a great patriotic mission in arousing
interest in those distant times when Englishmen, with their backs to the
wall, responded to the cry of Alfred, as they did when, centuries later,
the hordes of Germans attempted to cut the knot of Haig's army.

For hundreds of years Alfred has been turned to dust, but the White
Horse remains, a perpetual monument to the great days when England was
invaded by the Danes. 'The Ballad of the White Horse' is a ballad worthy
of the immortal horse that will remain centuries after the author of the
poem has passed out of mortal sight.

* * * * *

In an early volume of light verse Chesterton wrote of the kind of games
that old men with beards would delight in. 'Greybeards at Play' is a
delightful set of satirical verses in which the ardent philosopher
confers a favour on Nature by being on intimate and patronising terms
with her.

This dear old philosopher, with grey beard and presumably long nose and
large spectacles, is full of admiration for the heavenly beings:

'I love to see the little stars
All dancing to one tune;
I think quite highly of the Sun,
And kindly of the Moon.'

Coming to earth, this same philosopher is full of friendly relations
with America, for--

'The great Niagara waterfall
Is never shy with me.'

In the same volume Chesterton writes of the spread of aestheticism, and
that the cult of the Soul had a terrible effect on trade:

'The Shopmen, when their souls were still,
Declined to open shops--
And Cooks recorded frames of mind
In sad and subtle chops.'

In a small volume of poems called 'Wine, Water, and Song,' we have some
of the poems that appear in Chesterton's novels. They have a delig