This is a rather strange poem, and really it just won’t do. Chesterton’s idea of a hero is apparently a psychopathic loner who carries off women by force and can relate to his fellow men only when he is in the process of bashing their brains out. If this had been penned by some warrior skald in Viking times, some Egill Skallagrímsson say, I suppose it might be accorded the tolerance of autres temps, autres moeurs, but coming from a rather portly Edwardian gentleman who had a romantic infatuation with swords, it seems a little short of ridiculous. And yet, and yet… in its way it is vivid and eloquent, and has lines that, taken out of their martial context, might appeal even to the dedicated pacifist. ‘I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers,/As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers.’ Well, that’s certainly the way I want to go, running in my bluebell woods some spring morning when I am a hundred.
The Last Hero
The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.
The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.
Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.
The chance of battle changes — so may all battle be;
I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me.
I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise,
More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes.
She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine;
The sunset never loved me, the wind was never mine.
Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse?
Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress.
O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown,
You never loved a woman’s smile as I have loved her frown.
The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day,
They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way,
I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers,
As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers.
How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave,
Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave.
Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie,
When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky.
The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose, —
You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.
Know you what earth shall lose to-night, what rich uncounted loans,
What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones?
My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease,
Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas.
To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given,
The blow that breaks my brow to-night shall break the dome of heaven.
The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see,
To-night I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me;
One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet’s breath:
You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.
G.K.Chesterton
David Sutton 
I think you are right David. It’s not one of Chesterton’s best, but there are some saving graces. As to my own end I would prefer a classic deathbed scene myself, pumped full of morphine, surrounded by grieving relatives, and mumbling incoherently.
Come on, Mike, where’s your Viking spirit! That’s what they called a ‘straw death’, and it meant you didn’t get to go to Valhalla. Mind you, I’ve never been too sure about Valhalla anyway, which sounds like a particularly rowdy version of a school canteen.
OK. At a push I’d settle for a Nelson. Mortally wounded at sea, surrounded by grieving crew, mumbling incoherently
Hi David, thank you for putting this up here. I find it (humbly) very interesting that you do not share my views on this, that has been an important poem to me for many years. Regardless of Chesterton’s own experience with combat, seen from a modern day warriors’ eyes, this poem captures something much deeper and more profound than many realize. It is, to me, a timeless story of true warriors, or the warrior class, that exist among all populations. Most people are, thankfully, not even aware of their existence (until they find out one way or the other). I am not saying the world is a better place with warriors, but no population has ever survived long without having their own. For me, this poem is not so much a grandiose celebration of deadly violence in war, but captures the timeless spirit and wisdom of true warriors. The most important line is perhaps “You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain”. No amount of written history can ever convey the lifechanging feeling of mastering the worst of physical conditions and defeating those trying to kill you – Knowing full well that one day you will be the one at the receiving end. Again, thankful for your considerations here, and that you like most people, are not like me. Warriors can ultimately only destroy, although oftentimes to protect others. But you make this world a better place for those around you, to include my children growing up.
Hi Sebastian
Thank you for your feedback. Let me be clear: I am not criticising warriors as such. I am a peaceable sort of chap myself, and count it as one of the good fortunes of my life that I have never been called upon to inflict violence on another human being, but at the same time I am well aware that, in the words often attributed to George Orwell, though he may never have said them in that form, ‘people sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf’, and my inclination is to be grateful to those rough men.
And of course you have centuries of literary tradition on your side. ‘The bards of this world praise the men of valour’, says an early Welsh poem, and until recent times it has always been very much seen as the poet’s role to celebrate heroic fighting men.
No, my criticism is only of what I see as Chesterton’s overly romantic relish in the business of vicarious violence. I have a lot of time for Chesterton, so it pains me to part company with him, and I quite appreciate that life-changing joy you mention of mastering physical conditions, though in my case it has always found its source in running long distances, that inflicts suffering on no one but oneself! But I just can’t go along with the abduction and rape of unwilling women, and the evident pleasure Chesterton takes in the idea of bopping people over the head with a sword.
And yet, as I say in my intro, I still find it, despite my moral reservations, a vivid and eloquent poem.