Then cane green stripes of sea that promised land
Pat brought it not, and on the thirtieth day
Low in the West were wooded shores
They shouted as men shout with sudden hope;
But Biörn was silent, such strange loss there is
Between the dream's fulfilment and the
Such sad abatement in the goal attained. Then Gudrida, that was a prophetess, Rapt with strange influence from Atlantis sang:
Her words: the vision was the dreaming shore's.
Looms there the New Land:
Locked in the shadow
Long the gods shut it,
Niggards of newness
They, the o'er-old.
Little it looks there, Slim as a cloud-streak ; It shall fold peoples Even as a shepherd Foldeth his flock.
Silent it sleeps now;
Great ships shall seek it,
Swarming as salmon ;
Noise of its numbers
Two seas shall hear.
Men from the Northland,
Men from the Southland,
Haste empty-handed;
No more than manhood
Bring they, and hands.
Dark hair and fair hair, Red blood and blue blood, There shall be mingled ; Force of the ferment Makes the New Man.
Pick of all kindreds,
King's blood shall theirs be,
Shoots of the eldest
Stock upon Midgard,
Sons of the poor.
They shail subdue it, Leaving their sons' sons Space for the body, Space for the soul.
Leaving their sons' sons All things save song-craft, Plant long in growing, Thrusting its tap-root Deep in the Gone.
Here men shall grow up Strong from self-helping; Eyes for the present Bring they as eagles', Blind to the Past.
They shall make over Creed, law, and custom; Driving-men, doughty Builders of empire, Builders of men.
Here are no singers;
What should they sing of?
They, the unresting?
Labor is ugly,
Loathsome is change.
Those the old gods hate,
Dwellers in dream-land,
Drinking delusion
Out of the empty
Skull of the Past.
These hate the old gods,
Warring against them;
Fatal to Odin,
Here the wolf Fenrir
Lieth in wait.
Here the gods' Twilight Gathers, earth-gulfing; Blackness of battle, Fierce till the Old World Flares up in fire.
Doubt not, my Northmen; Fate loves the fearless; Fools, when their roof-tree Falls, think it doomsday; Firm stands the sky.
Mahmood paused a moment, silenced by the silent face
That, with eyes of stone unwavering, awed the ancient place.
Then the Brahmins knelt before him, by his doubt made bold, Pledging for their idol's ransom countless gems and gold.
Gold was yellow dirt to Mahmood, but
of precious use, Since from it the roots of power suck a potent juice.
"Were yon stone alone in question,
this would please me well," Mahmood said; "but, with the block there, I my truth must sell.
"Wealth and rule slip down with For
tune, as her wheel turns round; He who keeps his faith, he only cannot be discrowned.
"Little were a change of station, loss of life or crown,
But the wreck were past retrieving if the Man fell down."
So his iron mace he lifted, smote with
Nor stoops to any daintiest instrument, Till, found its mated lips, their sweet
Makes mortal breath than Time and Fate more strong."
'T is a woodland enchanted!
By no sadder spirit
Than blackbirds and thrushes,
That whistle to cheer it
All day in the bushes,
This woodland is haunted:
And in a small clearing,
Beyond sight or hearing
Of human annoyance,
The little fount gushes,
First smoothly, then dashes
And gurgles and flashes,
To the maples and ashes
Confiding its joyance;
Unconscious confiding,
Then, silent and glossy,
Slips winding and hiding
Through alder-stems mossy,
Through gossamer roots
Fine as nerves,
That tremble, as shoots
Through their magnetized curves
The allurement delicious
Of the water's capricious
Thrills, gushes, and swerves.
'T is a woodland enchanted!
I am writing no fiction;
And this fount, its sole daughter,
To the woodland was granted
To pour holy water
And win benediction;
In summer-noon flushes,
When all the wood hushes,
Blue dragon-flies knitting
To and fro in the sun,
With sidelong jerk flitting
Sink down on the rushes,
And, motionless sitting,
Hear it bubble and run,
Hear its low inward singing, With level wings swinging On green tasselled rushes, To dream in the sun.
'T is a woodland enchanted!
The great August noonlight,
Through myriad rifts slanted,
Leaf and bole thickly sprinkles
With flickering gold;
There, in warm August gloaming-
With quick, silent brightenings,
From meadow-lands roaming,
The firefly twinkles
His fitful heat-lightnings;
There the magical moonlight
With meek, saintly glory
Steeps summit and wold;
There whippoorwills plain in the solitudes hoary
With lone cries that wander
Now hither, now yonder,
Like souls doomed of old
To a mild purgatory;
But through noonlight and moonlight
The little fount tinkles
Its silver saints'-bells,
That no sprite ill-boding
May make his abode in
Those innocent dells.
'T is a woodland enchanted!
When the phebe scarce whistles
Once an hour to his fellow,
And, where red lilies flaunted,
Balloons from the thistles
Tell summer's disasters,
The butterflies yellow,
As caught in an eddy
Of air's silent ocean,
Sink, waver, and steady
O'er goats'-beard and asters,
Like souls of dead flowers,
With aimless emotion
Still lingering unready
To leave their old bowers;
And the fount is no dumber,
But still gleams and flashes,
And gurgles and plashes,
To the measure of summer;
The butterflies hear it,
And spell-bound are holden,
Still balancing near it
O'er the goats'-beard so golden.
"T is a woodland enchanted!
A vast silver willow,
I know not how planted,
(This wood is enchanted,
And full of surprises,),
Stands stemming a billow,
A motionless billow
Of ankle-deep mosses;
Two great roots it crosses
To make a round basin,
And there the Fount rises;
Ah, too pure a mirror
For one sick of error
To see his sad face in !
No dew-drop is stiller
In its lupin-leaf setting
Than this water moss-bounded;
But a tiny sand-pillar
From the bottom keeps jetting,
And mermaid ne'er sounded
Through the wreaths of a shell,
Down amid crimson dulses
In some dell of ocean,
A melody sweeter
Than the delicate pulses,
The soft, noiseless metre
The pause and the swell
Of that musical motion:
I recall it, not see it;
Could vision be clearer?
Half I'm fain to draw nearer
Half tempted to flee it ;
The sleeping Past wake not,
Beware!
One forward step take not,
Ah! break not
That quietude rare!
By my step unaffrighted
A thrush hops before it,
And o'er it
A birch hangs delighted,
Dipping, dipping, dipping its tremulous hair;
Pure as the fountain, once
I came to the place,
(How dare I draw nearer ?)
Ì bent o'er its mirror,
And saw a child's face
'Mid locks of bright gold in it; Yes, pure as this fountain once, Since, how much error !
Too holy a mirror
For the man to behold in it
His harsh, bearded countenance !
'T is a woodland enchanted!
Ah, fly unreturning !
Yet stay ;-
'T is a woodland enchanted,
Where wonderful chances
Have sway;
Luck flees from the cold one
But leaps to the bold one
Half-way;
Why should I be daunted?
Still the smooth mirror glances,
Still the amber sand dances,
One look, - then away!
O magical glass!
Canst keep in thy bosom
Shades of leaf and of blossom
When summer days pass,
So that when thy wave hardens
It shapes as it pleases,
Unharmed by the breezes,
Its fine hanging gardens?
Hast those in thy keeping,
And canst not uncover,
Enchantedly sleeping,
The old shade of thy lover?
It is there! I have found it!
He wakes, the long sleeper!
The pool is grown deeper,
The sand dance is ending,
The white floor sinks, blending
With skies that below me
Are deepening and bending,
And a child's face alone
That seems not to know me,
With hair that fades golden
In the heaven-glow round it,
Looks up at my own;
Ah, glimpse through the porta.
That leads to the throne,
That opes the child's olden
Regions Elysian !
Ah, too holy vision
For thy skirts to be holden
By soiled hand of mortal!
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