That chatter loudest as they mean the least;

Swift-willed is thrice-willed; late means nevermore; Impatient is her foot, nor turns again."

He ceased; upon his bosom sank his beard

Sadly, as one who oft had seen her pass

Nor stayed her; and forthwith the frothy tide

Of interrupted wassail roared along; But Biörn, the son of Heriulf, sat apart

Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire,

West.

The waves broke ominous with paly gleams

Crushed by the prow in sparkles of cold fire.

Then came green stripes of sea that promised land

But brought it not, and on the thirtieth day

Low in the West were wooded shores like cloud.

They shouted as men shout with sudden hope;

But Biörn was silent, such strange loss there is

as seen.

"A ship," he muttered, "is a winged bridge

That leadeth every way to man's desire,

And ocean the wide gate to manful luck;"

And then with that resolve his

heart was bent, Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe Of day and night, across the unpathwayed seas

Shot the brave prow that cut on Vinland sands

and the dream,

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.

Man from the Northland,
Man 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.

Them waits the New Land;
They shall 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 Stroug 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 is no singer;
What should they sing of?

They, the unresting?
Labour is ugly,

Loathsome is change.

These the old gods hate,
Dwellers in dream-laud,
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.

Over the ruin
See I the promise;

Crisp waves the cornfield,
Peace-walled, the homestead
Waits open-doored.

There lies the New Land;
Yours to behold it,
Not to possess it;
Slowly Fate's perfect
Fulness shall come.

Then from your strong loins
Seed shall be scattered,
Men to the marrow,
Wilderness tamers,
Walkers of waves.

Jealous, the old gods Shut it in shadow, Wisely they ward it, Egg of the serpent, Bane to them all.

Stronger and sweeter New gods shall seek it, Fill it with man-folk Wise for the future, Wise from the

Is it Thor's hammer
Rays in his right hand?
Weaponless walks he;
It is the White Christ,
Stronger than Thor.

Here shall a realm rise
Mighty in manhood;
Justice and Mercy
Here set a stronghold
Safe without spear.

Weak was the Old World,
Wearily war-fenced;
Out of its ashes,
Strong as the morning,
Springeth the New.

Beauty of promise,
Promise of beauty,
Safe in the silence
Sleep thou, till cometh
Light to thy lids!

Thee shall awaken Flame from the furnace, Bath of all brave ones, Cleanser of conscience, Welder of will.

Lowly shall love thee,
Thee, open-handed!
Stalwart shall shield thee,
Thee, worth their best blood,
Waif of the West!

Then shall come singers, Singing no swan-song,

Birth-carols, rather, Meet for the man child

Mighty of bone.

MAHMOOD THE IMAGE-
BREAKER.

OLD events have modern mean-
ings; only that survives
Of past history which finds kin-
dred in all hearts and lives.

Mahmood once, the idol-breaker, spreader of the Faith, Was at Sumnat tempted sorely, as the legend saith.

In the great pagoda's centre, monstrous and abhorred,

Granite on a throne of granite, sat the temple's lord.

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 Fortune, 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 might and main,

my breath

Sounds through the double pipes of Life and Death,

Atoning what to men mad discord seems ?

"He seeks not me, but I seek oft in vain

For him who shall my voiceful reeds constrain,

And make them utter their melodious pain;

He flies the immortal gift, for well he knows

His life of life must with its overflows

Flood the unthankful pipe, nor come again.

"Thou fool, who dost my harmless subjects wrong,

'Tis not the singer's wish that makes the song

The rhythmic beauty wanders dumb, how long,

Nor stoops to any daintiest instrument,

Till, found its mated lips, their

sweet consent

Makes mortal breath than Time and Fate more strong."

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.

I.

'TIS 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 magnetised curves
The allurement delicious
Of the water's capricious
Thrills, gushes, and swerves.

II.

'Tis 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.

III.

'Tis 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;

Quce 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.

V.

'Tis 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

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.

IV.

"Tis a woodland enchanted! When the phebe scarce whistles

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 the 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 fair to draw nearer
Half tempted to flee it;
The sleeping Past wake not,