of heaven,

They whispered invitation in the winds, And breath came from them, mightier than the wind,

To strain the lagging sails of his resolve, Till that grew passion which before was wish,

And youth seemed all too costly to be staked

On the soiled cards wherewith men played their game,

Letting Time pocket up the larger life, Lost with base gain of raiment, food, and roof.

"What helpeth lightness of the feet?" they said,

"Oblivion runs with swifter foot than they ;

Or strength of sinew? New men come

as strong,

And those sleep nameless; or renown in war?

Swords grave no name on the longmemoried rock

But moss shall hide it; they alone who wring

Some secret purpose from the unwilling gods

Survive in song for yer a ttle while
To vex, like us, the dreams of later men,
Ourselves a dream, and dreamlike all
we did."

II.

THORWALD'S LAY.

So Biörn went comfortless but for his thought,

And by his thought the more discomforted,

Till Eric Thurlson kept his Yule-tide feast:

And thither came he, called among the

rest,

Silent, lone-minded, a church-door to mirth:

But, ere deep draughts forbade such serious song

As the grave Skald might chant, nor after blush,

Then Eric looked at Thorwald, where he sat,

Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, And said: "O Skald, sing now an olden song,

Such as our fathers heard who led great lives;

And, as the bravest on a shield is borne Along the waving host that shouts hin king,

So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas!"

Then the old man arose; white-haired he stood,

White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar

From their still region of perpetual

Long doubting, singles yet once more the best.

Who is it needs such flawless shafts as Fate?

What archer of his arrows is so choice, Or hits the white so surely? They are

men,

The chosen of her quiver; nor for her Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick

At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked:

Such answer household ends; but she will have

Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound

Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips

All needless stuff, all sapwood, seasons them,

From circumstance untoward feathers plucks

Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will:

The hour that passes is her quiver-boy: When she draws bow, 't is not across the wind,

Nor 'gainst the sun her haste-snatched arrow sings,

For sun and wind have plighted faith to

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, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon 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

The first rune in the Saga of the West.

III.

GUDRIDA'S PROPHECY.

Four weeks they sailed, a speck in skyshut seas,

Life, where was never life that knew itself,

But tumbled lubber-like in blowing whales;

Thought, where the like had never been before

Since Thought primeval brooded the abyss;

Alone as men were never in the world. They saw the icy foundlings of the sea, White cliffs of silence, beautiful by day, Or looming, sudden-perilous, at night In monstrous hush; or sometimes in the dark

The waves broke ominous with paly gleams Crushed by the prow in sparkles of

cold fire.

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 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, hink 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 past.

Here all is all men's,
Save only Wisdom;
King he that wins her;
Him hail they helmsman,
Highest of heart.

Might makes no master
Here any longer;
Sword is not swayer;
Here e'en the gods are
Selfish no more.

Walking the New Earth,
Lo, a divine One
Greets all men godlike,
Calls them his kindred,
He, the Divine.

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.

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