Слике страница

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.
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 meanings ; only that survives Of past history which finds kindred 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, And the idol, on the pavement tumbling, burst in twain. Luck obeys the downright striker ; from the hollow core, Fifty times the Brahmins' offer deluged all the floor.

The Bardling came where by a river grew
The pennoned reeds, that, as the west-wind blew,
Gleamed and sighed plaintively, as if they knew
What music slept enchanted in each stem,
Till Pan should choose some happy one of them,
And with wise lips enlife it through and through.
The Bardling thought, “A pipe is all I need ;
Once I have sought me out a clear smooth reed,
And shaped it to my fancy, I proceed
To breathe such strains as, yonder 'mid the rocks,
The strange youth blows, that tends Admetus' flocks,
And all the maidens will to me pay heed.”
The summer day he spent in questful round,
And many a reed he marred, but never found
A conjuring-spell to free the imprisoned sound;
At last his vainly wearied limbs he laid
Beneath a sacred laurel's Aickering shade,
And sleep about his brain her cobweb wound.
Then strode the mighty Mother through his dreams,
Saying : The reeds along a thousand streams
Are mine, and who is he that plots and schemes
To snare the melodies wherewith 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 gist, 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.”


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


'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 rists slanted, Leaf and bole thickly sprinkles With Aickering 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 saint's bells, That no sprite ill-boding May make his abode in Those innocent dells.


'Tis a woodland enchanted !
When the phebe scarce whistles
Once an hour to his fellow,
And, where red lilies flaunted,

« ПретходнаНастави »