« ПретходнаНастави »
Men from the Northland,
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,
Four weeks they sailed, a speck in sky-shut
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 bush; or sometimes in the dark The waves broke ominous with paly gleams Crushed by the prow in sparkles of cold fire. Then came green stripes of sea that prom
ised 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 Between the dream's fulfilment 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
Them waits the New Land;
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.
So his iron mace he lifted, smote with
might and main, And the idol, on the pavement tumbling,
burst in twain.
“ He seeks not me, but I seek oft in vain For bim who shall my voiceful reeds con
And make them utter their melodious pain; He flies the immortal gift, for well be
knows His life of life must with its overflows Flood the unthankful pipe, nor come again.
• Thou fool, who dost my harmless subjects
wrong, 'T is 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 con
sent Makes mortal breath than Time and Fate
And this fount, its sole daughter,
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
This poem, written apparently in the winter of 1849–50, was to have been included in the projected work, The Nooning.
'Tis a woodland enchanted !
'T is a woodland enchanted !
a 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 soli
tudes boary 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 !
'T is a woodland enchanted ! I am writing no fiction;
Sink, waver, and steady
And o'er it
'T is a woodland enchanted!
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 portal