The wary bowman, matched against his peers, 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 her: Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold In the butt's heart her trembling messenger! 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 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 hush; 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 promised land But brought it not, and on the thirtieth day 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 They shall make over Here is no singer; These the old gods hate, These hate the old gods, Here the wolf Fenrir Here the gods' Twilight Doubt not, my Northmen; Over the ruin See I the promise; Crisp waves the cornfield, There lies the New Land; "Were yon stone alone in question, this | A conjuring-spell to free the imprisoned would please me well,' Mahmood said; "but, with the block there, I my truth must sell. sound; tudes hoary With lone cries that wander But through noonlight and moonlight IV. "T is a woodland enchanted! V. 'T is a woodland enchanted! No dew-drop is stiller In its lupin-leaf setting There whippoorwills plain in the soli- Than this water moss-bounded; But a tiny sand-pillar |