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
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 is no singer;
What should they sing of?
They, the unresting?
Labor is ugly,
Loathsome is change.

These 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, 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.

would please me well,' Mahmood said; "but, with the block there, I my truth must sell.

sound;

tudes 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.

"T is a woodland enchanted!
When the phebe scarce whistles
Once 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.

'T is 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

But a tiny sand-pillar