To learn such a simple lesson, Need I go to Paris and Rome, That the many make the household, But only one the home?

'Twas just a womanly presence, An influence unexprest, But a rose she had worn, on my gravesod Were more than long life with the rest!

'Twas a smile, 'twas a garment's rustle, 'Twas nothing that I can phrase.

But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious, And put on her looks and ways.

Were it mine I would close the shutters, Like lids when the life is fled, And the funeral fire should wind it, This corpse of a home that is dead.

For it died that autumn morning When she, its soul, was borne To lie all dark on the hillside That looks over woodland and corn.

A MOOD

I go to the ridge in the forest I haunted in days gone by, But thou, O Memory, pourest No magical drop in mine eye, Nor the gleam of the secret restorest That hath faded from earth and sky: A Presence autumnal and sober Invests every rock and tree, And the aureole of October Lights the maples, but darkens me.

Pine in the distance, Patient through sun or rain, Meeting with graceful persistence, With yielding but rooted resistance, The northwind's wrench and strain, No memory of past existence Brings thee pain; Right for the zenith heading, Friendly with heat or cold, Thine arms to the influence spreading Of the heavens, just from of old, Thou only aspirest the more, Unregretful the old leaves shedding That fringed thee with music before, And deeper thy roots embedding In the grace and the beauty of yore; Thou sigh'st not, 'Alas, I am older, The green of last summer is sear!'

But loftier, hopefuller, bolder, Winnest broader horizons each year.

To me 'tis not cheer thou art singing: There's a sound of the sea, O mournful tree, In thy boughs forever clinging, And the far-off roar Of waves on the sh.o.r.e A shattered vessel flinging.

As thou musest still of the ocean On which thou must float at last, And seem'st to foreknow The shipwreck's woe And the sailor wrenched from the broken mast, Do I, in this vague emotion, This sadness that will not pa.s.s, Though the air throb with wings, And the field laughs and sings, Do I forebode, alas!

The ship-building longer and wearier, The voyage's struggle and strife, And then the darker and drearier Wreck of a broken life?

THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND

I

BIoRN'S BECKONERS

Now Biorn, the son of Heriulf, had ill days Because the heart within him seethed with blood That would not be allayed with any toil, Whether of war or hunting or the oar, But was anhungered for some joy untried: For the brain grew not weary with the limbs, But, while they slept, still hammered like a Troll, Building all night a bridge of solid dream Between him and some purpose of his soul, Or will to find a purpose. With the dawn 10 The sleep-laid timbers, crumbled to soft mist, Denied all foothold. But the dream remained, And every night with yellow-bearded kings His sleep was haunted,--mighty men of old, Once young as he, now ancient like the G.o.ds, And safe as stars in all men's memories.

Strange sagas read he in their sea-blue eyes Cold as the sea, grandly compa.s.sionless; Like life, they made him eager and then mocked.

Nay, broad awake, they would not let him be; 20 They shaped themselves gigantic in the mist, They rose far-beckoning in the lamps 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 pa.s.sion 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. 30 '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 long-memoried rock But moss shall hide it; they alone who wring Some secret purpose from the unwilling G.o.ds Survive in song for yet a little while To vex, like us, the dreams of later men, Ourselves a dream, and dreamlike all we did.' 40

II

THORWALD'S LAY

So Biorn went comfortless but for his thought, And by his thought the more discomforted, Till Erle 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, 50 Such as our fathers heard who led great lives; And, as the bravest on a shield is borne Along the waving host that shouts him 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 snow, Beyond the little smokes and stirs of men: His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years, As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, 60 But something triumphed in his brow and eye, Which whoso saw it could not see and crouch: Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused, Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods, So wheeled his soul into the air of song High o'er the stormy hall; and thus he sang: 'The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light; And from a quiver full of such as these 70 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 f.a.got plucked: Such answer household ends; but she will have Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound 80 Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips All needless stuff, all sapwood; seasons them; From circ.u.mstance untoward feathers plucks Crumpled and cheap; and barbs with iron will: The hour that pa.s.ses is her quiver-boy: When she draws bow, 'tis not across the wind, Nor 'gainst the sun her haste-s.n.a.t.c.hed arrow sings, For sun and wind have plighted faith to her: Ere men have heard the sinew tw.a.n.g, behold In the b.u.t.t's heart her trembling messenger! 90

'The song is old and simple that I sing; But old and simple are despised as cheap, Though hardest to achieve of human things: Good were the days of yore, when men were tried By ring of shields, as now by ring of words; But while the G.o.ds are left, and hearts of men, And wide-doored ocean, still the days are good.

Still o'er the earth hastes Opportunity, Seeking the hardy soul that seeks for her.

Be not abroad, nor deaf with household cares 100 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 pa.s.s Nor stayed her: and forthwith the frothy tide Of interrupted wa.s.sail roared along.

But Biorn, the son of Heriulf, sat apart Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen. 110 '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, 120 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. 130 Then came green stripes of sea that promised land But brought it not, and on the thirtieth day Low in the west were wooded sh.o.r.es like cloud.

They shouted as men shout with sudden hope; But Biorn 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 sh.o.r.e's. 140

Looms there the New Land; Locked in the shadow Long the G.o.ds shut it, n.i.g.g.ards of newness They, the o'er-old.

Little it looks there, Slim as a cloud-streak; It shall fold peoples Even as a shepherd Foldeth his flock. 150

Silent it sleeps now; Great ships shall seek it, Swarming as salmon; Noise of its numbers Two seas shall hear.

Men from the Northland, Men from the Southland, Haste empty-handed; No more than manhood Bring they, and hands. 160

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, Kings' blood shall theirs be, Shoots of the eldest Stock upon Midgard, Sons of the poor. 170

Them waits the New Land; They shall subdue it, Leaving their sons' sons s.p.a.ce for the body, s.p.a.ce for the soul.

Leaving their sons' sons All things save song-craft, Plant long in growing, Thrusting its tap-root Deep in the Gone. 180

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. 190

Here is no singer; What should they sing of?

They, the unresting?

Labor is ugly, Loathsome is change.

These the old G.o.ds hate, Dwellers in dream-land, Drinking delusion Out of the empty Skull of the Past. 200

These hate the old G.o.ds, Warring against them; Fatal to Odin, Here the wolf Fenrir Lieth in wait.

Here the G.o.ds' Twilight Gathers, earth-gulfing; Blackness of battle, Fierce till the Old World Flare up in fire. 210

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. 220

There lies the New Land; Yours to behold it, Not to possess it; Slowly Fate's perfect Fulness shall come.