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 shores like cloud. 
They shouted as men shout with sudden hope;
But Bioern 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 shore’s. 140

  Looms there the New Land;
  Locked in the shadow
  Long the gods shut it,
  Niggards 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
  Space for the body,
  Space 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 gods hate,
  Dwellers in dream-land,
  Drinking delusion
  Out of the empty
  Skull of the Past. 200