Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 19

From harpings and sagas and mirth of the town, Great Gisli, the chieftain strode merrily down.

His ruddy beard stretch'd in the loom of the wind, His shade like a dusky G.o.d striding behind.

Gylf.a.g, his true hound, to his heel glided near, Sharp-fang'd, lank and red as a blood-rusted spear.

As crests of the green bergs flame white in the sky, The town on its sharp hill shone brightly and high.

In fjords roared the ice below the dumb stroke Of the Sun's red hammer rose blue mist like smoke.

It clung to the black pines, and clung to the bay-- The galleys of Gisli grew ghosts of the day.

It followed the sharp wings of swans, as they rose-- It fell to the wide jaws of swift riven floes.

It tam'd the wild shriek of the eagle--grew dull The cries, in its foldings, of osprey and gull.

"Arouse thee, bold wind," shouted Gisli "and drive "Floe and Berg out to sea as bees from a hive.

"Chase this woman-lipped haze at top of thy speed, "It cloys to the soul as the tongue cloys with mead!

"Come, buckle thy sharp spear again to thy breast!

"Thy galley hurl forth from the seas of the West.

"With thy long, hissing oars, beat loud the north sea.

"The sharp gaze of day give the eagles and me.

"No cunning mists shrouding the sea and the sky, "Or the brows of the great G.o.ds, bold wind, love I!

"As Gylf.a.g, my hound, lays his fangs in the flank "Of a grey wolf, shadowy, leather-thew'd, lank.

"Bold wind, chase the blue mist, thy prow in its hair, "Sun, speed thy keen shafts thro' the breast of the air!

PART III.

The shouting of Gisli, the chieftain, Rock'd the blue hazes, and cloven In twain by sharp prow of the west wind, To north and to south fled the thick mist.

As in burnish'd walls of Valhalla, In cleft of the mist stood the chieftain, And up to the blue s.h.i.+eld of Heaven, Flung the load shaft of his laughter.

Smote the mist, with shrill spear the swift wind.

Grey shapes fled like ghosts on the h.e.l.l way; Bay'd after their long locks hoa.r.s.e Gylf.a.g, Stared at them, triumphant, the eagles.

To mate and to eaglets, the eagle Shriek'd, "Gone is my foe of the deep mist, "Rent by the vast hands of the kind G.o.ds, "Who knows the knife-pangs of our hunger!"

Shrill whistled the winds as his dun wings Strove with it feather by feather; Loud grated the rock as his talons Its breast spurned slowly his red eyes.

Like fires seemed to flame in the swift wind, At his sides the darts of his hunger-- At his ears the shriek of his eaglets-- In his breast the love of the quarry.

Unfurl'd to the northward and southward His wings broke the air, and to eastward His breast gave its iron; and G.o.d-ward Pierc'd the shrill voice of his hunger.

Bared were his great sides as he laboured Up the first steep blue of the broad sky; His gaze on the fields of his freedom, To the G.o.d's spoke the prayers of his gyres.

Bared were his vast sides as he glided Black in the sharp blue of the north sky: Black over the white of the tall cliffs, Black over the arrow of Gisli.

THE SONG OF THE ARROW.

What know I, As I bite the blue veins of the throbbing sky; To the quarry's breast Hot from the sides of the sleek smooth nest?

What know I Of the will of the tense bow from which I fly?

What the need or jest, That feathers my flight to its b.l.o.o.d.y rest.

What know I Of the will of the bow that speeds me on high?

What doth the shrill bow Of the hand on its singing soul-string know?

Flame-swift speed I-- And the dove and the eagle shriek out and die; Whence comes my sharp zest For the heart of the quarry? the G.o.ds know best.

Deep pierc'd the red gaze of the eagle-- The breast of a cygnet below him; Beneath his dun wing from the eastward Shrill-chaunted the long shaft of Gisli!

Beneath his dun wing from the westward Shook a shaft that laugh'd in its biting-- Met in the fierce breast of the eagle The arrows of Gisli and Brynhild!

PART IV:

A ghost along the h.e.l.l-way sped, The h.e.l.l-shoes shod his misty tread; A phantom hound beside him sped.

Beneath the spandrils of the Way, World's roll'd to-night--from night to day; In s.p.a.ce's ocean Suns were spray.

Group'd world's, eternal eagles, flew; Swift comets fell like noiseless dew, Young earths slow budded in the blue.

The waves of s.p.a.ce inscrutable, With awful pulses rose and fell-- Silent and G.o.dly--terrible.

Electric souls of strong Suns laid, Strong hands along the awful shade That G.o.d about His G.o.d-work made.

Ever from all ripe worlds did break, Men's voices, as when children speak, Eager and querulous and weak.

And pierc'd to the All-worker thro'

His will that veil'd Him from the view "What hast thou done? What dost thou do?"

And ever from His heart did flow Majestical, the answer low-- The benison "Ye shall not know!"

The wan ghost on the h.e.l.l-way sped, Nor yet Valhalla's lights were shed Upon the white brow of the Dead.

Nor sang within his ears the roll Of trumpets calling to his soul; Nor shone wide portals of the goal.