Poetry Archives

A ghost along the Hell-way sped,
The Hell-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 space’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 space inscrutable,
With awful pulses rose and fell—
Silent and godly—terrible.

Electric souls of strong Suns laid,
Strong hands along the awful shade
That God about His God-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 Hell-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.

His spear grew heavy on his breast,
Dropp’d, like a star his golden crest;
Far, far the vast Halls of the Blest!

His heart grown faint, his feet grown weak,
He scal’d the knit mists of a peak,
That ever parted grey and bleak.

And, as by unseen talons nipp’d,
To deep Abysses slowly slipp’d;
Then, swift as thick smoke strongly ripp’d.

By whirling winds from ashy ring,
Of dank weeds blackly smoldering,
The peak sprang upward a quivering

And perdurable, set its face
Against the pulsing breast of space
But for a moment to its base.

Refluent roll’d the crest new sprung,
In clouds with ghastly lightnings stung,—
Faint thunders to their black feet clung.

His faithful hound ran at his heel—
His thighs and breast were bright with steel—
He saw the awful Hellway reel.

But far along its bleak peaks rang
A distant trump—its airy clang
Like light through deathly shadows sprang.

He knew the blast—the voice of love!
Cleft lay the throbbing peak above
Sail’d light, wing’d like a silver dove.

On strove the toiling ghost, his soul
Stirr’d like strong mead in wassail bowl,
That quivers to the shout of “Skoal!”

Strode from the mist close-curv’d and cold
As is a writhing dragon’s fold;
A warrior with shield of gold.

A sharp blade glitter’d at his hip,
Flamed like a star his lance’s tip;
His bugle sang at bearded lip.

Beneath his golden sandels flew
Stars from the mist as grass flings dew;
Or red fruit falls from the dark yew.

As under shelt’ring wreaths of snow
The dark blue north flowers richly blow—
Beneath long locks of silver glow.

Clear eyes, that burning on a host
Would win a field at sunset lost,
Ere stars from Odin’s hand were toss’d.

He stretch’d his hand, he bowed his head:
The wan ghost to his bosom sped—
Dead kiss’d the bearded lips of Dead!

“What dost thou here, my youngest born?
“Thou—scarce yet fronted with life’s storm—
“Why art thou from the dark earth torn?

“When high Valhalla puls’d and rang
“With harps that shook as grey bards sang—
“’Mid the loud joy I heard the clang.

“Of Death’s dark doors—to me alone
“Smote in thy awful dying groan—
“My soul recall’d its blood and bone.

“Viewless the cord which draws from far
“To the round sun some mighty star;
“Viewless the strong-knit soul-cords are!

“I felt thy dying gasp—thy soul
“Towards mine a kindred wave in roll,
“I left the harps—I left the bowl.

“I sought the Hellway—I—the blest;
“That thou, new death-born son should rest
“Upon the strong rock of my breast.

“What dost thou here, young, fair and bold?
“Sleek with youth’s gloss thy locks of gold;
“Thy years by flow’rs might yet be told!

“What dost thou at the ghostly goal,
“While yet thy years were to thy soul,
“As mead yet shallow in the bowl?”

His arm about the pale ghost cast,
The warrior blew a clear, loud blast;
Like frighten’d wolves the mists fled past.

Grew firm the way; worlds flame to light
The awful peak that thrusts its height,
With swift throbs upward, like a flight.

Of arrows from a host close set
Long meteors pierc’d its breast of jet—
Again the trump his strong lips met—

And at its blast blew all the day,
In broad winds on the awful Way;
Sun smote at Sun across the grey;

As reindeer smite the high-pil’d snow
To find the green moss far below—
They struck the mists thro’ which did glow

Bright vales—and on a sea afar,
Lay at a sunlit harbour bar,
A galley gold-sail’d like a star!

Spake the pale ghost as onward sped
Heart-press’d to heart the valiant dead;
Soft the green paths beneath their tread.

“I lov’d, this is my tale, and died—
The fierce chief hunger’d for my bride—
The spear of Gisli pierc’d my side!

“And she—her love fill’d all my need—
Her vows were sweet and strong as mead;
Look, father—doth my heart still bleed?

“I built her round with shaft and spear,
I kept her mine for one brief year—
She laugh’d above my blood stain’d bier!

“Upon a far and ice-peak’d coast
My galleys by long winds were toss’d—
There Gisli feasted with his host.

“Of warriors triumphant—he
Strode out from harps and revelry;
And sped his shaft above the sea!

“Look, father, doth my heart bleed yet?
His arrow Brynhild’s arrow met—
My gallies anchor’d in their rest.

“Again their arrows meet—swift lies
That pierc’d me from their smiling eyes;
How fiercely hard a man’s heart dies!

“She false—he false! There came a day
Pierc’d by the fierce chief’s spear I lay—
My ghost rose shrieking from its clay.

“I saw on Brynhild’s golden vest
The shining locks of Gisli rest;
I sought the Hell-way to the Blest.

“Father, put forth thy hand and tear
Their twin shafts from my heart, all bare
To thee—they rankle death—like there!

       *       *       *       *       *

Said the voice of Evil to the ear of Good,
  “Clasp thou my strong, right hand,
“Nor shall our clasp be known or understood
  “By any in the land.”

“I, the dark giant, rule strongly on the earth,
  “Yet thou, bright one, and I
“Sprang from the one great mystery—at one birth
  “We looked upon the sky!

“I labour at my bleak, my stern toil accurs’d
  Of all mankind—nor stay,
To rest, to murmur “I hunger” or “I thirst!”
  Nor for my joy delay.

“My strength pleads strongly with thee; doth any beat
  With hammer and with stone
Past tools to use them to his deep defeat—
  To turn them on his throne?

“Then I of God the mystery—toil thou with me
  Brother; but in the sight
Of men who know not, I, the stern son shall be
  Of Darkness—Thou of Light!”