Legends of the Saxon Saints

Odin, a Prince who reigned near the Caspian Sea, after a vain resistance to the Roman arms, leads forth his people to the forests north of the Danube, that, serving God in freedom on the limits of the Roman Empire, and being strengthened by an adverse climate, they may one day descend upon that empire in just revenge; which destiny was fulfilled by the sack of Rome, under Alaric, Christian King of the Goths, a race derived, like the Saxon, from that Eastern people.

Forth with those missives, Chiron, to the Invader! Hence, and make speed: they scathe mine eyes like fire: Pompeius, thou hast conquered! What remains? Vengeance! Man’s race has never dreamed of such; So slow, so sure. Pompeius, I depart: I might have held these mountains yet four days: The fifth had seen them thine— I look beyond the limit of this night: Four centuries I need; then comes mine hour.

What saith the Accursed One of the Western World? I hear even now her trumpet! Thus she saith: ‘I have enlarged my borders: iron reaped Earth’s field all golden. Strenuous fight we fought: I left some sweat-drops on that Carthage shore, Some blood on Gallic javelins. That is past! My pleasant days are come: my couch is spread Beside all waters of the Midland Sea; By whispers lulled of nations kneeling round; Illumed by light of balmiest climes; refreshed By winds from Atlas and the Olympian snows: Henceforth my foot is in delicious ways; Bathe it, ye Persian fountains! Syrian vales, All roses, make me sleepy with perfumes! Caucasian cliffs, with martial echoes faint Flatter light slumbers; charm a Roman dream! I send you my Pompeius; let him lead Odin in chains to Rome!’ Odin in chains! Were Odin chained, or dead, that God he serves Could raise a thousand Odins— Rome’s Founder-King beside his Augur standing Noted twelve ravens borne in sequent flight O’er Alba’s crags. They emblem’d centuries twelve, The term to Rome conceded. Eight are flown; Remain but four. Hail, sacred brood of night! Hencefore my standards bear the Raven Sign, The bird that hoarsely haunts the ruined tower; The bird sagacious of the field of blood Albeit far off. Four centuries I need: Then comes my day. My race and I are one. O Race beloved and holy! From my youth Where’er a hungry heart impelled my feet, Whate’er I found of glorious, have I not Claimed it for thee, deep-musing? Ignorant, first, For thee I wished the golden ingots piled In Susa and Ecbatana:—ah fool! At Athens next, treading where Plato trod, For thee all triumphs of the mind of man, And Phidian hand inspired! Ah fool, that hour Athens lay bound, a slave! Later to Rome In secrecy by Mithridates sent To search the inmost of his hated foe, For thee I claimed that discipline of Law Which made her State one camp. Fool, fool once more! Soon learned I what a heart-pollution lurked Beneath that mask of Law. As Persia fell, By softness sapped, so Rome. Behold, this day, Following the Pole Star of my just revenge, I lead my people forth to clearer fates Through cloudier fortunes. They are brave and strong: ’Tis but the rose-breath of their vale that rots Their destiny’s bud unblown. I lead them forth, A race war-vanquished, not a race of slaves; Lead them, not southward to Euphrates’ bank, Not Eastward to the realms of rising suns, Not West to Rome and bondage. Hail, thou North! Hail, boundless woods, by nameless oceans girt, And snow-robed mountain islets, founts of fire! Four hundred years! I know that awful North: I sought it when the one flower of my life Fell to my foot. That anguish set me free: It dashed me on the iron side of life: I woke, a man. My people too shall wake: They shall have icy crags for myrtle banks, Sharp rocks for couches. Strength! I must have strength; Not splenetic sallies of a woman’s courage, But hearts to which self-pity is unknown: Hard life to them must be as mighty wine Gladdening the strong: the death on battle fields Must seem the natural, honest close of life; Their fear must be to die without a wound And miss Life’s after-banquet. Wooden shield Whole winter nights shall lie their covering sole: Thereon the boy shall stem the ocean wave; Thereon the youth shall slide with speed of winds Loud-laughing down the snowy mountain-slope: To him the Sire shall whisper as he bleeds, ‘Remember the revenge? Thy son must prove More strong, more hard than thou!’ Four hundred years! Increase is tardy in that icy clime, For Death is there the awful nurse of Life: Death rocks the cot. Why meet we there no wolf Save those huge-limbed? Because weak wolf-cubs die. ’Tis thus with man; ’tis thus with all things strong:— Rise higher on thy northern hills, my Pine! That Southern Palm shall dwindle. House stone-walled— Ye shall not have it! Temples cedar-roofed— Ye shall not build them! Where the Temple stands The City gathers. Cities ye shall spurn: Live in the woods; live singly, winning each, Hunter or fisher by blue lakes, his prey: Abhor the gilded shrine: the God Unknown In such abides not. On the mountain’s top Great Persia sought Him in her day of strength: With her ye share the kingly breed of Truths, The noblest inspirations man hath known, Or can know—ay, unless the Lord of all Should come, Man’s Teacher. Pray as Persia prayed; And see ye pray for Vengeance! Leave till then To Rome her Idol fanes and pilfered Gods.