Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
Odin Dethroned
By William Leighton (1833–1911)S
P
From storm, and night, and death.
K
Beneath thy painted mask of poetry
And skilful picturing of words appears
Question too great for our philosophy:
The ceaseless wash of nature’s waves, the years,
Laves with uprising crests our solvent lives,
With sinking ebb bears off a part of us
Into the sea of time. Afar that sea
Looks smooth as summer lake, more near in storm
It breaks on man, a billowy dash of spray
And so wild tumult of mad agonies,
That death is rest and haven from its rage;
But storm or rest, a constant menstruum
Of human life—that life, for briefness, like
The fleeting moments a spent swimmer keeps
His head above the vast and pitiless flood:
Then shall we see, in death, a hand of Love
Stretched upward mid the boiling waves to save?
Or some huge kraken that all-hungrily
Bucks us adown to its insatiate maw?
P
A javelin’s flight: it sings along the air
From Odin’s hand, and, crashing through shield-rim,
Dies there, blood-drunken; to be caught anon
Out of pierced shield, and wing again its flight.
But, to my mind, this life hath space enough
For largest honors: if my hap to fill it
With glory such as Crida greatly won
Then glory shall assume enduring shape
Like lordly palace builded to the skies,
Speaking from lips of sculptured blazonings
Valor’s great acts; its shining pinnacles
Neighboring the stars; its fame enduring ever
While love of glory stirs in hearts of men.
Nay, it is idle prattle of life’s shortness;
Life is too long if filled with idleness;
Quite long enough for Valor’s high renown
And thoughts and acts that live renewed in breath
Of minstrelsy, immortal in a song.
Lo! in the hall, the hungry feast is over,
And kitchen-knaves bear off the empty platters,
While warriors loosen belts, and cry aloud,
To fill the horn, and send it gaily round.
Then while bright drops are sparkling in each beard
The king calls up his minstrel, bidding him
Pour forth the soul of glory on the flood of song.
Now while he sweeps his harp, all bend intent
To catch sweet notes; but when in swelling tones
He sings of glory, lo! the warriors rise,
Push back huge benches; from bright baldrics pull
Their great swords out, and while the torchlight flickers
On flashing blades, shout till the oaken roof
Sends back, each rib reverberate with din,
A great response to glory. Life is short?
Nay, it is great and deathless when it lives
On minstrel lips, thus summoned back again
From hollow vase, sea-cave, rich, marble tomb,
Or the rough cairn that marks a hero’s grave—
Ay, deathless through all fortunes save the chance
Of glory’s death in man’s degenerate heart.
What is the tame existence of dull years,
Though stretched by magic through unending time,
Crawling from bed to food, from food to bed,
Compared to life eternal in the breath
Of song?
Q
That Peace may sing of sweet affection’s joys,
In drums of battle. Pray, most warlike king,
Why do you seek a queen? a carven thing
Cut of white ivory, and crowned with gold,
Would fill your chair of state. O, set not there
A woman of warm heart, to feel that heart
Crushed in such iron keeping, if you know
No dearer yearning than a victor’s hope,
No fonder thrill than comes of glory’s song!
P
What time hath frightened bird, or a spent swimmer,
To dream of love? Turn your reproachful eyes,
Fair queen, on him of Lincoln and the king;
Perhaps my heart hath pulse of love as great
As either. These are only pictures, lady,
And mine no more reality than theirs.
C
When great realities come face to face
With idle fancies, pushing these shadows forth
Out of our hearts. Too long have worshipped pictures
Held our obedience. Look, how Odin stands,
Picture of might! If he were might indeed,—
Not hollow seeming, empty, shining armor
Set up in fashion of an armored man,—
Would he not leap from marble pedestal
To smite our sacrilege? I long have served
This idle god; have set before his face
The fairest things; upon his altars burned
Gifts of great price; the blood of slaughtered captives
Poured at his feet; but yet he stood as now,
Only a picture; and the power, I dreamed
Shut up in his mailed bosom, never once
Gave me a sign; yet still I served, and worshipped,
Until the light of this new faith shone down,
And day dawned in my soul. Then I beheld,
In place of deity, an empty figure,
A shell of form and nothingness within,—
Nor like a shrivelled acorn with a germ
Of future life,—while prayerful at its feet
Knelt many nations offering sacrifice,
Burning rich gifts, and shedding human blood.
This sight, so strange, awakened my contempt;
I laughed at it, and, filled with scornful ire,
Snatched the great lance-shaft from his nerveless hand,
And beat his helmet till the roof-tree rung
With noisy clatter, and the dinted brass
Bent with my blows. O lords, is this a thing
To worship, this dull god that may be beaten
Like any drunken slave?
P
Doth the round moon heed every snarling cur
That yelps at his great disk?
A P
Nor deem great Odin’s sleep, the sleep of death:
Worn with long vigils, at his mighty foot
I slumbered; waked to hear an awful voice,
Deep as the thunder,—while blue lightning played
About his helmet,—bid me bring his shield,
The sculptured stone a hundred men in vain
Might strive to move; I marvelled, but obeyed;
And when I touched the ponderous block, it stirred
As light as gossamer, that there I hung it
On the left arm of Odin; then he cried,
“Sleep on,” and at his word I fell asleep;
But when I waked, looked upward tremblingly
Where on the arm of Odin still there hung
The carven stone—Then I cried out; at which
It fell with frightful sound as if the wind
Split into tatters an enormous sail;
And I beheld the marvellous shield roll back
To where I took it up; and many heard
The great stone fall, came hastily, and saw
The form of Odin shake, blue tongues of fire
Still flaming round his helmet, while I lay
In terror at his feet.
C
This god is moveless, voiceless, powerless.
Behold, I wage my arm against his might!
Give me an axe, and I will smite this image;
If it be not the senseless thing I say,
Let it smite back; but if I cast it down,
And stand unharmed, I have dethroned the god.
K
My vassalage. Set up your cross of Peace
In Deira; Mercia knows no gods save those
Our fathers worshipped—“Traitor,” do you say?
Nay, I am true unto my ancient faith,
And will not serve a traitor. There lies one
With its vile touch—one, you would make a king
For treachery; he was unkingly ever,
And past your kingly power to crown him now.
K
P
Be red with slaughter. I have filled your court
With Mercians, and will cut a bloody track
Back to my land. I ask nor peace, nor war;
But stand prepared alike for either chance.
K
Q
Turn not thy court to a wild battle-field;
Because I am no warrior, swords affright me;
Let the fierce Penda and his Mercians go.
K
To K
To Mercia; there full well defend thyself;
For, by yon crucifix, we swear to plant
The cross in every village of thy land!
P
About your plants. I take this offered truce;
And for the Princess Enid, who will go
With me to Mercia, will return the price
Of a king’s ransom.
K
All ransomless, in payment of past service;
We would not owe an enemy so much
As is thy due; and thus we cancel it.
So, having paid old scores, we now may feel
The only debt we owe is present due
Of bold rebellion. Go; the path is clear
That leads to Mercia.
P
Now breaks her chains; no recreant to the gods
Shall claim her service. For this courtesy,
Your gift of Gwynedd’s princess, ’tis set down
As a new debt to courtesy; all debts else
Cancelled, my country oweth naught but this.
Now, King of Deira, Penda, King of Mercia,
No more a vassal, giveth his farewells.
He gaily bids you to his wedding feast,
You and your court—a welcome unto all;
Or choosing rather war, come with your hosts,
And still he promises a kingly welcome.[Exeunt.]