The  Norseman  slew  the  mighty  steed
That  bore  him  in  the  battle  fray,
And  ate  the  flesh,  and  drank  the  mead,
And  feasted  Hella-thoughts  away,


And  piled  the  logs  upon  the  hearth.
And  called  the  gods,  in  stormy  words,
To  send  the  hungry  ravens  forth
To  fatten  at  the  feast  of  swords.
Yet  darker  rites  were  theirs  who  kissed
Their  hand  unto  the  placid  moon  ;
Or  who  the  Tyrian  Moloch  wist
To  pacify  with  choicest  boon
Of  babe  or  maid ;  or  where  the  Priest
Stood  grim  beneath  the  Druid  oak ;
Or  Aztec  fed  with  ample  feast
The  captives  for  the  fateful  rock.
What  was  it  entered  thus  the  soul.
To  give  it  calm,  or  promise  bliss  ?
Strange  that  the  ages,  as  they  roll.
Have  dropped  behind  a  thought  like  this.
Which  held  the  universal  mind
Of  all  the  world  when  it  was  young  !
For  now  the  key  I  cannot  find
In  all  that  men  have  said  or  sung.
In  mocking  scorn,  the  Prophet  laughed
Loud  at  a  hungering,  thirsting  God
Who  craved  the  flesh  of  bulls,  or  quaffed
The  reeking  blood  that  died  the  sod.
For  every  beast  is  His,  and  all
The  cattle  with  their  clover-breath.
And  Love,  that  quickened  great  and

small.
Can  feel  no  pleasure  in  their  death.
They  say  the  Giver  of  all  life
Is  fain  to  take  the  life  He  gives.
And  will  not  spare,  unless  the  knife
May  gash  some  other  thing  that  lives ;
And  they  are  sure,  and  they  are  clear.
While  I  in  dizzying  darkness  grope,
But  trust  that  God  will  yet  appear
In  star-gleams  of  a  nobler  hope.
