The vision of the ancient Rock,
—of the Acropolis, seat of Perfection,
white and golden beneath Attica’s cloudless sky—
lived in my memory.
And along with it, I adored the beauty of the manly virtues of heroes like unto the Gods
—whether of those who stormed immortal Troy,
three thousand years ago,
or of those no less great,
and no less godlike, who,
merely a century before the present day,
struggled for Hellas’ freedom,
in mountain fastnesses and on the sea,
under the banner of the Cross.
And along with it, I worshipped the beauty of the holy North
in by-gone days,
before its racial pride had yielded to the foreign god of meekness;
the beauty of the conquering men —my mother’s ancestors—
who, when in a deafening roar, an outburst of monstrous glee,
the sky and the Sea challenged each other’s might,
the tempest howled, the thunder growled, and lightning tore the crumbling clouds,
stood in their ships, erect, and beat their shields in cadence,
and answering the furious Voice of elemental Godhead
sang warrior-like hymns to Odin and Thor.
Where were they now, those supermen?
Where was the spirit of my race, which lived in me?
Where was I now to find men at the hearing of whose songs my heart would beat?
Men in whose words I would detect the spell of pride and power?
Whose voice I gladly would obey? Men whom I could admire?
All round me I beheld nothing but credulous and kindly ape,
or—which is worse—pedantic apes,
well-read, but without faith,
without the urge to fight for Something greater than themselves
and than their narrow “happiness”;
something for which men fight
along their way to supermanhood.
And only in the scattered lines of a few dreamers did I find an echo of my yearning.
“Come, O thou exile of the far-gone times”; said one of these.
“The axe has felled the sacred trees; where swords once clattered,
now, the slave doth crawl and pray. And all the Gods have gone away.
Come to them in the gleaming Walhall, where They await thee!”
