Wake, prophet-soul, the time draws near,
"The God who knows" within thee stirs
And speaks, for His thou art, and Hers
Who bears the mystic shield and spear.
The hidden secrets of their shrine
Where thou, initiate, didst adore,
Their quickening finger shall restore
And make its glories newly thine.
A touch divine shall thrill thy brain,
Thy soul shall leap to life, and lo!
What she has known, again shall know;
What she has seen, shall see again;
The ancient Past through which she came,—
A cloud across a sunset sky,—
A cactus flower of scarlet dye,—
A bird with throat and wings of flame;—
A red wild roe, whose mountain bed
Nor ever hound or hunter knew,
Whose flying footprint dashed the dew
In nameless forests, long since dead.
And ever thus in ceaseless roll
The wheels of Destiny and Time
Through changing form and age and clime
Bear onward the undying Soul:
Till now a Sense, confused and dim,
Dawns in a shape of nobler mould,
Less beast, scarce human; uncontrolled,
With free fierce life in every limb;
A savage youth, in painted gear,
Foot fleeter than the summer wind;
Scant speech for scanty needs designed,
Content with sweetheart, spoil and spear
And, passing thence, with burning breath,
A fiery Soul that knows no fear,
The armed hosts of Odin hear
Her voice amid the ranks of death;
There, where the sounds of war are shrill,
And clarion shrieks, and battle roars,
Once more set free, she leaps and soars
A Soul of flame, aspiring still!