Canzler— From the path that leads to Hell.
Rudolph—Is that their proposition?
Canzler— That is it.
The old man in despair appealed to me.
Rudolph—What are you going to tell them, Canzler?
Canzler—What am I going to tell them? Tell them what
Val-father tells the mountains, tells the rocks,
The trees, the beasts, the birds, all things that live.
Woden, who made all things, made each to be
Different from the rest. He made the oak
To bear its acorns and the pine its cones.
The mole to burrow and the fox to run,
The eagle to hatch her brood upon the crag
Under the sun, the bat, in the dark cave.
The ox to eat grass, and the lion flesh,
And each to go its own particular way
Upon a path as separate and clear
As are the curves and risings of the stars.
(Fritz and Conrad come forward.)
He made no bell to ring all things that live
To sameness in their lives or in their thought.
To keep them, as he made them, different,
He gave to each an individual taste
And matched the taste within with that without
Which, when the two meet, the result is joy.
Joy is the voice of each thing as it moves
Toward Woden on the path that he laid out.
The eagle finds its way without a guide
To Woden, and the stars without a guide,
Each in its own light, and all things that live,
From the blind worm to the all-seeing sun,
Follow their joy and come at last to him.
The eagle's right to go the eagle's way
Is not conditioned by another thing
Save by the fact alone that it is so:
That Woden gave to it an eagle's wings.
And so with man. To what man has a right,
He has a right because he is a man
And not because he is a kind of man.
Val-father's bells have each a different tone.
You cannot make the million aisles that lead
To him one aisle and drive all things through that,
Or make the right of each to be and to have
Rest on its answering a particular bell.
If we admit their principle that Faith,
Or anything outside the fact that one
Is a man, is the basis of the rights of man,
We shame our Saxon fathers who fought and died
For a lie, if this be true. For when the South
Pushed through the Frankish forest with her sword
Between her teeth, and stained with blood, and held
Her hands out, saying, "Here, take this or this,"
Our fathers chose the darkness of the grave
From the red hand, and left the black hand filled
With that which now to keep itself alive
Eats Hartzel's land and licks its fangs toward us.
When the great night came on and they laid down
Under their battered shields and broken swords,
The trees have told us what their last word was:
"The northern air will kill the southern lie;
Then we will come again. Remember this."
Fritz—And here we are.
Canzler— It may not be dawn yet,
But some are up before the light.
Fritz— And all
The dead will rise when Balder comes.