Men from the Northland,
Men from the Southland,
Haste empty-handed;
No more than manhood
Bring they, and hands. 160
Dark hair and fair hair,
Red blood and blue blood,
There shall be mingled;
Force of the ferment
Makes the New Man.
Pick of all kindreds,
Kings' blood shall theirs be,
Shoots of the eldest
Stock upon Midgard,
Sons of the poor. 170
Them waits the New Land;
They shall subdue it,
Leaving their sons' sons
Space for the body,
Space for the soul.
Leaving their sons' sons
All things save song-craft,
Plant long in growing,
Thrusting its tap-root
Deep in the Gone. 180
Here men shall grow up
Strong from self-helping;
Eyes for the present
Bring they as eagles',
Blind to the Past.
They shall make over
Creed, law, and custom:
Driving-men, doughty
Builders of empire,
Builders of men. 190
Here is no singer;
What should they sing of?
They, the unresting?
Labor is ugly,
Loathsome is change.
These the old gods hate,
Dwellers in dream-land,
Drinking delusion
Out of the empty
Skull of the Past. 200
These hate the old gods,
Warring against them;
Fatal to Odin,
Here the wolf Fenrir
Lieth in wait.