[Suggested by an article in the Philosophic Review.]

The Nietzsche Man

I'm despot here, imperious tyrant too,
And glory in my master-loneliness.
What matters it if kindred I have none,
If none I deign to call my kindly friend?
My greatest friend is my most virile foe,
Who gives me widest room my strength to prove.
All-conquering, master-man,
Through will to power, through power to life I press.
I love my neighbor, shield the poor, the weak,
I tarry on my way to cheer the brute
Who claims compassion for a wounded paw?
I want no pity, and no pity give.
Shall I who thirst for life, and must achieve,
Have ought to do with death, disease,
Or racking pain, unless it be
To mount aloft by trampling on men's graves,
By trampling over graves to mount aloft,
Aloft, till I have shaped a world myself,
Of men who live, but only live to serve?
I want no pity and no pity give.
The strong shall help the weak to die—
True charity is this, to keep the virile stock
Of master-morals whence I late have sprung
Free from the softening manner of the weak
And so, forbearance, love, and sympathy,
Your unsubstantial spirit and the God
You name the friend of sinners and the poor,
I banish with contempt. What peace can they,
What fullness, strength, purvey to me, a lord
Of Truth surmounting womanish pity, love?
For I'm the Last of Men.

His Rival Speaks

I'm maker and mover of men,
I've power as much as I will,
But not through compression
Nor bold violation
Of every man's birthright to live.
Aye, talk all you will of your natural man,
Of Titans discharging their strength,
Say even, we're softened, degenerate men,
Our God and philanthropy, weak.
And raising the fallen, supporting the frail
Is folly, and hindrance to progress, you say?
But stay, Overman, and look deeper, I pray.
You'll find it's no unworthy task
To utilize forces now running astray,
Restore to full strength the degenerate crowd.
Aye, this is a task not unworthy of you.
I too aim at power, but not for myself:
The more men I love, the more I can serve,
'Tis thus I would measure my strength.
You move in your separate realm where you're king,
But I rule a world that is larger than yours,
A world of God's vigorous sons.
I'm maker and mover of men if you will,
And more, I've the love of them all.

INLAND WAVES

A heaving sea life seems to me,
Its passions, surging waves.
Each soul embarks upon that sea
And each the billows braves.
Ambition's wave o'ertops the rest,
But when the storm-clouds form,
Is first to feel upon its breast
The fury of the storm.
Hope's waves at first in ripples flow,
But as they onward glide,
To billows swell, then larger grow,
Advancing side by side.
Each bark is frail, its strength is small
To cope with waves so vast,
Yet one great Guide can pilot all
And harbor them at last.

SOUL OF THE WORLD