Iceland First Seen

Lo from our loitering ship     a new land at last to be seen;     Toothed rocks down the side of the firth     on the east guard a weary wide lea,     And black slope the hill-sides above,     striped adown with their desolate green:     And a peak rises up on the west     from the meeting of cloud and of sea,     Foursquare from base unto point     like the building of Gods that have been,     The last of that waste of the mountains     all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked and grey,     And bright with the dawn that began     just now at the ending of day.     Ah! what came we forth for to see     that our hearts are so hot with desire?     Is it enough for our rest,     the sight of this desolate strand,     And the mountain-waste voiceless as death     but for winds that may sleep not nor tire?     Why do we long to wend forth     through the length and breadth of a land,     Dreadful with grinding of ice,     and record of scarce hidden fire,     But that there 'mid the grey grassy dales     sore scarred by the ruining streams     Lives the tale of the Northland of old     and the undying glory of dreams?     * * * * *     O land, as some cave by the sea     where the treasures of old have been laid,     The sword it may be of a king     whose name was the turning of fight:     Or the staff of some wise of the world     that many things made and unmade.     Or the ring of a woman maybe     whose woe is grown wealth and delight.     No wheat and no wine grows above it,     no orchard for blossom and shade;     The few ships that sail by its blackness     but deem it the mouth of a grave;     Yet sure when the world shall awaken,     this too shall be mighty to save.     Or rather, O land, if a marvel     it seemeth that men ever sought     Thy wastes for a field and a garden     fulfilled of all wonder and doubt,     And feasted amidst of the winter     when the light of the year had been fought,     Whose plunder all gathered together     was little to babble about;     Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land,     "Not for this nor for that was I wrought.     Amid waning of realms and of riches     and death of things worshipped and sure,     I abide here the spouse of a God,     and I made and I make and endure."     O Queen of the grief without knowledge,     of the courage that may not avail,     Of the longing that may not attain,     of the love that shall never forget,     More joy than the gladness of laughter     thy voice hath amidst of its wail:     More hope than of pleasure fulfilled     amidst of thy blindness is set;     More glorious than gaining of all     thine unfaltering hand that shall fail:     For what is the mark on thy brow     but the brand that thy Brynhild doth bear?     Lone once, and loved and undone     by a love that no ages outwear.     Ah! when thy Balder comes back,     and bears from the heart of the Sun     Peace and the healing of pain,     and the wisdom that waiteth no more;     And the lilies are laid on thy brow     'mid the crown of the deeds thou hast done;     And the roses spring up by thy feet     that the rocks of the wilderness wore.     Ah! when thy Balder comes back     and we gather the gains he hath won,     Shall we not linger a little     to talk of thy sweetness of old,     Yea, turn back awhile to thy travail     whence the Gods stood aloof to behold?