When you, in journeying, shall reach earth's end,
And climb aloft among the shaggy hills,—
Those patient giants, seamed and scarred with age,
That hold the sky in their unwearied arms,—
You antlike 'mong those huge and silent forms.
Shall maybe, at an end of climbing, reach
The tremulous bridge of heaven, the swinging rainbow.
Whose many-coloured pavement is the road
Of gods, coming and going amongst men.

There shall you find old Heimdall ; still as stone.
With eyes that never close, seeing all things,
He sits, high warden of the bridge, which rears
Its grey upspringing portals at his back,—
Wide cloudy gates to shut the bright-hued splendour.
His gaze is steady looking on the world.
And he nor stirs nor speaks ; his mighty horn.
That -when it sounds, echoes through earth and heaven.
Lies voiceless at his side. This is that horn
That once or twice upon your journeying '
Has bruited on your ears, long, joyously.
Its stirring summons ; then has your quick blood leapt
To answer, and your eyes seen visions, wild,
Lovely, and tangible, and evil seemed
A squint-eyed dream which none need reckon with,
Save the sick, save the fearful, driven away
By daylight and glad thought. But now 'tis silent,
It lies in coiléd sleep by him who watches.
And Heimdall sits as carven out of stone.

He can hear all things ; the slim emerald grasses.
Hidden in darkness, may not lift a sod
And steal into the sunshine, but he knows.
He hears the loom no man has ever seen.
Wherewith small secret beings, in their caves.
Weave from the wool no man has bought or sold,
A dew-proof jacket for the growing lamb.
He hears the flower fold its petals down
Over the treasure of sunbeams in its heart,
When evening draws the light out of the sky.
And when a mouse stirs in the night, he knows,—
Knows all the timid pulse throbs, the keen hunger.
The pattering haste,—the silent glittering evil
Waiting and watching for its certain hour.

He can see all things : mortals journeying
Upon their zigzag course ; sees the sure goal
Where each man's patchwork wandering, and all lanes
Lead him at last, each coming to his own.
He sees the throng of parti-coloured thoughts
That drive him blundering on,—clumsy and loud,
They ever must be goading, though they know not
Which way lies heaven and which way bitterness.
He sees the glad gods tread with light swift feet
The lovely tremulous pathway out of heaven ;
He knows them as they pass in their disguise
Down to the plains to labour amongst men.
He likewise sees those shapes, awful and foul.
That in a never-ending steam of darkness
Rise from the shadowy realms of livid Death
And gather on the edges of the world
To plot out mischief. These are they would pass
Like an upsurging storm-cloud black with hate,
Over the lovely tremulous spirit bridge
And smother all the gods; —but Heimdall watches.

And when you stand beside him, then you too
Shall see, as in a dream, the ways of men
And the strange thoughts that drive them ; and you too
Shall see, swart gathering in a smoky ring
All round the earth the shadowy forms of death.
Then shall you grip old Heimdall by the sleeve,
And cry in deadly fear : 'Up Heimdall, up!
Blow thy horn, Heimdall, rouse the sleepy gods,
And let the clamouring echoes leap and run
Through all the earth ! See where the sons of hell.
Dusk, shapeless giants, from the ascending smoke
Rise and alight upon the earth, and black,
In bulk on bulk of terrible array.
Still they alight, and still the smoke ascends.—
They crowd, they gather, and round furnaces
Of glowering wrath they forge their deadly hate
Into sharp swords of war ; they rank themselves
In battle order, grim and horrible,—
And still the smoke ascends; —up Heimdall, up I
Blow thy horn, Heimdall, rouse the sleepy gods!

'But Heimdall, though he hears and sees you, yet
Turns not his head, nor speaks, for he has watched
Since the beginning. Therefore, you perchance
Will go your way in sorrow, or perchance.
So great your fear, you will not cease to cry
And pluck him by the arm, who never heeds,—
Yet cease you must when Death gets hold on you.

But Heimdall still will watch with steady eyes;
Still hear the grasses in their emerald coats
Steal into life ; still hear the unseen looms
Weaving a woolly covering for the lamb;
Still see the bright feet of the gods, that tread
The many-coloured pavement out of heaven
To labour upon earth ; still watch the thoughts
Jostling and crowding in the brain of man;
And see the evil, lowering shapes that rise
Like smoke out of the pit to stir up strife,—
He watches till the ending of the world.