He’d have kissed me if I’d let him. We had never met before, And I’ve never seen the beggar since, for that’s the way of war; And though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the same If he’ll ever see them kids of his--I never asked his name.
Saint Genevieve, whose sleepless watch Saved threatened France of old, Above the ship that carries him Your sacred vigil hold.
Where all the fair green fields you loved Are scarred with bursting shell, Joan, the Maid who fought for France-- Oh, guard your young knight well.
But if by sea or if by land God set death in his way-- Then, Mother of the Sacrificed, Teach me what prayer to pray!
Ho! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn: The hosts of Hel rush forth And Fenris rages redly From his shackles in the North; Unleashed is Garm, and Lok is loosed, And freed is Giant Rime; The Rainbow-bridge is broken By the hordes of Muspelheim. The wild Valkyries ride the wind With spear and clanging shield Where all the Hates embattled Are met on Vigrid-field; For there shall fall the Mighty Ones By valiant men adored-- Great Odin, Tyr the fearless, And Frey that sold his sword. And Thor shall slay the dragon Whose breath shall be his bane. The gods themselves shall perish; The sons of the gods shall reign!
Old Time shall sound the boding horn Again and yet again, To rouse the warring passions That swell the hearts of men. Revolt shall wake, and Anarchy, With all their horrid throng-- Revenge, Destruction, Rapine, The spawn of ancient Wrong, With all the hosts of slaughter That our own sins must breed-- Cold Hate, Oppression’s daughter, And Rage, the child of Greed. Then, though we stand to battle As men have ever stood, Down, down shall crash our temples, The Evil and the Good; Yea, all that now we cherish Must pass--but not in vain. The gods we love shall perish; The sons of the gods shall reign!
So, strong in faith, or weak in doubt, Or berserk-mad, we range Our spears in that long battle Which means not Death, but Change. Our highest with our lowest Must own the grim behest, And Good shall yield for Better-- Else how should come the Best? Yet if we win our portion How dare we crave the whole? And if we still press forward, Why need we know the goal? But those whose hearts are constant And those whose souls are wise Have said that from our ashes A nobler race shall rise From shreds of shattered altars To rear the Perfect Fane. Our little gods must perish That God Himself shall reign!