Yea, turning in the whirlwind and the fire, Eve saw her own proud being all entire Made perfect by desire; And from the rounded gladness of that sphere Came bridal songs and harpings and fresh laughter; “Glory unto the faithful,” sounded clear, And then, a little after, “Whoso denyeth aught, let him depart from here!” And only thus does Eve find god—in her perfect self— Ready and boon to be fulfilled of Thee, Thine ample, tameless creature,— Against thy will and word, behold, Lord, this is She! Here, indeed, is the religion of our time. A faithfulness that is deeper than the old faithfulness; and that challenge which of all modern inspiration is the most flaming: Whoso denyeth aught, let him depart from here! This is not the balance of a personality that denies itself! Like Nietzsche, Moody is shaken with the conviction that the most deadly sin is not disobedience, but smallness. There is a striking similarity between the religious attitude of Moody and that of Nietzsche. Moody mentions Zarathustra only once in his published letters. Certainly he was not obsessed by the German, or a confessed follower. Nor did Moody elaborate any social philosophy, beyond a general radicalism quite different from Nietzsche’s condemnation of socialism. But, like Nietzsche, Moody was in reaction against a false and narrow culture. And like him, Moody found in Hellenic ideals a blood-stirring inspiration. He found not the external grace of the Greek which Keats celebrated, not the static classical perfection which has furnished an anodyne for scholars. It was the deeper, cloudy spirit of Aeschylus, the heaven-scaling challenge of Euripides, the Dionysiac worship of joy and passion. Take, for instance, the chorus of young men in _The Fire-Bringer_ which Professor Manly has called “insolent”—though it seems to me of a divine insolence: Eros, how sweet Is the cup of thy drunkenness! Dionysus, how our feet Hasten to the burning cup Thou liftest up! But O how sweet and how most burning it is To drink the wine of thy lightsome chalices, Apollo! Apollo! To-day We say we will follow thee and put all others away For thou alone, O thou alone art he Who settest the prisoned spirit free, And sometimes leadest the rapt soul on Where never mortal thought has gone; Till by the ultimate stream Of vision and of dream She stands With startled eyes and outstretched hands, Looking where other suns rise over other lands, And rends the lonely skies with her prophetic scream.