My gods, you say, are idols dumb, Which men have wrought from wood or clay, Carven with chisel, shaped with thumb, A morning's task, an evening's play. You bid me turn my face on high Where the blue heaven the sun enthrones, And serve a viewless deity, Nor make my bow to stocks and stones. My lord, I am not skilled in wit Nor wise in priestcraft, but I know That fear to man is spur and bit To jog and curb his fancies' flow. He fears and loves, for love and awe In mortal souls may well unite To fashion forth the perfect law Where Duty takes to wife Delight. But on each man one Fear awaits And chills his marrow like the dead.-- He cannot worship what he hates Or make a god of naked Dread. The homeless winds that twist and race, The heights of cloud that veer and roll, The unplumb'd Abyss, the drift of Space-- These are the fears that drain the soul. Ye dauntless ones from out the sea Fear nought. Perchance your gods are strong To rule the air where grim things be, And quell the deeps with all their throng. For me, I dread not fire nor steel, Nor aught that walks in open light, But fend me from the endless Wheel, The voids of Space, the gulfs of Night. Wherefore my brittle gods I make Of friendly clay and kindly stone,-- Wrought with my hands, to serve or break, From crown to toe my work, my own. My eyes can see, my nose can smell, My fingers touch their painted face, They weave their little homely spell To warm me from the cold of Space. My gods are wrought of common stuff For human joys and mortal tears; Weakly, perchance, yet staunch enough To build a barrier 'gainst my fears, Where, lowly but secure, I wait And hear without the strange winds blow.-- I cannot worship what I hate, Or serve a god I dare not know. V STREAMS OF WATER IN THE SOUTH "As streams of water in the south, Our bondage, Lord, recall." --PSALM cxxvi. (Scots Metrical Version). It was at the ford of the Clachlands Water in a tempestuous August, that I, an idle boy, first learned the hardships of the Lammas droving. The shepherd of the Redswirehead, my very good friend, and his three shaggy dogs, were working for their lives in an angry water. The path behind was thronged with scores of sheep bound for the Gledsmuir market, and beyond it was possible to discern through the mist the few dripping dozen which had made the passage. Between raged yards of brown foam coming down from murky hills, and the air echoed with the yelp of dogs and the perplexed cursing of men.