These doctrines, wise, and worthy of the race 73 From whose free notions modern freedom flows, Bore with such force of reasoning on the case, They left the Knight dumbfounded at the close; Foil'd in the weapons which he most had boasted, He felt sound logic proved he should be roasted. Discreetly waiving farther conversations, 74 He, henceforth, silent lived his little hour; Indulged at times such soothing meditations, As, "Flesh is grass,"--and "Life is but a flower." For men, like swans, have strains most edifying, They never think of till the time for dying. And now at last, the fatal voyage o'er, 75 Sir Gawaine hears the joyous shout of "Land!" Two Vikings lead him courteously on shore: A crowd as courteous wait him on the strand. Fifes, viols, trumpets braying, screaming, strumming, Flatter his ears, and compliment his coming. Right on the shore the gracious temple stands, 76 Form'd like a ship, and budded but of log; Thither at once the hospitable bands Lead the grave Knight and unsuspicious dog, Which, greatly pleased to walk on land once more, Swells with unprescient bark the tuneful roar. Six Priests and one tall Priestess clothed in white, 77 Advance--and meet them at the porch divine; With seven loud shrieks, they pounce upon the Knight,-- Whisk'd by the Priests behind the inmost shrine, While the tall Priestess asks the congregation To come at dawn to witness the oblation. Though somewhat vex'd at this so brief delay-- 78 Yet as the rites, in truth, required preparing, The flock obedient took themselves away;-- Meanwhile the Knight was on the Idol staring, Not without wonder at the tastes terrestrial Which in that image hail'd a shape celestial. Full thirty ells in height--the goddess stood 79 Based on a column of the bones of men, Daub'd was her face with clots of human blood, Her jaws as wide as is a tiger's den; With giant fangs as strong and huge as those That cranch the reeds, through which the sea-horse goes. "Right reverend Sir," quoth he of golden tongue, 80 "A most majestic gentlewoman this! Is it the Freya,[12] whom your scalds have sung, Goddess of love and sweet connubial bliss? If so--despite her very noble carriage, Her charms are scarce what youth desires in marriage." "Stranger," said one who seem'd the hierarch-priest-- 81 "In that sublime, symbolical creation, The outward image but conveys the least Of Freya's claims on human veneration-- But (thine own heart if Love hath ever glow'd in), Thou'lt own that Love is quite as fierce as Odin!