XXVII.

On tales of blood they could not bear to dwell,
From such their hearts abhorrent shrunk in fear.
Better they liked that Monnema should tell

Of things unseen; what power had placed them here, 13

And whence the living spirit came, and where
It past, when parted from this mortal mold;
Of such mysterious themes with willing ear
They heard, devoutly listening while she told
Strangely-disfigured truths, and fables feign'd of old.
XXVIII.

By the Great Spirit man was made, she said;
His voice it was which peal'd along the sky,

And shook the heavens and fill'd the earth with dread.
Alone and inaccessible, on high

He had his dwelling-place eternally,

And Father was his name. 14 This all knew well;
But none had seen his face: and if his
Regarded what upon the earth befell,

eye

Or if he cared for man, she knew not :—who could tell?

XXIX.

But this, she said, was sure, that after death
There was reward and there was punishment:
And that the evil doers, when the breath
Of their injurious lives at length was spent,
Into all noxious forms abhorr'd were sent,
Of beasts and reptiles; so retaining still
Their old propensities, on evil bent,

They work'd where'er they might their wicked will, The natural foes of men, whom we pursue and kill.

XXX.

Of better spirits, some there were who said
That in the grave they had their place of rest.
Lightly they laid the earth upon the dead,
Lest in its narrow tenement the guest
Should suffer underneath such load opprest.
But that death surely set the spirit free,

Sad proof to them poor Monnema addrest,
Drawn from their father's fate; no grave had he
Wherein his soul might dwell. This therefore could

not be.

ΧΧΧΙ.

Likelier they taught who said that to the Land
Of Souls the happy spirit took its flight,

A region underneath the sole command

Of the Good Power; by him for the upright
Appointed and replenish'd with delight;
A land where nothing evil ever came,
Sorrow, nor pain, nor peril, nor affright,

Nor change, nor death; but there the human frame, Untouch'd by age or ill, continued still the same.

XXXII.

Winds would not pierce it there, nor heat and cold Grieve, nor thirst parch and hunger pine; but there The sun by day its even influence hold

With genial warmth, and through the unclouded air The moon upon her nightly journey fare:

The lakes and fish-full streams are never dry;

Trees ever green perpetual fruitage bear;

And, wheresoe'er the hunter turns his eye,

XXXIII.

And once there was a way to that good land, For in mid-earth a wondrous Tree there grew, 15 By which the adventurer might with foot and hand From branch to branch his upward course pursue; An easy path, if what were said be true, Albeit the ascent was long: and when the height Was gain'd, that blissful region was in view, Wherein the traveller safely might alight, And roam abroad at will, and take his free delight.

XXXIV.

O happy time, when ingress thus was given
To the upper world, and at their pleasure they
Whose hearts were strong might pass from earth to
heaven

By their own act and choice! In evil day

• Mishap had fatally cut off that way,

And none may now the Land of Spirits gain,
Till from its dear-loved tenement of clay,
Violence or age, infirmity and pain

Divorce the soul which there full gladly would remain.
XXXV.

Such grievous loss had by their own misdeed
Upon the unworthy race of men been brought.
An aged woman there who could not speed
In fishing, earnestly one day besought
Her countrymen, that they of what they caught
A portion would upon her wants bestow.
They set her hunger and her age at nought,
And still to her entreaties answered no,

And mock'd her, till they made her heart with rage o'erflow.