“1You said ‘The world is going back to Paganism’.Oh bright Vision! I saw our dynasty in the bar of the HouseSpill from their tumblers a libation to the Erinyes,And Leavis with Lord Russell wreathed in flowers, heralded with flutes,Leading white bulls to the cathedral of the solemn MusesTo pay where due the glory of their latest theorem.Hestia’s fire in every flat, rekindled, burned beforeThe Lardergods. Unmarried daughters with obedient handsTended it. By the hearth the white-armd venerable motherDomum servabat, lanam faciebat. At the hourOf sacrifice their brothers came, silent, corrected, graveBefore their elders; on their downy cheeks easily the blushArose (it is the mark of freemen’s children) as they trooped,Gleaming with oil, demurely home from the palaestra or the dance.Walk carefully, do not wake the envy of the happy gods,Shun Hubris. The middle of the road, the middle sort of men,Are best. Aidos surpasses gold. Reverence for the agedIs wholesome as seasonable rain, and for a man to dieDefending the city in battle is a harmonious thing.Thus with magistral hand the Puritan SophrosuneCooled and schooled and tempered our uneasy motions;Heathendom came again, the circumspection and the holy fears …You said it. Did you mean it? Oh inordinate liar, stop.2Or did you mean another kind of heathenry?Think, then, that under heaven-roof the little disc of the earth,Fortified Midgard, lies encircled by the ravening Worm.Over its icy bastions faces of giant and trollLook in, ready to invade it. The Wolf, admittedly, is bound;But the bond wil1 break, the Beast run free. The weary gods,Scarred with old wounds the one-eyed Odin, Tyr who has lost a hand,Will limp to their stations for the Last defence. Make it your hopeTo be counted worthy on that day to stand beside them;For the end of man is to partake of their defeat and dieHis second, final death in good company. The stupid, strongUnteachable monsters are certain to be victorious at last,And every man of decent blood is on the losing side.Take as your model the tall women with yellow hair in plaitsWho walked back into burning houses to die with men,Or him who as the death spear entered into his vitalsMade critical comments on its workmanship and aim.Are these the Pagans you spoke of? Know your betters and crouch, dogs;You that have Vichy water in your veins and worship the eventYour goddess History (whom your fathers called the strumpet Fortune).”

“These scars on my body,” Alexander declared, “were got for you, my brothers. Every wound, as you see, is in the front. Let that man stand forth from your ranks who has bled more than I, or endured more than I for your sake. Show him to me, and I will yield to your weariness and go home.” Not a man came forward. Instead, a great cheer arose from the army. The men begged their king to forgive them for their want of spirit and pleaded with him only to lead them forward.”

“Nightingale"Did I wound you, mutilate. Take away your voice. Did I cut something from you. Leave you locked in silence?This is what you do: you sing. Every part of you. Your locks of hair sing, your eyes, your hands, your smile. If I listen closely I can even hear your blood.Was I the one that took that away?Go down to the water where we used to swim. Stand under the sky at dawn when the sky is streaked with blood. Open your mouth and shout our secret to the waves. The ocean will be your voice. You won't have to carry anything alone. Little Sister, my Spring, April. Little nightingale. Sant at the edge of the water. Your voice will come back to you. Maybe. If I am silent.”

“You are old Father William,' the young man said, 'and your hair has become very white; and yet you incessantly stand on your head-do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“This is where the wise man turns away. This is where the holy kneel and call on God. These are the last miles, my brothers. Don't look to me to save you. Don't think I will not spend you. Run if you have the wit. Pray if you have the soul. Stand your ground if courage is yours. But don't follow me.Follow me, and I will break your heart.”

“I am telling you now that you did right with Robin Stewart and I am telling you that the error you made came later, when you took no heed of his call. It was too late then, I know it. But he should have been in your mind. He was your man. True for you, you had withdrawn the crutch from his sight, but still it should have been there in your hand, ready for him. For you are a leader—don’t you know it? I don’t, surely, need to tell you?—And that is what leadership means. It means fortifying the fainthearted and giving them the two sides of your tongue while you are at it. It means suffering weak love and schooling it till it matures. It means giving up your privacies, your follies and your leisure. It means you can love nothing and no one too much, or you are no longer a leader, you are the led.”