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not various; 'tis the poetry of passion Shall bear the scroll of doom ?
Silent the Self-devoted stood
His image mirror'd in the food
Was terrible to see! cordage—the creaking of bulkheads
As leaning on his gleaming axe, -the quivering of planks — the
And gazing on the wave,
His fearless soul was churning up groaning of knee-timbers
The death-rune of the brave.
Upon the brown bark's prow,
And tossing back the yellow storm
Of hair from his broad brow; teor that will not forsake the trou
The lips of song burst open, and
The words of fire rushed out, bled atmosphere in which the ship
And thundering through that martial rejoices, “ Sigurd's Battle Flag,"
crew tinging the black aspect of the sea
Pealed Harald's battle shout;with blood.
It is Harald the Dauntless that listeth his THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD.
As the Northmen roll on with the Doom.
“ I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag
Through sunshine, or through gloom; Again, their long keels sheer the
Through swelling surge on bloody wave,
I plant the scroll of doom !
Beneath a starless sky,
They sang the war-deeds of bis sires,
And pointed to their tomb;
They told him that this glory-flag
Since then, where hath young Harald
But where Jarl's son should be?
'Mid war and waves--the combat keen bosom'd billow.
That raged on land or sea.”
So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for Aloft, Sigurdir's battle-flag
glory, Streams onward to the land,
As his hand bears aloft the dark death,
" Mine own death's in this clenched The wild birds of the sky,
These limbs must rot on yonder
But shall this dusky standard quail
In the red slaughter day,
This arm forget to slay ?
I trample down such idle doubt;
Harald's liigh blood bath sprung Who shoreward through the swelling From sires whose hands in martial bout surge,
Have ne'er belied their tongue;
Nor keener from their castled rock In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp Rush eagles on their prey,
Reel headlong to the grave, Than, panting for the battle-shock, There Harald's axe shall ponderous Young Harald leads the way."
ring, It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible
There Sigurd's flag shall wave ;beauty,
Yes, underneath tbis standard tall, Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce
Beside this fateful scroll, of heroes.
Down shall the tower-like prison fall
Of Harald's haughty soul.” " The ship-borne warriors of the So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer
and nearer North, The sons of Woden's race,
The fleet of the Northmen bears down to To battle as to feast go forth,
the shore. With stern, and changeless face ;
“ Green lie those thickly timbered And I the last of a great lineThe Self-devoted, long
shores To lift on high tbe Runic sign
Fair sloping to the sea; Which gives my name to song.
They're cumbered with the harvest In battle-field young Harald falls
stores Amid a slaughtered foe,
That wave but for the free; But backward never bears this flag,
Our sickle is the gleaming sword, Wbile streams to ocean flow;
Our garner the broad shieldOn, on above the crowded dead
Let peasants sow, but still he's tord
Who's master of the field;
Let them come on, the bastard.born,
Each soil-stain'd churle!-alack ! spread, From swords that never spare."
What gain they but a splitten skull, So rush the hero-words from the Death
A sod for their base back? doomed one,
They sow for us these goodly lands, While Scalds harp aloud the renown of
We reap them in our might, his fathers.
Scorning all title but the brands
That triumph in the fight." " Flag! from your folds, and fiercely It was thus the land-winners of old gained
their glory, wake War-music on the wind,
And grey stones voiced their praise in the Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to
bays of far isles. shake The sternness of my mind;
“ The rivers of yon island low, Brynbilda, maiden meek and fair,
Glance redly in the sun, Pale watcher by the sea,
But ruddier still they're doom'd los I hear thy wailings on the air,
glow, Thy beart's dirge sung for me;
And deeper shall they run ;
Each river to the brim,
The headless corpse will swim ! Brynbilda! seek another love,
The smoke of many a shepherd's cot But ne'er wed one like me,
Curls from each peopled glen; Who death-foredoomed from above, And, hark! the song of maidens mild, Joys in his destiny."
The shout of joyous men! Thus mourned young Harald as he thought But one may hew the oaken tree, on Brynhilda,
The other shape the shroud: While his eyes filled with tears which As the LANDEYDA O'er the sea glittered, but fell not.
Sweeps like a tempest cloud !"
So shouteth fierce Harald--so echo the “On sweeps Sigurdir's battie-flag,
Northmen, The scourge of far frem shore ; As shoreward their ships like mad steeds It dashes through the seething foam,
are careering, But I return no more! Wedded unto a fatal bride
“ Sigurdir's battle-ilag is spread Boune for a bloody bed
Abroad to the blue sky, And battling for her, side by side,
And spectral visions of the dead Young Harald's doom is sped !
Are trooping grimly by;
The spirit heralds rush before
Of black sieed or grey, Harald's destroying brand,
Though sweitering it gallop They hover o'er yon fated shore
A long summer's day; And death-devoted band.
Which mete forth the lordships Marshal, stout Jarls, your battle fast !
I challenge as mine; And fire each beacon height,
Ha! ha! 'tis the good brand Our galleys anchor in the sound,
I clutch in my strong hand, Our banner heaves in sight!
That can their broad marches And through the surge and arrowy
And numbers define.
LAND Giver ! I kiss thee.
Dull builders of houses,
Base tillers of earth, So cries the Death-doomed on the red Gaping, ask me what lordshipg strand of slaughter,
I own'd at my birth; While the helmets of heroes like anvils But the pale fools wax mute are ringing.
When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,
Wold and waste, town and tower, Nor tide nor tempest ever strove
Hill, valley, and stream, With vengeance half so true.
Trembling, bow to my sway 'Tis Harald—'tis the Sire-bereaved In the fierce battle fray, Wbo goads the dread career,
When the star that rules Fate, is And high amid the flashing storm
This falchion's red gleam. The flag of Doom doth rear.
Might GIVER ! I kiss thee. “ On, on,” the tall Death-seeker cries, “ These earth-worms soil our heel,
I've heard great harps sounding, Their spear-points crash like crisping
In brave bower and hall,
I've drank the sweet music ice, On ribs of stubborn steel!"
That bright lips let fall, Hurra! hurra! their whirlwinds sweep,
I've hunted in greenwood, And Harald's fate is sped;
And heard small birds sing ; Bear on the flag--he goes to sleep
But away with this idle With the life-scorning dead.
And cold jargoning ; Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell
The music I love, is
The shout of the brave, his sires, And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to
The yell of the dying,
The scream of the flying, his spirit!
When this arm wield's Death's sickle, That-we say—is first-rate fight And garners the grave. ing. Cutting and thrusting-stab Joy Giver! I kiss thee. bing and splitting – hewing and cleaving—and all in a spirit of bois. Far isles of the ocean terous revelry, love of fame free Thy lightning have known, - dom and females, pride of land the
And wide o'er the main land birth-place, and of sea the cradle of
Thy horrors have shone. heroes, and to make its passion
Great sword of my father, thick and "slab” as it overboils, the
Stern joy of his hand, lust of blood.
Thou hast carved his name deep on
The stranger's red strand, Now for the “Sword Song," al
And won him the glory ready not a little famous-for we
Of undying song. have heard it chanted by one who
Keen cleaver of gay crests, troubles not his head about poetry,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts, but who clove skull-cap and skull of
Grim slayer of heroes, more than one cuirassier at Water
And courage of the strong. loo.
FAME GIVER ! I kiss thee.
THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 'Tis not the grey hawk's flight
O'er mountain and mere; 'Tis not the fleet hound's course
Tracking the deer; 'Tis not the light hoof print
In a love more abiding
Than that the heart knows,
Than summer's first rose,
And lives but for thee;
In dreamings of gladness,
I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Brave measures of madness
Through mony a weary way: In some battle-field,
But never, never can forget Where armour is ringing,
The luve o' life's young day! And noble blood springing,
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, And cloven, yawn helmet,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule. The smile of a maiden's eye
O dear, dear Jeannie Morrison, Soon may depart;
The thochts o' bygane years And light is the faith of
Still Aing their shadows ower my path, Fair woman's heart;
And blind my een wi' tears : Changeful as light clouds,
They blind my een wi' saut saut tears, And wayward as wind,
And sair and sick I pine, Be the passions that govern
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o'langsyne.
'Twas then we lurit ilk ither weel, When ills wax in number,
'Twas then we twa did part; Thy love will not slumber, But, starlike, burns fiercer,
Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at The darker the night.
Twa bairns, and but ae heart! Heart GLADENER ! I kiss thee.
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear; My kindred have perish'd
And tones, and looks, and smiles were
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cbeek, loof lock'd in Thou wilt rest on my bosom
loof, And with it decay
What our wee heads could think? While harps shall be ringing,
When baith bent doun ower ae braid And Scalds shall be singing
page, The deeds we have done in
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee. The transition is pleasant from Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, storm to calm-80 turn we now to How cheeks brent red wi' shame, the Pathetic—another kind of poetry Whene'er the scule-weans laughin said, in which Motherwell excels. Yea We cleek'd thegither hame?
excels. Wordsworth speaks of And mind ye o' the Saturdays, “ old songs that are the music of the (The scule then skail't at noon), heart," and they overflow Scotland. When we ran aff to speel the braes Some are mirthful--but more are The broomy braes o' June? melancholy--and many so sadairs and all that a sobbing will at My head rins round and round about, times interrupt the voice of the My heart flows like a sea, maiden at her wheel, singing to her. As ane by ane the thochts rush back self
O' scule-time and othee.
Oh, mornin' life ! oh, mornin' luve !
Oh lichtsome days and lang, Motherwell has imbibed the very When hinnied hopes around our hearts soul of such strains as these- nor is Like simmer blossoms sprang! he here inferior-we say it advisedly-to Burns. Has either the Shep- Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left herd or Allan Cuninghame, in their The deavin' dinsome toun, happiest veins, surpassed Mother- To wander by the green burnside, well in his “ Jeanie Morrison ?”
And hear its water's croon?
Tbe simmer leaves hung ower our heads tenderest human sympathies for the
The flowers burst round our feet, Christian sufferer. Lovestronger than And in the gloamin o' the wood,
life, and unchanged while life is dimly The throssil whusslit sweet ;
fading away, possesses the bosom of
the poor forgiving girl, along with pity The throssil whusslit in the wood, for his sake almost overcoming sorrow The burn sang to the trees,
for her own, with keen self-reproach And we with Nature's heart in tune,
and humble penitence for the guilt Concerted harmonies;
into which they two had been beAnd on the knowe abune the burn,
trayed-once too happy in their inFor hours thegither sat
nocence. 'Tis not the voice of comIn the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat.
plaint but of contrition; and through
her trouble there are glimpses of Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
peace. In that anguish we hear the Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
breathings of a pure spirit-pure Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
though frail-and delicate though Had ony power to speak !
fallen-and feel in such ruin how That was a time, a blessed time,
fatal indeed is sin. It is utterly When hearts were fresh and young, mournful. When freely gush'd all feelings forth,
MY HEID IS LIKE TO RCND, WILLIE. Unsyllabled-unsung!
My lieid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to breakI marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, Gin I hae been to thee
I'm dyin' for your sake! As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
Oh lay your cheek to mine, Willie, As ye hae been to me?
Your hand on my briest-bane Oh! tell me gin their music fills
Oh say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!
It's vain to comfurt me, Willie,
Sair grief maun ba'e its will
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me shed by your hair,
I never sall see mair!
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my lifeO dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.
And press it mair and mair-
Sae strang is its despair !
Oh wae's me for the hour, Willie,
· When we thegither metNor are the lines which follow less Oh wae's me for the time, Willie, touching; indeed their sadness is that our first tryst was set ! more profound-and it would be Oh wae's me for the loanin' green almost painful, but for the exqui
Where we were wont to gaesite simplicity of the language. in And wae's me for the destinie, which there is a charm that softens
That gart me luve thee sae ! the “ pathos too severe.” 'Tis an Oh! dinna mind my words, Willie, old story;
I downa seek to blame“ Familiar matter of to-day,
But oh! it's hard to live, Willie, Which has been and will be again;
And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, but never before told more affecting And hailin' ower your chin; ly, or so as to waken more overflow. Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, ingly from their deepest fount all our F or sorrow and for sin ? VOL. XXXIII. NO, CCVII.