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not various; 'tis the poetry of passion Shall bear the scroll of doom ?
So shout the Scalds, as the long ships sion dwells on what it heaps up,
are nearing rejoicing as it accumulates, even as The low-lying shores of a beautiful land, in battle the hero piles up slaughter, but notes them not curiously, though
Silent the Self-devoted stood
Beside the massive tree;
His image mirror'd in the flood
Was terrible to see !
As leaning on his gleaming axe,
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;
The lips of song burst open, and
The words of fire rushed out,
And thundering through that martial 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 !
On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste,
Beneath a starless sky,
The Shadowy Three like meteors
They sang the war-deeds of bis sires,
And pointed to their tomb;
They told him that this glory-ilag
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 ?
Harald's high blood bath sprung
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 this 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
“ Green lie those thickly timbered
shores The Self-devoted, long To lift on high the Runic sign
Fair sloping to the sea; Which gives my name to song.
They're cumbered with the harvest
stores In battle-field young Harald falls 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 lord This Runic scroll shall flare,
Who's master of the field; And round it shall the lightnings
Let them come on, the bastard.born, spread,
Each soil-stain'd churle !-alack ! 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 wake
their glory, 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, Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair,
Glance redly in the sun, Pale watcher by the sea,
But ruddier still they're doom'd to I hear thy wailings on the air,
glow, Thy beart's dirge sung for me;
And deeper shall they run ; In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung The torrent of proud life shall swell Above the salt sea foam ;
Each river to the brim, The wave that bears me from thy bower, And in that spate of blood, how well Shall never bear me home;
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, lark! the song of maidens mild, Joys in his destiny."
The shout of joyous men! Thus mourned young Harald as he thought But one may liew 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-flag is spread Boune for a bloody bed
Abroad to the blue sky,
Are trooping grimly by;
The spirit heralds rush before
Of black steed or grey, Harald's destroying brand,
Though sweltering 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. shower
LAND Giyer ! I kiss thee.
Dull builders of houses,
Base tillers of earth, So cries the Death-doomed on the red Gaping, ask me what lordships 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, On rolled the Northmen's war, above Shouting, “ There am I Lord!" The Raven Standard flew,
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,
I've heard great harps sounding, " These earth-worms soil our heel,
In brave bower and hall, Their spear-points crash like crisping
I've drank the sweet music ice, On ribs of stubborn steel !"
That bright lips let fall,
I've hunted in greenwood,
And heard small birds sing ;
But away with this idle
And cold jargoning ; With the life-scorning dead.
The music I love, is Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell
The shout of the brave, his sires,
The yell of the dying, And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to
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
Far isles of the ocean cleaving—and all in a spirit of bois. terous revelry, love of fame free- Thy lightning have known,
And wide o'er the main land dom and females, pride of land the 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,
Thou hast carved his name deep on lust of blood.
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
Tban that the beart knows,
Than summer's first rose,
And lives but for thee;
In dreamings of gladness,
JEANNIE MORRISON, Thou’rt dancing with me,
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; Stout hauberk and shield.
But blacker fa' awaits the heart Death GIVER ! I kiss thee.
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 Aling 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, Be the passions that govern
And sair and sick I pine, Weak woman's mind.
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o'langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, When ills wax in number,
'Twas then we twa did art; Thy love will not slumber,
Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at But, starlike, burns fiercer, The darker the night.
scule, HEART GLADENER ! I kiss thee.
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were By war or by wave
shed, Now, childless and sireless,
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, 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 bave 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
gither hame? excels. Wordsworth speaks of And mind ye oʻthe 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. “ Of sorrows suffer'd long ago."
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luye !
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?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads tenderest human sympathies for the
The flowers burst round our feet, Christian sufferer. Lovestrongerthan 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 sakealmost 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, For hours thegither sat
trayed-once too happy in their in
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 cheel,
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 heid 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-baneOh! 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 ha'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 For sorrow and for sin ?
VOL. XXXIII. NO, CCVII.