I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen

A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in;

But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie,

And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.

I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing,

But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring;

I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be,

Syne for every loop that I cast on, I'm sure to let doun three.

Who shoreward through the swelling surge
Shall bear the scroll of doom?

So shout the Scalds, as the long ships are nearing

The low-lying shores of a beautiful land.

III.

Silent the Self-devoted stood
Beside the massive tree;

His image mirrored in the flood
Was terrible to see!

As leaning on his gleaming axe,
And gazing on the wave,

His fearless soul was churning up
The death-rune of the brave.
Upheaving then his giant form
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 crew
Pealed Harald's battle-shout;-

It is Harald the Dauntless that lifteth his great

voice,

"Mine own death's in this clenched hand;

I know the noble trust;

These limbs must rot on yonder strand,

These lips must lick its dust;

But shall this dusky standard quail

In the red slaughter-day;

Or shall this heart its purpose fail—

This arm forget to slay?

I trample down such idle doubt;
Harald's high blood hath sprung
From sires whose hands in martial bout
Have ne'er belied their tongue;

Nor keener from their castled rock
Rush eagles on their prey,

Than, panting for the battle-shock,
Young Harald leads the way!"

It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty,
Pours forth his big soul to the joyance of herocs.

41

VI.

"The ship-borne warriors of the North,
The sons of Woden's race,

To battle as to feast go forth,

With stern and changeless face;

And I, the last of a great line,

The Self-devoted, long

To lift on high the Runic sign
Which gives my name to song.
In battle-field young Harald falls
Amid a slaughtered foe,

But backward never bears his flag,
While streams to oceans flow;-
On, on above the crowded dead
This Runic scroll shall flare,

And round it shall the lightnings spread,
From swords that never spare!"

So rush the hero-words from the death-doomed one,

While Scalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.

IX.

"Green lie those thickly-timbered shores
Fair sloping to the sea;

They're cumbered with the harvest stores
That wave but for the free;

Our sickle is the gleaming sword,
Our garner the broad shield-
Let peasants sow, but still he's lord
Who's master of the field;

Let them come on, the bastard-born,
Each soil-stained churl!-alack!
What gain they but a splitten skull,
A sod for their base back?

They sow for us these goodly lands,.
We reap them in our might,
Scorning all title but the brands

That triumph in the fight!"

It was thus the land-winners of old gained their

glory,

And gray stones voiced their praise in the bays of far isles.

VII.

Flag! from your folds, and fiercely wake
War-music on the wind,

Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake
The sternness of my mind;

Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair,

Pale watcher by the sea,

I hear thy wailings on the air,
Thy heart's dirge sung for me :-

In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung
Above the salt-sea foam;

The wave that bears me from thy bower
Shall never bear me home;
Brynhilda! seek another love,

But ne'er wed one like me,

Who, death foredoomèd from above,
Joys in bis destiny."

Thus mourned young Harald as he thought on

X.

"The rivers of yon island low
Glance redly in the sun,

But ruddier still they're doomed to glow,
And deeper shall they run;

The torrent of proud life shall swell

Each river to the brim,

And in that spate of blood, how well
The headless corpse will swim!
The smoke of many a shepherd's cot
Curls from each peopled glen:

And, hark! the song of maidens mild,
The shout of joyous men!

But one may hew the oaken-tree,
The other shape the shroud;

As the LANDEYDA o'er the sea

Sweeps like a tempest cloud!”

So shouteth fierce Harald-so echo the North

VIII.

"On sweeps Sigurdir's battle-flag,
The scourge of far from shore;

It dashes through the seething foam,
But I return no more!

Wedded unto a fatal bride-
Boune for a bloody bed-

And battling for her, side by side,
Young Harald's doom is sped!

In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp
Reel headlong to the grave,

There Harald's axe shall ponderous ring,
There Sigurd's flag shall wave;-
Yes, underneath this standard tall,
Beside this fateful scroll,

Down shall the tower-like prison fall

Of Harald's haughty soul."

XI.

"Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread
Abroad to the blue sky,

And spectral visions of the dead
Are trooping grimly by;
The spirit-heralds rush before
Harald's destroying brand,
They hover o'er yon fated shore

And death-devoted band.

Marshal stout Jarls your battle fast!
And fire each beacon height,

Our galleys anchor in the sound,

Our banners heave in sight!

And through the surge and arrowy shower

That rains on this broad shield,

Harald uplifts the sign of power

Which rules the battle-field?"

Dull builders of houses,

Base tillers of earth,

Gaping, ask me what lordships
I owned at my birth;
But the pale fools wax mute
When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,

Shouting, "There am I lord!"
Wold and waste, town and tower,
Hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway
In the fierce battle-fray,
When the star that rules Fate is
This falchion's red gleam.
MIGHT-GIVER! I kiss thee.

I've heard great harps sounding,
In brave bower and hall,
I've drank the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,
I've hunted in greenwood,

And heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle

And cold jargoning; The music I love is

The shout of the brave, The yell of the dying, The scream of the flying, When this arm wields death's sickle, And garners the grave. JOY-GIVER! I kiss thee.

Far isles of the ocean

Thy lightning have known,
And wide o'er the mainland
Thy horrors have shone.
Great sword of my father,
Stern joy of his hand,

Thou hast carved his name deep on
The stranger's red strand,
And won him the glory

Of undying song.

Keen cleaver of gay crests, Sharp piercer of broad breasts, Grim slayer of heroes,

And scourge of the strong. FAME-GIVER! I kiss thee.

In a love more abiding

Than that the heart knows For maiden more lovely

Than summer's first rose, My heart's knit to thine,

And lives but for thee; In dreamings of gladness, Thou'rt dancing with me Brave measures of madness In some battle-field, Where armor is ringing, And noble blood springing, And cloven, yawn helmet,

Stout hauberk, and shield. DEATH-GIVER! I kiss thee.

The smile of a maiden's eye
Soon may depart;
And light is the faith of
Fair woman's heart;
Changeful as light clouds,
And wayward as wind,
Be the passions that govern
Weak woman's mind.
But thy metal's as true

As its polish is bright;
When ills wax in number,
Thy love will not slumber,
But, starlike, burns fiercer,

The darker the night. HEART-GLADDENER! I kiss thee.

My kindred have perished
By war or by wave-
Now, childless and sireless,
I long for the grave.
When the path of our glory
Is shadowed in death,
With me thou wilt slumber

Below the brown heath;
Thou wilt rest on my bosom,
And with it decay-
While harps shall be ringing,
And Scalds shall be singing
The deeds we have done in
Our old fearless day.
SONG-GIVER! I kiss thee.