Nor keener from their castled rock rush eagles on their prey, "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; To lift on high the Runic sign which gives my name to song. 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. "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-stain'd 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 grey stones voiced their praise in the bays of far isles. "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! "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 banner heaves in sight! And through the surge and arrowy shower that rain on this broad shield, Harald uplifts the sign of power which rules the battle-field !” Their spear-points crash like crisping ice on ribs of stubborn steel!" Hurrah! hurrah! their whirlwinds sweep, and Harald's fate is sped; Bear on the flag-he goes to sleep with the life-scorning dead. LXI. THE CLOUD.-Shelley. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor-eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain-crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above; With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof— The triumphal arch through which I march When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain, when, with never a stain And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams the blue dome of air, Build up I silently laugh at my own cenotaph; And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and unbuild it again. LXII.--THE ARAB MAID'S SONG.-Thomas Moore. FLY to the desert! fly with me! Our sands are bare-but, down their slope As gracefully and gaily springs, As o'er the marble courts of kings. Then, come!-thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia-tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless, Oh! there are looks and tones, that dart So came thy every glance and tone, Come!-if the love thou hast for me Is LXIII. THE CHRISTIAN'S HOPE.-Furlong If life thus closed, how dark and drear |