Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

And many a Saga's rhyme,

And legend of the grave,
That shadowy scene and time

Called back, to daunt the brave.

But he raised his arm, and the flame grew dim, And the sword in its light seemed to wave and swim,

And his faltering hand could not grasp it wellFrom the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell

Through the chamber of the dead!

The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound,
And the urn lay shivered in fragments round;
And a rush, as of tempests, quenched the fire,
And the scattered dust of his warlike sire
Was strewn on the Champion's head.

One moment-and all was still
In the slumberer's ancient hall,
When the rock had ceased to thrill
With the mighty weapon's fall.

The stars were just fading, one by one,
The clouds were just tinged by the early sun,
When there streamed through the cavern a torcli's
flame,

And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came
To seck him in the tomb.

Stretched on his shield, like the steel-girt slain
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there,
Bit he wildly woke when the torch's glare
Burst on him through the gloom.

"The morning wind blows free,
And the hour of chase is near:
Come forth, come forth, with me!
What dost thou, Sigurd, here?"

"I have put out the holy sepulchral fire,
I have scattered the dust of my warrior-sire!
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart;
But the winds shall not wander without their part
To strew o'er the restless deep!

"In the mantle of death he was here with me now,There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow;

And nis cold still glance on my spirit fell
With an icy ray and a withering spell-
Oh! chill is the house of sleep!"

"The morning wind blows free,

And the reddening sun shines clear;

Come forth, come forth, with me! It is dark and fearful here!"

"He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown. But gone from his head is the kingly crown, The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand,

They have chased him far from the glorious land Where the feast of the gods is spread!

"He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed! His place is no longer at Odin's board,

He is driven from Volhalla without his sword!
But the slayer shall avenge the dead!”

That sword its fame had won
By the fall of many a crest,
But its fiercest work was done
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast!

VALKYRIUR SONG.

The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, were supposed to single out the warriors who were to die in battle, and be received into the halls of Odin.

When a Northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obsequic were honoured with all possible magnificence. His arms, gold

and silver, war-horse, domestic attendants, and whatever else he held most dear, were placed with him on the pile. His dependants and friends frequently made it a point of honour to die with their leader, in order to attend on his shade in Valhalla, or the Palace of Odin. And lastly, his wife was generally consumed with him on the same pile. See Mallet's Northern Antiquities, Herbert's Hegla, &c. Tremblingly flashed th' inconstant meteor light, Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth, Save that all signs of human joy or grief, The flush of passion, smile or tear, had scemed On the fixed brightness of each dazzling cheek Strange and unnatural

Milman.

THE Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep
Of a vision-haunted night,

And he looked from his bark o'er the gloomy deep,
And counted the streaks of light;

For the red sun's earliest ray

Was to rouse his bands that day, To the stormy joy of fight!

But the dreams of rest were still on earth,
And the silent stars on high,

And there waved not the smoke of one cabinhearth

'Midst the quiet of the sky;

And along the twilight bay

In their sleep the hamlets lay,

For they knew not the norse were nigh!

The Sea-king looked o'er the brooding wave:

He turned to the dusky shore,

There was arming heard on land and wave, When afar the sunlight spread,

And there seemed, through the arch of a tide- And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave

worn cave,

A gleam, as of snow, to pour;
And forth, in watery light,
Moved phantoms, dimly white,
Which the garb of woman bore.

Slowly they moved to the billow side;
And the forms, as they grew more clear,
Seemed each on a tall pale steed to ride
And a shadowy crest to rear,

And to beckon with faint hand
From the dark and rocky strand,
And to point a gleaming spear.

Then a stillness on his spirit fell,

Before th' unearthly train,

For he knew Valhalla's daughters well,
The choosers of the slain!

And a sudden rising breeze
Bore across the moaning seas
To his ear their thrilling strain:

"There are songs in Odin's Hall,
For the brave, e'er night to fall!
Doth the great sun hide his ray ?—
He must bring a wrathful day!
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath?-
Swords must do the work of death!
Regner!-sea-king!-thee we call!—
There is joy in Odin's Hall.

"At the feast and in the song,
Thou shalt be remembered long!
By the green isles of the flood
Thou hast left thy track in blood!
On the earth and on the sea,
There are those will speak of thee!
'Tis enough—the war-gods call—
There is mead in Odin's Hall!
"Regner! tell thy fair-haired bride
She must slumber at thy side!
Tell the brother of thy breast
Even for him thy grave hath rest!
Tell the raven-steed which bore thee,
When the wild wolf fled before thee,
He too with his lord must fall-
There is room in Odin's Hall!

"Lo! the mighty sun looks forth-
Arm! thou leader of the north!
Lo! the mists of twilight fly—
We must vanish, thou must die!
By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows not fear
Sea-king! nobly shalt thou fall!-
There is joy in Odin's Hall!"

With the mists of morning fled.

But at eve, the kingly hand Of the battle-axe and brand, Lay cold on a pile of dead!

THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS.

SWISS TRADITION.

The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells; and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of the land. See Quarterly Review, No. 44. The Grütli, where the confederates held their nightly meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerna, or Lake of the Forest-cantons, here called the Forest-sea.

OH! enter not yon shadowy cave,

Seek not the bright stars there,
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave,
With freshness fill the air:

For there the Patriot Three,
In the garb of old arrayed,
By their native Forest-sea
On a rocky couch are laid

The Patriot Three that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,

And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore,
In the name of liberty!

Now silently they sleep

Amidst the hills they freed;
But their rest is only deep,

Till their country's hour of need.

They start not at the hunter's call,
Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by!.

And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To a Switzer's heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.

But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagle's lonely sky;

When spear-heads light the lakes,
When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier's mute repose.

When Uri's beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet's light;
Then from the cavern of the dead,
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap, like Tell's proud leap,
When away the helm he flung,*
And boldly up the steep

From the flashing billow sprung!
They shall wake beside their Forest-sea,

In the ancient garb they wore

When they linked the hands that made us.free,
On the Grütli's moonlight shore:

And their voices shall be heard,
And be answered with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirred,
And the signal-fires blaze out.

And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day,
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morganten dell,
And the crowned casques,† o'erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!

For the Kühreihen'st notes must never sound

In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain!

And the yellow harvest wave

For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!

SWISS SONG,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.

The Swiss, even to our days have continued to celebrate the anniversary of ancient battles with much solemnity; assem bling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the departed

See Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.

LOOK on the white Alps round!

If yet they gird a land

Where freedom's voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,

•The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the T'ellensprung. Crowned helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond's Switzerland.

The Kuhreihen, the celebrated Rans des Vaches.

The faithful band, our sires, who fell

Here, in the narrow battle-dell!

If yet, the wilds among,

Our silent hearts may burn,

When the deep mountain-horn had rung, And home our steps may turn, -Home-home!-if still that name be dear Praise to the men who perished here!

Look on the white Alps round!

Up to the shining snows
That day the stormy rolling sound,

The sound of battle rose!
Their caves prolonged the trumpet's blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it passed!

They saw the princely crest,

They saw the knightly spear
The banner and the mail-clad breast
Borne down, and trampled here!
They saw-and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!

Praise to the mountain-born,

The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel-array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field
To break an empire's lance and shield!

Look on the white Alps round
If yet, along their steeps,
Our children's fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps:

Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!

If, by the wood-fire's blaze,

When winter-stars gleam cold, The glorious tales of elder days May proudly yet be told, Forget not then the shepherd-race, Who made the hearth a holy place!

Look on the white Alps round!

If yet the sabbath bell

Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound,
Think on the battle-dell!

For blood first bathed its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!

THE MESSENGER-BIRD.

Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world. See Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs.

THOU art come from the spirits' land, thou bird! Thou art come from the spirits' land!

[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small]
« ForrigeFortsæt »