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She listened—'twas the wind's low moan,

'Twas the ripple of the wave,
'Twas the wakening ospray's cry alone

As it started from its cave.

“ I know each fearful spell

Of the ancient Runic lay,
Whose mutter'd words compel

The tempest to obey.
But I adjure not thee

By magic sign or song,
My voice shall stir the sea

By love,—the deep, the strong !
By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her

sighs, Come to me from the ocean's dead-by the vows we

pledg’d-arise !"

Again she gaz’d with an eager glance,

Wandering and wildly bright ;-
She saw but the sparkling waters dance

To the arrowy northern light,

“ By the slow and struggling death

Of hope that loath'd to part,
By the fierce and withering breath

Of despair on youth's high heart ;
By the weight of gloom which clings

To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings

Nought lovely to the sight,
By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of

grief and fear, Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise, ap

pear !

Was it her yearning spirit's dream,

Or did a pale form rise,
And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam,

With bright, still, mournful eyes?

“ Have the depths heard they have !

My voice prevails—thou’rt there,
Dim from thy watery grave,

Oh! thou that wert so fair !

Yet take me to thy rest!

There dwells no fear with love ;
Let me slumber on thy breast,

While the billow rolls above!
Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright

ones have their home, We will sleep among the ocean's dead-stay for me,

stay SI come !"

There was a sullen plunge below,

A flashing on the main,
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's wo,

Shut-and grew still again.


Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen
Der überbleibnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zählt keine Nachwelt.


WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,

With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stain'd window shed; The records of thy name and race

Have faded from the stone, Yet, through a cloud of years I trace

What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear

Flung out o'er many a fight,
A war-cry ringing far and clear,

And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance

On for the holy shrine ;
A haughty heart and a kingly glance-

Chief! were not these things thine ?

A lofty place where leaders sate

Around the council-board ; In festive halls a chair of state

When the blood-red wine was pour’d; A name that drew a prouder tone

From herald, harp, and bard; Surely these things were all thine own,

So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman ! whose sculptur'd form at rest

By the arm'd knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o'er a breast
In matron robes array'd ;

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