Works of the Hon. and Very Rev. William Herbert :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twere sweet to lie on desert land,
Or where some lone and barren strand
Hears the Pacific waters roll,
And views the stars of Southern pole!
'Twere best to live where forests spread
Beyond fell man's deceitful tread,
Where hills on hills proud rising tower,
And native groves each wild embower,
Whose rocks but echo to the howl
Of wandering beast or clang of fowl!
The eagle there may strike and slay;
The tiger spring upon his prey;
The kayman watch in sedgy pool
The tribes that glide through waters cool;
The tender nestlings of the brake
May feed the slily coiling snake:
And the small worm or insect weak
May quiver in the warbler's beak:
All there at least their foes discern,
And each his prey may seize in turn.
But man, when passions fire the soul,
And reason stoops to love's control,
Deceitful deals the murderous blow
Alike on trustiest friend or foe:
And oft the venom'd hand of hate
Points not the bitterest shaft of fate:

But faithless friendship's secret fang
Tears the fond heart with keener pang,
And love demented weaves a spell
More dreadful than the pains of Hell.

From the red fields of distant fray
Fierce Orvarod homeward bent his way;
Fierce Orvarod, flush'd with glory's tide,
Sweden's strong bulwark and her pride.
E'en as he reach'd the frontier bound,
And set his foot to Swedish ground,
His ear had caught the rumor rife
Of outrage past and coming strife.
His men some smoother path might read;
He through the forest prick'd his steed,
Resolved with speedy arm to lend
Meet succour to his fere and friend.
Behind his brawny shoulders flung
The rattling bow and quiver hung;
Sure marksman he; the whizzing breath
Of every shaft was wing'd with death.
His face was gallant, open, free;
His heart was blithe, and bold his glee,
But nothing courteous: his delight
Death's iron field and bloodiest fight;
His was the soul of martial fire,
And thirst of fame his sole desire:
In honor firm, in friendship true,
His generous heart no hatred knew;
Though proud to strike, as proud to show
Fair mercy to the vanquish'd foe.
Women he scorn'd, and deem'd them toys
To charm the sense with transient joys,

To valor's worth a paltry boon,
Easy to win, forsaken soon;
And faithful love he call'd the dream
Of tender fools, an idle theme:
Shortlived he held the lover's pain,
And every fair one light and vain.
With gallant bearing now in haste
He trod the rough and trackless waste.
His cheek was flush'd with ruddy hue,
His crest was wet with morning dew,
As deck'd with foreign spoils he hied
To Sweden's court in warlike pride.
Sudden the loud applauding cries,
“Orvarod! Orvarod!” shook the skies;
And grateful to king Ingva's ear
Came the glad murmurs rising near;
For heaviest cares his heart oppress'd,
And deep the troubles of his breast.
Foremost in strength and beauty's pride
Stands Asbiorn by his comrade's side,
Hails his return to Swedish land,
And greets him with a brother's hand.

To balmy health at length restored,
Again the youth had girt his sword;
But, O! too late in Helga's cause
The flaming weapon now he draws.
Hialmar claims the high emprise,
And his by right the promised prize.
What conflict tears young Asbiorn's heart!
How act the friend's and lover's part!
Bound to Hialmar's warlike fate
By all that makes man good and great,

By generous friendship's holiest ties,
By that pure bond which never dies!
Say, shall the tyrant Love prevail,
And honor's voice and virtue fail?
Or sober reason's just control
Calm the hot passion of the soul?
By turns to either part inclined
Swells the strong tide of Asbiorn's mind:
Restless, at length the court he seeks,
And thus the fiery warrior speaks.

“Say, Prince, are Helga's matchless charms
“A boon too bright for Asbiorn's arms?
“Or does proud Sweden's haughty throne
“The service of those arms disown?
“Have not my banners floated wide
“To guard her coasts on either tide?
“Have I not roused from eyrie high
“The watchful eagle's ravening cry,
“And hewn in fight the gory food
“For Finnish wolves, a famish'd brood?
“Whatever deeds Hialmar dared,
“Asbiorn's firm breast the peril shared.
“He gains alone reward on earth,
“He reaps the harvest of his worth;
“While I, thus wedded to despair,
“The barren yoke of glory bear.
“Where bends he now his heedless way?
“Where does the loitering wanderer stray?
“Already fierce Angantyr's hand

I have used the name of Gete for the aboriginal inhabitants of the North before the irruption of Odin and his followers. They were men of larger stature than the Asiatic tribes which accompanied him, and were called Jotner and Jæter. Without entering into the question whether the Getæ were of the same race with the northern Jotuns or Jæts, the similarity of the name appears to warrant its application.

“Wields the stout mace and waves the brand:
“O grant that Asbiorn may sustain
“The shock of that insulting Daue!

“Return'd, by deeds of prowess tried,
“Which best deserves let worth decide!
“Whether in feats of strength and skill
“Mid peaceful vales and sylvan hill,
“Or whether thou shalt bid to meet
“Midst cavern'd rocks the giant Gete,
“Or fiery-tressed Celts that brave
“On beaked prow the northern wave.
“Then, if my faltering bosom quail,
“Let bold Hialmar's claim prevail!”

To him King Ingva firm replied:
“Thy worth, high chief, has long been tried;
“Nor lives there in the rolls of fame
“A fairer or a brighter name.
“But, though approved in hour of need
“Thy might deserves our richest meed,
“The word of Kings once duly given
“Is sacred as the voice of heaven.
“In him, whate'er his steps detain,
“We trust; nor shall that trust be vain.
“We charge thee by our high command
“Here to abide and ward our land,
“'Gainst foreign inroad, and the blow
“Of sudden unsuspected foe.
“With him shall Orvarod hoist his sail,

The inhabitants of the North had much communication with the South of Europe. Gardarike, or Garda kingdom, was a part of Russia which is very frequently mentioned in the northern writings. Austurvega is the old Scandinavian name for another portion of Russia It appears that Odin and his successors kept up a communication with the Asi, from whom they were descended, on the banks of the Tanais. Harald the Hardy, who was king of Norway, at a later period, after dwelling some time at the court of Jarisleif, king of Gardarike, proceeded to Constantinople, where he served with reputation in the imperial army, and carried his victorious arms into Sicily. But at a much earlier period the northern nations had much intercourse with Italy. Gudruna, the beautiful widow of Sigurd Sigmundson, who is so celebrated in the ancient northern writings and was murdered at the instigation of Brynhilda, was afterwards married to Attila, king of the Huns; and Thidrek or Theodoric, duke of Verona or Bern, Rodingeir, margrave of Bakalar, probably Basle, on the Rhine, and Rodgeir, earl of Salernum, are very much celebrated in Niflunga Saga, which relates the history of Sigurd and Brynhilda, the subsequent marriage of Gudruna with Attila, and the slaughter of her brothers who were killed by her perfidy at the court of Attila to gratify her revenge for the part they had borne in the murder of Sigurd. Concerning the identity of Sigurd and Attila, and the connexion between old Danish history and that of the Huns, the reader is referred to “Attila and his predecessors.”

“And Heaven forefend their arms should fail!”

He ceased; proud Asbiorn knit his brow,
Nor deign'd before his prince to bow:
But Orvarod laugh'd and mock'd his pain,
And bade him to the waves complain,
Sing some lone ditty on the strand,
Or woo a bride from foreign land;

Told him of many a melting fair
In soft Sicilia's southern air,
And many a nymph with sparkling eyes
Where Gardariké's mountains rise,
And amorous dames and willing maids
In distant Asia's spicy shades.
In vain; he turns with lowering eye;
He hears not, deigns not to reply:
But forth with folded arms he goes
A man of wrath and sullen woes;
His heart, no longer light and gay,
Owns a dread Power's imperious sway;
Wild jealous thoughts and fierce desires
Prevail, and love's resistless fires.
His was a wayward soul, design'd
Extremes of mirth and grief to find.
When flattering pleasure buoy'd his mind,
And beauty smiled, and love was kind,
No lark so blithe that sings in air
While suns are bright and skies are fair;
But, cross'd by fate in luckless hour,
More dark than blackest storms that lower.
In love impetuous and hot,
High swell'd the pang, but soon forgot.
Ardent in friendship, but too light
To hold the reins of honor tight.
Whate'er of vice obscured his mind,
Was passion's gust, not guilt design'd;
But, as he moved in honor's ray,
High pride, not virtue, led the way.
Still he had trod the paths of fame,
Panting to earn a deathless name;

While keen ambition fired his soul,
Romantic thoughts without control,
The flame of unrestrain'd desire,
Quick-kindled wrath and baleful ire.
His shape was symmetry and grace,
And finely form'd his manly face.
His eye was fire itself, so glowing,
So on each feature life bestowing;
There was a frankness in its beam,
Which, ere it ask'd, had gain'd esteem;
And in his lip's love-lighted smile
All charms that can a maid beguile.
Alas! that passion's cloud should e'er
Obscure a form so nobly fair!
His limbs were nimbler than the fawn,
That bounds o'er brake and level lawn;
And even from his childish days
Mid rural sports he won the praise.
His strength had oft in fight been tried,
His valor with the bravest vied;
In field of strife or peaceful dell,
Might youthful Asbiorn all excel;
Boldest to stem the battle's tide;
Swiftest through perilous pass to ride;
Blithest with maiden fair to carp;
And, when it list him strike the harp,
There was a wildness in his lay
That almost witch'd the sense away;
For he had learnt each peaceful art,
That charms the ear or sways the heart,
And often, stretch'd beneath the bower
Of shadowy woods in sultry hour,

He sweetly waked the mellow horn,
Or caroll'd like a bird of morn.
And bold his song; though Helga's form
Alike must every bosom warm,
He, only he, had pour'd the strain
Of rapturous love, and dared complain:
His fancy roved through dreams of bliss,
And boldly call'd that treasure his.
And oft his youth's unruly tide
Had ruffled Ingva's stately pride;
But still he bore a witching charm
That saved him from disgrace and harm.
Now o'er his proud desponding soul
Stern anger reign'd, and hopeless dole.
How shall he calm the pang of love,
Whose turbid thoughts resistless move?
How shall impetuous passion's child
Now check the stream of wishes wild?
With downcast brow, and face of wo
Sullen and fierce behold him go!
O how unlike that sprightly boy,
Whose eyes were mirth, whose looks were joy!
To that deep woodland lies his road,
Of mournful thoughts the dark abode,
Where oft he whiled the hours away,
Warbling some strange romantic lay,
Of castles storm'd by torches' light,
Of maidens rapt on bridal night,
Of frantic tears and wild delight.
O shall yon forest's silent gloom
Calm his harsh mind and soothe his doom?
Or is its lonely still retreat
Fitting dread thoughts and dark deceit?

Hear'st thou a voice cry, “Asbiorn, stay!
“Danger besets thy moody way!”
Stay, Asbiorn, stay! nor tread the path
To yon thick shades, while big with wrath!
Where in deep nook or rocky cell
Foul powers and tempting spirits dwell:
For innocence is bliss below,
Fair virtue's shield, the balm of wo.
Who wanders there with gentle mind
Will nought but soothing fancies find,
Sweet dales by peaceful shades imbrown'd,
And glens with tangled coppice crown'd;
But seek not thou the shadowy bower
While anger reigns and fiends have power!
Sell not for pleasure's transient joy
Pure sweets which Guilt's foul hands destroy,
The gem of youth, the untouch'd bloom
Of life, exhaling fresh perfume!
Ah me! he wists not where to turn;
Haughty and high his passions burn.
Unseen he seeks yon hoary tower;
He roams by Helga's mournful bower;
Mid the deep forest's lonely gloom
Where sad she sits and plies the loom,
Weaving with many a golden thread
The stories of the honor'd dead.
And now she lifts her pallid cheek,
Gazing with visage mild and meek.
She speaks not, but her languid eye
Seems wrapt in thoughtful ecstacy,
While in her heart love still supreme
Reigns like a visionary dream.

Its shadowy colors deep impress'd
Tinge each wild fancy of her breast;
She thinks her faith was pledged in heaven,
She deems her hand in marriage given;
But pledged to whom, or how, or where,
Weak reason may not well declare.
The images of past delight
Have fleeted from her troubled sight,
And left no perfect form behind
On the dim mirror of the mind:
But anguish for her absent lord
Breathes in each desultory word.
She thinks the spirits of the wold
Him in fell durance fiercely hold,
His beauteous limbs by torture strain'd
On cold obdurate granite chain'd,
Or scorch'd by subterraneous fire
That gleams through caverns dark and dire.
Her fancy hears his spirit wail,
His moan upon the dying gale;
But still she deems some friendly power
Will loose his chains in happier hour,
And lead the warrior's manly charms
To his lone bride's expecting arms:
On future bliss her hopes rely,
And a smile lights the mourner's eye.
The maid her father's court had left
To linger here of joy bereft,
Lonely and strange, and feed her mind
With phantasies of saddest kind.
The king, in pity for her grief
To give her secret wo relief,

Had warn'd that no intrusive eye
Should steal upon her privacy.
Here oft the lovely mourner staid
Till the deep close of evening shade;
Here oft in solitary bower
Wasted the tedious nightly hour.
And now her parting lips unclose,
Warbling the tale of fancied woes;
While the dark frowning rocks around
Pour the wild echo's plaintive sound.
The sweet and melancholy strain
Steals slowly over hill and plain;
It mourns upon the passing gale,
It winds along the narrow vale,
And now it strikes the listening ear
Of Asbiorn rashly stealing near.

“Beturn, my love, return and see
“The bridal couch is spread for thee!
“For thee reserved the tender kiss,
“The melting pledge of promised bliss!
“For thee my willing hands entwine
“The blushing rose and chaste woodbine,
“The violet and primrose pale,
“The modest lily of the vale!
“Wild flowers around my bower are growing,
“And strains of sweetest music flowing;
“Return, my love, return and see
“The bridal couch is spread for thee!

“O place me by some rippling stream,
“Where I may softly sleep and dream!
“And let my airy harp be laid
“Under the willow's mournful shade;

“That every breeze which summer brings,
“Sweeping its sweet accordant strings,

The word Elf has been generally applied in the English language to malicious spirits; but the Elves or Alfar of the North were of two sorts, the dark Elves, who dwelt under ground, and the Liosalfar, or radiant Elves, who were benevolent beings, and looked upon as secondary divinities, in amity with Odin and his followers.

“May some wild strain of music borrow,
“And waft the tenderest notes of sorrow:
“Return, my love, return and see
“The bridal couch is spread for thee!

“Cold is the bed where Helga lies,
“And chaste and true thine Helga dies.
“On her pale cheek the dews descend,
“And cypress boughs around her bend;
“The weeping Elves shall strew her grave
“Beside the slowly gliding wave.
“Then, ere beneath the mournful willow
“The damp earth be thine Helga's pillow,
“Return, my love, return and see
“The bridal couch is spread for thee!”

Young Asbiorn paused; and, as his ear
Drank the sweet strain that floated clear
On Eve's calm wing, his pensive eye
Seem'd lit by sudden witchery:
While love, imperious, unrestrain'd,
In his hot pulse and sinews reign'd,
And something fiercer than despair
To hear his friend her only care,
And that joy-kindling voice, that bade
His rival to her lonely shade.
The warrior from his steed has bounded;
Beneath his tread the steps have sounded;
And he has reach'd the yirgin bower
Of that sad maid in luckless hour;
And soon he placed him by her side,
And named her as his wedded bride,

And whisper'd much of faith and truth,
Of promised joys and meeting youth.
To momentary bliss betray'd,
She smiled, and wept, and doubtful pray'd,
Then glanced her wild enquiring eye,
And her breast heaved a piteous sigh;
A mist before her sight was spread,
And the faint sparks of reason fled.
The gazing look could not discern,
Nor the bewilder'd memory learn,
Whether in truth her honor'd lord
Return'd to claim her plighted word,
Or whether warrior strange and rude,
Breathing deceit, had dared intrude.
Her mantling blushes kindled bright,
And straight her cheek was wan and white.
She stirr'd not, but her hurried glance
Show'd life was in the speechless trance;
Then with a shriek, that seem'd to break
Life's tenement so frail and weak,
She, starting wildly from her seat,
Fell senseless at the warrior's feet.

If there are kindred spirits sent
By Heaven upon man's welfare bent,
With him his mortal race to run,
Their web of fate together spun;
If there are guardian powers on earth
That tend the helpless infant's birth,
And close beside him tread unseen
Through life's dark ways and varied scene,
To guide aright his erring will,
And wrestle with the powers of ill;

O, some pure form its arm extend,
And o'er the form of Helga bend!
The chaste disorder'd robe compose,
Whose ruffled folds her charms disclose!
Nor let unhallow'd thoughts assail
The beauties hid by modest veil!

Fame saith not whether Helga lay
In speechless trance till morning's ray;
For twilight's gloom was gathering fast,
The day's last beam was quickly past,
And the dark mantle of the night
Closed on the warrior's rapturous sight:
But the sun lit the forest tall
Long ere he reach'd King Ingva's hall.

END OF CANTO V.