Poems (1806) | ||
21
PART OF THE EPICEDIUM OF REGNER LODBROG, TRANSLATED.
‘What's surer to the warrior brave,
‘Than to meet death's grisly form—
‘Though he seem to mock the grave,
‘Firm amidst the battle's storm?
‘Than to meet death's grisly form—
‘Though he seem to mock the grave,
‘Firm amidst the battle's storm?
‘He alone in sorrow dies,
‘Who hath never felt a pang!
‘Lo, where pale the dastard flies,
‘Eagles stretch the bloody fang.
‘Who hath never felt a pang!
‘Lo, where pale the dastard flies,
‘Eagles stretch the bloody fang.
‘Life its lingering light in vain
‘To the coward soul affords;
‘While he dreads the carnag'd plain,
‘Trembling at the sport of swords.
‘To the coward soul affords;
‘While he dreads the carnag'd plain,
‘Trembling at the sport of swords.
‘Fairly match'd to battle go:
‘This is glorious—this is great!
‘Striplings, deal the mutual blow,
‘Nor let man from man retreat.
‘This is glorious—this is great!
‘Striplings, deal the mutual blow,
‘Nor let man from man retreat.
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‘Long was this the warrior's fame—
‘Foremost in the roar of arms!
‘'Till such valour marks thy name,
‘ Claim not thou the virgin's charms!
‘Foremost in the roar of arms!
‘'Till such valour marks thy name,
‘ Claim not thou the virgin's charms!
‘Led by destiny, we fight;
‘And, if fate our being bound,
‘Seldom 'tis in mortal might
‘To o'erstep the iron mound.
‘And, if fate our being bound,
‘Seldom 'tis in mortal might
‘To o'erstep the iron mound.
‘Little did my heart forebode
‘Ella's power to take my life,
‘On the day when vengeance glow'd,
‘Snuffing wild the hostile strife;
‘Ella's power to take my life,
‘On the day when vengeance glow'd,
‘Snuffing wild the hostile strife;
‘Fainting when I cover'd o'er
‘Torrents of my fever'd blood;
‘And, in haste, from off the shore
‘Push'd my bark into the flood.
‘Torrents of my fever'd blood;
‘And, in haste, from off the shore
‘Push'd my bark into the flood.
‘Then, on every Scottish bay,
‘All in triumph, had we spread
‘The repast for beasts of prey
‘Gorg'd with bodies of the dead.
‘All in triumph, had we spread
‘The repast for beasts of prey
‘Gorg'd with bodies of the dead.
27
‘Yet I glory!—yet I laugh!
‘Since I know, while now I fall,
‘With my comrades I shall quaff
‘Mantling ale in Balder's hall.
‘Since I know, while now I fall,
‘With my comrades I shall quaff
‘Mantling ale in Balder's hall.
‘Yes! on many a festal bench—
‘Yes! our joys shall then be full,
‘When our thirst we shouting quench
‘From the Foeman's hollow skull.
‘Yes! our joys shall then be full,
‘When our thirst we shouting quench
‘From the Foeman's hollow skull.
‘Courage never drooping there
‘Groan'd at death, in Odin's dome!
‘Nor with accents of despair
‘To the destin'd hall I come.
‘Groan'd at death, in Odin's dome!
‘Nor with accents of despair
‘To the destin'd hall I come.
‘Now would all Aslauga's race
‘Rush to battle, red with ire,
‘Could they see their father's face;
‘Could they see their writhing sire.
‘Rush to battle, red with ire,
‘Could they see their father's face;
‘Could they see their writhing sire.
‘To my sons a nurse I've giv'n,
‘Who with valour fill'd their heart—
‘Ah! I feel my body riv'n!
‘Ah! I feel the venom'd smart!
‘Who with valour fill'd their heart—
‘Ah! I feel my body riv'n!
‘Ah! I feel the venom'd smart!
‘Many a viper tears my limbs;
‘Lo! I hurry to my end!
‘Dim in death, each eye-ball swims—
‘Snakes my inmost bosom rend!
‘Lo! I hurry to my end!
‘Dim in death, each eye-ball swims—
‘Snakes my inmost bosom rend!
28
‘Yet, I trust, my sons will drench
‘Swift their spears in Ella's breast,
‘From his hands the sceptre wrench;
‘Nor repose in idle rest.
‘Swift their spears in Ella's breast,
‘From his hands the sceptre wrench;
‘Nor repose in idle rest.
‘Fifty battles have I fought,
‘Rearing the tall standard high:
‘And my early youth was taught
‘Deep in blood the sword to dye.
‘Rearing the tall standard high:
‘And my early youth was taught
‘Deep in blood the sword to dye.
‘Then I hop'd no earthly king
‘More renown'd than I, drew breath—
‘Ah! I feel the mortal sting!
‘But I must not mourn my death.
‘More renown'd than I, drew breath—
‘Ah! I feel the mortal sting!
‘But I must not mourn my death.
‘The terrific Dysæ call!
‘Let me—let me close my song—
‘Odin sent them from his hall—
‘How they beckon! how they throng!
‘Let me—let me close my song—
‘Odin sent them from his hall—
‘How they beckon! how they throng!
‘On a lofty seat elate,
‘I shall quaff the foaming ale;
‘With the goddesses of fate,
‘And with Odin's self regale.
‘I shall quaff the foaming ale;
‘With the goddesses of fate,
‘And with Odin's self regale.
‘Now my bright career is run!
‘Quivers yet my vital fire!
‘Gasping—panting—lo! 'tis done!
‘With a smile I shall expire!’
‘Quivers yet my vital fire!
‘Gasping—panting—lo! 'tis done!
‘With a smile I shall expire!’
P.
Poems (1806) | ||