The Sea-King A metrical romance, in six cantos. With notes, historical and illustrative. By J. Stanyan Bigg |
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THE SCALD'S TALE concluded. |
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| XXX. |
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 | The Sea-King |  |
THE SCALD'S TALE concluded.
XVIII.
From Asgard's bright and glistening hallsOdin surveyed the world below;
He saw the floods, the waterfalls,
And eke the streams empurpled flow;
He saw the blood distilled like rain,
Upon that sanguine battle plain.
XIX.
It was a ghastly sight I ween,But to add terror to the scene
Thoron thundered from on high;
Thunder crash, and groan and sigh
Mingled with the battle cry.
Din and discord, tumult dread
Wore the restless hours away,
Many warriors fought and bled,
Many warriors' spirits fled
Away to the land of the silent dead
On that dire and bloody day.
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XX.
When the sun came from the eastern sky,Then commenced the fierce alarms,
And when he clomb the heavens on high
Still were heard the battle cry,
And the ceaseless din of arms.
And when in pomp and grandeur drest
He sunk into the gorgeous west,
Still the bloody banner waved,
Still the gory shield was clashing,
Broken armour still was crashing,
And still each man his foeman braved.
But when the night came creeping on,
Battle cry, and gasping moan,
Shriek of pain, and dying groan,
Tumult, discord,—all were gone.
And one pale star, like a conscious eye,
Twinkled alone in the peaceful sky.
XXI.
Thora sat in her peaceful bower,48
Many a long, long weary hour
She waited there impatiently.
She was there with the rising sun,
And she was there when his course was run,
And she was there when the battle's din
Made her shiver her soul within.
And when that boding silence came,
She seemed to be the only one
Of mortal birth, of human frame,
Who had not breathed her last, and gone.
But she was pale as the image of death,
And her life seemed ebbing with every breath.
XXII.
Hark! there are footsteps sad and slow,Wending up the vale below!
She roused herself to see the sight,
And her spirit unfolded its wings for flight.
Stay, lovely being, stay awhile,
And bear thy Rollo's smile away,—
Her spirit stayed,—alas! no smile
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That morn she was a maiden fair,
But now the healthful flush is fled,
Her soul hath been subdued by care,
Her life, her Rollo too is dead.
Why should that maiden still live on
When all that made life sweet are gone?
XXIII.
The warriors bore their burthen near,But the maiden gave no sudden cry,
No sigh escaped, nor e'en a tear
Dimmed the clear lustre of her eye.
Hath consciousness entirely fled
Or is affection cold and dead?
“Oh lovely maid thou doest well
To heave no deep, no bitter sigh,
Thy faithful Rollo bravely fell,
It is a warrior's bliss to die!
He named thee in his latest breath,
Then closed his sightless eyes in death.”
So spake the warriors, but the sound
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All that they said alas was vain,
She ne'er shall hear, think, act again.
They little wot I ween that they
Spake to a motionless mass of clay!
XXIV.
Oh she shall never, never speak,She cannot do her office now,
But ye must bathe his bloody cheek
And wipe the cold sweat from his brow;
And drop for her the scalding tear,
Upon her noble Rollo's bier.
For her pure spirit now hath fled,
To the peaceful land of the happy dead.
And now her sorrow, and her pain,
Her griefs, her troubles, all are o'er,
Rollo and She have met again,
Where their pure souls shall part no more.
“But they two shall wander
Where bright streams meander
Near the mansions of Vingolf,—of friendship and love,
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And they shall be like visions bright
In that glorious land above.”
XXV.
And ended thus the old man's taleApplauded by that courteous throng,
He smiled, for praises much avail
Each true and gifted son of song;
He toils, he labours all for this,
Praise is his food, his life, his bliss.
XXVI.
The Poet is a fragile thing,He cannot bear the cheerless eye,
A smile,—and he will sweetly sing,
A frown,—and he will droop and die.
Ye careless ones ye little know
The poignance of the bitter smart,
The depth of that despairing woe
That wrings the bard's too tender heart,
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You cold and heartless turn away.
Remember that his nights, his days,
Are spent in toil to pleasure you,
And all he hopes for is your praise,
Then will you cheat him of his due?
Nay,—grant him this and he is blest,
Though cares on cares distract his breast.
XXVII.
But in that goodly companyThere now arose a noble form,
Handsome and fair and tall was he
And like some spirit of the storm;
For when ought moved his wrathful ire
His eyes would beam like balls of fire.
Locks of hair black, curling, now
Shade his pale marmorial brow,
And it seemed as though some being lent
A soul to every lineament.
For he scarcely seemed of mortal birth,
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So wild were his features, so pale and so fair,
So noble his aspect, so lofty his air.
XXVIII.
Otlauga had heard the old man's taleTill she sunk in a silent reverie,
Oh! her lip is blanched, her face is pale,
Hath her soul sought the deep, green sea?
Her brow is resting upon her hand,
And her spirit hath gone to another land:
A land of visions, a land of dreams,
Where happiness flows in silver streams,
All bright as it springs up from its source
And unmolested wends its course
Midst sunny scenes, and golden flowers,
Children of bliss, and happy hours;
Where hope, and present happiness
Combine their powers, combine to bless.
To a land where every thing is full
Of tenderness, love, and the beautiful.
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XXIX.
But when that stranger rose and bowed,And when he spake in accents proud,
She awoke from her dream with a shriek and a start,
For that voice found an echo I ween in her heart.
She turned a quick and timid glance
Upon his noble countenance.
Otlauga thought she could trace there
The marks of grief, the marks of care.
And but for these, he would have seemed
Like one of those of whom she dreamed.
Otlauga caught that deep drawn sigh,
She heard that half suppressed moan,
She saw his dark and fiery eye
Was fixed on her, on her alone.
Oh! is he a spirit come down from above,
That his glance is so full of affection and love?
XXX.
Love and pity are allied,They ever wander forth together,
And aye they nestle side by side
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And though the haughty, handsome stranger
Sought not pity nor relief,
Still she saw some care, some danger
Saddened all his soul with grief.
And if ye think she was not moved
Ye little know a woman's part;
I say not that the maiden loved,—
I say she had a woman's heart.
And yet a strange romantic feeling
O'er her soul came softly stealing,
And Ragnar was forgotton then
By those affections once his own,
And now of all the sons of men,
They are the stranger's, his alone.
Oh! cometh this feeling from regions above?
Or is it not pity, or is it not love?
XXXI.
The stranger turned him to the throng,And proudly bowed his haughty head;
And seeing there the son of song
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“Honoured scald thou dost excel
In melting numbers and address,
And, aged man, thou knowest well
To move the heart to tenderness;
But if a humbler hand may try
To bring the tear, to raise the sigh,—
Lend me then thy sounding lyre,
And while my devious fingers stray
I will catch the poet's fire,
And frame a wild, though humble lay.”
The boon is granted, and he stands,
The harp-strings trembling in his hands.
XXXII.
But ere commenced the stranger's song,—Started that simple warlike throng,
Like a spectre from the tomb,
Like the phantom of a dream,
Round and round about the room
With a whoop, and with a scream,
Heedless of the glaring light,
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And many a warrior strong and brave,
As the owlet flew on pinions fleet,
Bethought him of the dreary grave,
And saw I ween his winding sheet.
And,—aye the pale cock 'gan to crow,
In the palace of Hela in regions below.
XXXIII.
And still the owl her white wings plied,And round and round
With a whizzing sound
The night bird ever hied.
And over head
As she swiftly sped
Her white wings flapped,
And they clattered and clapped
Like strong machinerye,
Still round and round
With a whizzing sound
Thrice round the room flew she;
And then her wheeling flight was o'er,
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XXXIV.
They heard her shriek in the haunted glen,—Forsaken by the sons of men;
And aye upon the fitful gale,
Still were heard her whoop and wail
As she sped across the fen.
But suddenly all sounds were still,
Save when the wind came cold and chill,
Along the vale and down the hill.
Silence reigned throughout the hall,
As though the guests and warriors all
Were folded in their funeral pall!
But hark! they hear a step so slow,
Trampling in the frozen snow.
XXXV.
It cannot be one of the sons of men,Abroad on such a night;
And pacing thus the haunted glen
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That burns in the wizard Rolfi's cave,
Luring him onward to his grave!
No, no, the glen is a place of fear,
Known round the country far and near;
It cannot be one of the sons of men,
Awaking the echoes of Rolfi's glen.
The night birds flit in horror by,
Without a whoop, without a cry.
The owl in silence whirreth past,
And hushed and still is the midnight blast!
Who is this being of fear and dread,
That shunneth thus the light?
Oh! is it a spirit from Niflheim fled,
The soul of one who hath long been dead,
That wandereth thus in the night?
Those solemn footfalls, lengthened, slow,
Trampling in the frozen snow,
Break louder on the listening ear,
Drawing nearer, and more near.
And soon I ween
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But hark! that trampling sound is o'er,
A being bendeth at the door;
And, wrapt in mystery and in gloom,
Amidst the silence of the tomb,
He passeth slowly up the room!
| The Sea-King | |