University of Virginia Library

CANTO III. The Legend of Ragnar Lodbrog.

I.

'Tis strange how o'er the most obdurate breast
Fell Superstition holdeth magic sway,
Producing causeless care, and sad unrest,
Chasing the better feelings all away,
And bringing apprehension strong alway.—
And e'en to those who fear not danger near,
There is a horror in those things that lay
In doubt and mystery; superstition here
Raiseth his hoary head, and worketh woe and fear.

II.

And in that goodly company
Each thought his neighbour ill at rest,
While from the plague himself not free,—
He bore a burthen in his breast:
And aye for fear scarce drew his breath
Through lips as ashy-pale as death.
But he, the cause of these alarms,
Knew not fear, nor thought of harms,
But like a spectre from the tomb
He slowly glided down the room,
And gazing carefully around,
He sought for one he had not found.

III.

His gaze at last met the stranger's glance,
And then athwart his countenance
There came a ghastly smile,—
That passed away the while,
As swiftly as the meteors dance
Across heaven's darkened countenance,
Illuming yonder isle.
And his features wore their wonted gloom
As hopeless, as cheerless, as dark as the tomb.

IV.

O who can this aged wanderer be?
He seemeth a man of mysterye,
And his beard is as white as the foam of the sea.
His visage is wan, his vigour hath fled,
And he seemeth like one who hath once been dead!
Oh! his figure is gaunt, and his skin seemeth thrown
Like a mantle to cover the naked bone,
And his eyes are as lifeless as circles of stone;
And he who looks on them shivereth still,
And feeleth I ween his life blood chill;
And he is by a fearful sense oppressed,
For a slimy snake seemeth coiled in his breast.

V.

Otlauga,—what aileth her?—pale as death,
Without a motion, without a breath,
Resteth there silent and alone,
As cold and as chill as a marble-stone!
For when that old man passed the door,
She knew his figure I ween of yore:
She had seen that form by the pale moonlight,
Wrapped in the mists of the chilly night.

VI.

She had seen him stand on those rocks so bare,
Beside the silent sea of blood;
She had heard his voice on the nightly air
When he spake to the being who sailed on the flood.
And still when the night winds sighed and sung,
Those words in her ears forever rung,—
“I have found where she dwelleth, that child of the sea,
Thou shalt see her I ween right speedily.”
She had heard that voice when the night bird screams,
She had seen that form in her midnight dreams.

VII.

But still the guests in silent horror stood,
Till with a sudden start
They felt the kindly long congealed blood
Rush round their heart,
And in its proper channels flow,
With a pleasurable glow.
For that old man had spoken
In accents so kind,
That the ice was all broken,
As if with a token,
That thrilled through their body, and thrilled through their mind.
“'Tis strange how such a power should dwell
With any breathing mortal breath,”
“Hush! be silent! how canst thou tell
That he cometh not up from the palace of death.
But whether he be a man or no
Time will show,—time will show!”

VIII.

“Say why hath all this fear,
This horror thus come o'er ye?
My messenger was here,
I sent him on before me.
He told you I ween with whoop and with cry”
That his aged master was drawing nigh.—”
The old man spake with a leer and a smile,
And the owlet with its eye of fire,
Sat perching all the while
Upon his master's golden lyre.
That was a wondrous harp I ween,
And aye men say that it had been
In many a strange and dreadful scene!

IX.

He turned him to the company,—
That aged man of mystery,
There was something in his glance,
And something in his countenance
Of pity and of tenderness,
When his steady eye fell on the drooping form,
The form of the lovely shepherdess.
And as though the long, long gathering storm
That dwelt about his gloomy brow
Had quite evanished now,
There came from his eye so cold and dead
A bright, but momentary gleam,—
Alas! alas! too soon it fled;
Why hath it gone, did it give him pain?
'Tis quenched, 'tis quenched, it vanished
Like the sun's departing beam,
And all too soon alas! is night again ysped.

X.

The old man sighed, and then he spake again,
“Thou aged son of song,
I heard thy plaintive strain
When it came floating the wild winds along;
Though between me and you there lay
Many a mile of weary way;
Though there were mountains, hills, and vales,
Flint-frozen streams, and ice and snow,
Above, about, below,—
Despite of these the swift wing'd gales.—
But it were vain to tell you what you cannot know,—
What if you hear you cannot understand,
How the slight forms of air,
To me their message bring,
To me their wonders show
And own me as their king.
How through their watchful care
I know the secrets of each distant land,—
And have but to wave my wand
And am transported there.
To tell you this I say again,
Would be a waste of words in vain.

XI.

“'Twas not for this I left my sea-girt cave,
Where the winds and wild-waves sing,
And voices numberless,
On the rapt sense their music press
Till the crystal arches ring,
And dizzy, dance in wild excess
Of harmony, and happiness.
'Twas not for this I trod the cheerless shore,
And breathed the air of this unhappy earth;
And not for this to those of mortal birth
My golden harp I bore.
Lovely maid I came for this,—
To cheer thy soul with harmony;
For this I left my bower of bliss,
For this I came to visit thee;
If thou wilt listen I will sing,
About a wondrous man, Ragnar the dread Sea-King.”

XII.

The maiden started at the name,
And the blood came rushing red like flame
From her heart to her features fair.
What causeth this? is it maidenly shame,
Or some deep feeling without a name?
It matters not,—the red blood came
To her cheek, and rested there.
Brightly her brow so bold and bare,
Beamed in the lamplight's lurid glare,
All red as the glowing evening air,
When the flaming sun descends in flare
In the bright and glorious west:
Emotion thus painted her features fair,
And fluttered in her dove-like breast.
Until for shame or causeless care,
She hid her beaming face, behind her golden hair.

XIII.

And two alone in that large company
Marked the maiden's strange emotion.—
Have you ne'er seen upon the stormy sea,
How, when the waves and waters of the ocean
Are dancing and prancing in endless commotion,
A vessel answereth every changeful motion?
And when the waves each other crossing
Leap and fall in tumult tossing
Dancing to the dazzled view,
The bark,—whene'er the waters upward bending
Are flashing, splashing, and descending
Riseth still, and falleth too.—
As though it had no motion of its own,
But was ordained to undulation still,
And bow obsequious to the tyrant will
Of the wild waves alone.

XIV.

Not less obsequious, did the stranger's view
Transfer from that fair maiden's countenance
Unto his own, each blush to that fair image true.
And aye it seemed as if he grew
Out of her image; and as if he drew
His sense of being from that fervent glance.
But the aged wanderer watched these two,
Until a feeling came again
That had too long been fled.
It came, it came, did it give him pain?
For he seemeth like one who hath once been dead.
Or was it the excess of joy
That gave his too full heart alloy?

XV.

It swiftly passed away,—and then he gave
The handsome stranger one much-meaning glance,
Which like a chilling wave
Aroused him from his trance.
He knew that glance I ween of yore,
Shivering he gazed full wistfully about,
Till through the open door
He quickly issued out.
Fear urged him not, nor was it ought like flight,
But yea he knew that old man's meaning well,—
That wanderer of the night,
That man of the mystic spell.

XVI.

The night was fair, yet from the vault of heaven
The stars looked dimly on the world beneath,
The stranger gazed around—
It seemed as though the monster death
Had set his foot upon the frozen ground,
And with his noxious breath
Had blighted all beneath the deep blue sky.—
Around was one congealed expanse
Of dazzling snow, save where the waters dance,
And fling their ever foamy crest on high;—
The stranger slowly took his way
Along the margin of a deep ravine,
Ice-rocks in wild confusion round him lay
Like monuments of things that once have been,
Around, above him, and below,
Was nought but ice and frozen snow.

XVII.

And still the traveller his way pursued,
Approaching nearer to the shore;
Which in a small cape bending
Revealed the waters nearer than before,—
And still he heard the ceaseless roar
Of the winds and waves, while from a cliff decending.
Nearer, and nearer still he drew,
Until the welcome spot
Burst full upon his view.
It was a lovely little grot,
A wild fantastick cave,
Round which the winds and waters rave.
And from the sea there stole a little stream,
Which filled the basement of the cell,—
That might have answered well,
As a home or a shell
Where the sea nymphs might revel, and happily dwell.

XVIII.

Here, stooping down he entered, and unloosed
From all its fastenings a small fragile boat,
Which soon was set afloat.
A push from the oar, and a spring—
And he and the frail boat swing
Right out on the restless sea;
Merrily, merrily, merrily
They dance on the dancing wave,
They speed away together,
Despite of wind and weather
Far away from the stormy cave.
Round them still the wild waves sing,
Round them still the waters ring
And ever restless, roar;
Till they two can scarce be seen,
Through the thin spray bright and sheen,—
Moving from the distant shore,
And sunk behind the waves, they can be seen no more.

XIX.

But in the hall the aged wanderer stood,
His harp already sounding,
And all in silence was that multitude
The aged man surrounding.
The sounds of his wild harp, too wild for earthly strain,
Made a soul-touching harmony;
Bold they were and full and free,
Not like mortal minstrelsy,
For they went further than the sense,
And thrilled the heart and soul, with a passion most intense:
Purging the very thoughts from base desire,
And wrapping feeling up in latent fire.
They were burning sounds I ween,—
Not a human being stirred,
Such a harp was never seen,
Such like sounds were never heard.
And never will so wild a strain,
Break on mortal ear again.

XX.

Otlauga with a burning breast
Betrayed her strong emotion;
Her soul was by strange cares opprest,
Her eye beamed fire in sad unrest,
Yet past all sign of motion.
She felt those sounds but she heeded them not,
All sense, and feeling were forgot
In one o'erwhelming interest,
One strange involved commotion.
'Twas fixed, intense attention that thus made
The maiden hold her very vital breath,
'Twas fixed attention that thus made
Her hang her head, and droop and fade,
Like the bloodless form of death.—
And while the sounding harpstrings rung
He pitched his thrilling voice, and thus the wanderer sung.

I. PART I.—The Journey.

II. PART II.—The Shipwreck.