Works of the Hon. and Very Rev. William Herbert ... Excepting those on botany and natural history. With additions and corrections by the author |
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 | Works of the Hon. and Very Rev. William Herbert |  |
53
CANTO III.
Soft sleep, thou balm of every ill,
Thy touch the throbbing heart can still!
Thy downy wings of peace outspread
Can soothe the wretch's aching head,
Win from his brow grief's stern control,
And in sweet calmness lull the soul.
And thou hast stores, whose pure delight
Thrills through each sense and charms the sight;
Stirs the sad lover's pulse to joy,
Which waking truth will soon destroy;
Leads him through cloudless Chili's groves,
Or he in wild Guiana roves
Beneath thy shadow fancy-blest,
And, every thought of care at rest,
There lays him with his darling maid
Under the plantain's spreading shade,
Where wanton tendrils hung with bloom
Twining around distil perfume,
And thousand little warblers dwell
Sweeter than love-lorn Philomel.
But hast thou not thy terrors too?
Thy fearful shapes of ghastliest hue?
When the soul writhes beneath the load
That weighs upon its frail abode;
While horrors lurk behind thy shroud,
And visions on the fancy crowd
Of ills that falling still impend,
Of vain pursuits that never end,
Of woes that shake fair reason's seat,
Or at the door of conscience beat.
And hast thou ne'er to anxious mind,
Mid pictured scenes of wildest kind,
Dread warnings and things closely seal'd
In dark futurity reveal'd?
And sometimes e'en through visions strange
The wakeful thoughts distemper'd range,
While the mind's eye with troubled sight
Can scarcely read its path aright,
And memory but ill descry
The limits of reality?
Thus some have deem'd, that Helga lay
Brooding strange thoughts from eve till day,
Stretch'd on a feverish couch of down,
Nor saw in truth Hell's portals frown;
And that at morn her spirit vex'd
Was by wild fancies still perplex'd,
When full before her frighted eye
Stern Odin seem'd to stand, and cry—
Thy touch the throbbing heart can still!
Thy downy wings of peace outspread
Can soothe the wretch's aching head,
Win from his brow grief's stern control,
And in sweet calmness lull the soul.
And thou hast stores, whose pure delight
Thrills through each sense and charms the sight;
Stirs the sad lover's pulse to joy,
Which waking truth will soon destroy;
Leads him through cloudless Chili's groves,
Or he in wild Guiana roves
Beneath thy shadow fancy-blest,
And, every thought of care at rest,
There lays him with his darling maid
Under the plantain's spreading shade,
Where wanton tendrils hung with bloom
Twining around distil perfume,
And thousand little warblers dwell
Sweeter than love-lorn Philomel.
But hast thou not thy terrors too?
Thy fearful shapes of ghastliest hue?
When the soul writhes beneath the load
That weighs upon its frail abode;
While horrors lurk behind thy shroud,
And visions on the fancy crowd
Of ills that falling still impend,
Of vain pursuits that never end,
54
Or at the door of conscience beat.
And hast thou ne'er to anxious mind,
Mid pictured scenes of wildest kind,
Dread warnings and things closely seal'd
In dark futurity reveal'd?
And sometimes e'en through visions strange
The wakeful thoughts distemper'd range,
While the mind's eye with troubled sight
Can scarcely read its path aright,
And memory but ill descry
The limits of reality?
Thus some have deem'd, that Helga lay
Brooding strange thoughts from eve till day,
Stretch'd on a feverish couch of down,
Nor saw in truth Hell's portals frown;
And that at morn her spirit vex'd
Was by wild fancies still perplex'd,
When full before her frighted eye
Stern Odin seem'd to stand, and cry—
“Adventurous maid, whose impious feet
“Have dared explore death's shadowy seat,
“Rifling the womb of hoary time,
“Hear the dark penance of thy crime!
“The vision of this night once told,
“Memory shall quit her sacred hold;
“And that fond love, which bade thee stray
“Down yawning Hell's forbidden way,
“That love, for which thou feign wouldst die,
“Shall in thy breast forgotten lie;
“Till anguish wake thy mind to know
“Joy's strange deceit, and hopeless wo.”
“Have dared explore death's shadowy seat,
It was common among the northern nations to imagine that the recollection of love could for a time be entirely suspended by the force of incantations. This effect is said to have been frequently produced by Runic charms, that is, by incantations wrought by the means of letters, or by administering a love potion, which produced a transfer of affection and a total oblivion of the former attachment. In the history of Brynhilda, it is said that in consequence of her having offended Odin, he touched her with a wand which produced a supernatural slumber and oblivion. In the Appendix I have subjoined a short poem founded upon her history.
“Rifling the womb of hoary time,
“Hear the dark penance of thy crime!
“The vision of this night once told,
“Memory shall quit her sacred hold;
“And that fond love, which bade thee stray
“Down yawning Hell's forbidden way,
“That love, for which thou feign wouldst die,
“Shall in thy breast forgotten lie;
“Till anguish wake thy mind to know
“Joy's strange deceit, and hopeless wo.”
55
He said, and instant vanish'd seem'd;
Whether in sooth she saw or dream'd,
I hold the tale devoutly true,
And deem those terrors met her view.
Appall'd and motionless she sate,
Till summon'd to the hall of state.
Whether in sooth she saw or dream'd,
I hold the tale devoutly true,
And deem those terrors met her view.
Appall'd and motionless she sate,
Till summon'd to the hall of state.
The King had will'd a joyous day
Should chase the thoughts of yestrene's fray.
He had bid his men be trimly dight
Ere the first dawn of morning light,
With torch and pike to rouse the bear
That slumber'd in his wintery lair.
“The chase is valor's school,” he cried,
And gallant to the forest hied.
The golden horn rings blithe and loud;
The many round their monarch crowd;
Some skill'd to bend the Upland bow,
Some taught the whizzing lance to throw,
Some proud to wield the falchion's weight
And closer deal the stroke of fate:
And dames of worth, and virgins fair,
Are clad to face the wintery air.
In many-color'd furs array'd
Hastes to the field each Swedish maid;
While the harsh winds, that round them rush,
Lend each young cheek a brighter blush,
And emulous of mountain snows
The polish'd forehead's lustre glows.
No lovelier forms, no sprightlier trains
E'er trod Cythera's hill-crown'd plains,
Or shook fair Delos' rocky shore,
Or roused the wolf and brindled boar,
Making the mountain echoes wake
Thro' every deep Mænalian brake.
Nor does the perfumed southern gale
More blithely breathe o'er hill and vale,
Nor bid the heart more warmly glow,
Nor the gay spirits lighter flow,
Than where the breeze of northern sky
Braces each limb and lights each eye.
Joy leads them on, o'er comb and glen,
To stir the monster's hoary den;
Some trooping on hot coursers past,
Some with long snow-shoes skaiting fast,
Some boldly on the beaked sledge
Gliding o'er precipice and ledge.
See how they scatter o'er the plain!
How laboring now the steep they gain!
Now circled in some rocky nook!
Now gliding down the frozen brook,
O'erhung with stone, and icicle
That brighter gleams than hunter's steel!
Now on yon crag, that strains the sight,
I see them file along the height
On giddy causeway, one by one;
Their weapons sparkle to the sun.
How many dreadful fathom deep
Shot from that high and rugged steep,
The foaming torrent roars beneath!
One slippery step were instant death!
But swift they press along the verge,
And soon mid broader wilds emerge.
Should chase the thoughts of yestrene's fray.
He had bid his men be trimly dight
Ere the first dawn of morning light,
With torch and pike to rouse the bear
That slumber'd in his wintery lair.
“The chase is valor's school,” he cried,
And gallant to the forest hied.
The golden horn rings blithe and loud;
The many round their monarch crowd;
Some skill'd to bend the Upland bow,
Some taught the whizzing lance to throw,
Some proud to wield the falchion's weight
And closer deal the stroke of fate:
And dames of worth, and virgins fair,
Are clad to face the wintery air.
In many-color'd furs array'd
Hastes to the field each Swedish maid;
While the harsh winds, that round them rush,
Lend each young cheek a brighter blush,
And emulous of mountain snows
The polish'd forehead's lustre glows.
No lovelier forms, no sprightlier trains
E'er trod Cythera's hill-crown'd plains,
Or shook fair Delos' rocky shore,
Or roused the wolf and brindled boar,
56
Thro' every deep Mænalian brake.
Nor does the perfumed southern gale
More blithely breathe o'er hill and vale,
An engraving is given by Stephanius, in his notes on Saxo Grammaticus, of a pair of the snow-shoes used by the ancient Swedes and Norwegians, which he says that he preserved in his Museum. They were three yards long, pointed and turned up at both ends, but not much wider than the foot, to which they were fixed in the middle by strong thongs. They were made of wood, covered underneath with seal-skin. With the assistance of such shoes, the natives traversed the snow with great rapidity. They are thus described by Olaus Magnus:
“Skydi sive Ondrur asseres sunt oblongi, et antrorsum sublevati, quinque vel ad summam sex ulnarum longitudine, latitudine verò transversam plantam non excedentes. His etiamnum pedibus inductis nostrates per superficiem profundissimam nivium et infirmæ glaciei, si aliàs corporis humani pondus non sustineat, ingrediuntur. Usi etiam veteres Norvagi In terrâ planâ et nudà ejusmodi Xylosoleis, subjectis rotulis, et sic plus itineris unâ die, quàm, absque illis, tribus confici potuit; habitusque est hic modus proficiscendi inter præcipuas agilitatis artes.”
In the song of Harald the Hardy, amongst the arts which he has acquired, he boasts that he can glide dexterously on show-shoes.
Nor bid the heart more warmly glow,
Nor the gay spirits lighter flow,
Than where the breeze of northern sky
Braces each limb and lights each eye.
Joy leads them on, o'er comb and glen,
To stir the monster's hoary den;
Some trooping on hot coursers past,
Some with long snow-shoes skaiting fast,
Some boldly on the beaked sledge
Gliding o'er precipice and ledge.
See how they scatter o'er the plain!
How laboring now the steep they gain!
Now circled in some rocky nook!
Now gliding down the frozen brook,
O'erhung with stone, and icicle
That brighter gleams than hunter's steel!
Now on yon crag, that strains the sight,
I see them file along the height
On giddy causeway, one by one;
Their weapons sparkle to the sun.
How many dreadful fathom deep
Shot from that high and rugged steep,
The foaming torrent roars beneath!
One slippery step were instant death!
But swift they press along the verge,
And soon mid broader wilds emerge.
The troop had reach'd a narrow pass
Half choked with thorns and wither'd grass.
Huge pines and pensile birch o'erhung
Its banks, round which the ivy clung;
And the rude clay-stone there peep'd through,
Like some old castle, to the view.
A spot so desolate and wild
Might charm sad fancy's mournful child:
On rush'd the rout, the deep glen rang
With sylvan shouts and martial clang;
But Helga, heartless for the chase,
Gazed long in that romantic place:
When from a rock which shades ingulf
Sprung sudden forth a brindled wolf.
The ruffian beast had mark'd his prey
Lingering defenceless on her way,
And his keen fangs already tore
Her dainty limbs distain'd with gore;
But instant as the bolt of Heaven
Through his dark sides a pike was driven,
And the blush glow'd on Helga's face,
Clasp'd in Hialmar's fond embrace.
Alone his eye had mark'd the Fair;
In hour of need his arm was there.
Slight was the hurt to life and limb,
But the pain'd bosom yearn'd to him,
And the full tide of love and grief
Burst forth to give the heart relief.
Her weeping thus the youth address'd,
As her soft palm he gently press'd.
Half choked with thorns and wither'd grass.
57
Its banks, round which the ivy clung;
And the rude clay-stone there peep'd through,
Like some old castle, to the view.
A spot so desolate and wild
Might charm sad fancy's mournful child:
On rush'd the rout, the deep glen rang
With sylvan shouts and martial clang;
But Helga, heartless for the chase,
Gazed long in that romantic place:
When from a rock which shades ingulf
Sprung sudden forth a brindled wolf.
The ruffian beast had mark'd his prey
Lingering defenceless on her way,
And his keen fangs already tore
Her dainty limbs distain'd with gore;
But instant as the bolt of Heaven
Through his dark sides a pike was driven,
And the blush glow'd on Helga's face,
Clasp'd in Hialmar's fond embrace.
Alone his eye had mark'd the Fair;
In hour of need his arm was there.
Slight was the hurt to life and limb,
But the pain'd bosom yearn'd to him,
And the full tide of love and grief
Burst forth to give the heart relief.
Her weeping thus the youth address'd,
As her soft palm he gently press'd.
“O sole on whom my fancy dwells,
“With whose chaste love my bosom swells!
“My life, my joy, in hours of peace!
“My hope when battle-storms increase!
“If ever I have raised my hand
“In fight to guard my native land,
“Thy gentle image, deep impress'd,
“Waked the bold phrensy of my breast,
“Lured me to tread the paths of fame,
“And win for thee a worthy name.
“Yet were my lips in silence closed;
“In trembling hope each wish reposed;
“And visionary joys alone
“To this deep-stricken heart were known.
“Now fortune smiles; a brighter day
“Beams on the warrior's blissful way;
“But dark as night his path, if thou
“Chase not the gloom that dims thy brow.
“By Helga's smile love's hopes were rear'd,
“By that must valor's arm be cheer'd.
“O give the willing heart to joy,
“Nor in the bud fond thoughts destroy!
“That smile from love new charms shall borrow,
“And light the languid gloom of sorrow.”
“With whose chaste love my bosom swells!
“My life, my joy, in hours of peace!
“My hope when battle-storms increase!
58
“In fight to guard my native land,
“Thy gentle image, deep impress'd,
“Waked the bold phrensy of my breast,
“Lured me to tread the paths of fame,
“And win for thee a worthy name.
“Yet were my lips in silence closed;
“In trembling hope each wish reposed;
“And visionary joys alone
“To this deep-stricken heart were known.
“Now fortune smiles; a brighter day
“Beams on the warrior's blissful way;
“But dark as night his path, if thou
“Chase not the gloom that dims thy brow.
“By Helga's smile love's hopes were rear'd,
“By that must valor's arm be cheer'd.
“O give the willing heart to joy,
“Nor in the bud fond thoughts destroy!
“That smile from love new charms shall borrow,
“And light the languid gloom of sorrow.”
Smiled through her tears the virgin meek,
And all her soul blush'd on her cheek.
And all her soul blush'd on her cheek.
“The life, thou hast preserved, is thine;
“Thy joys or griefs must blend with mine.
“If my tears speak not, if the voice
“Faltering betray not love's fond choice,
“O read the guileless heart, and see
“Its anguish only wake for thee!
“Nor deem, if Heaven thy fall foredoom,
“That Helga will not share thy tomb!
“E'en like day's fleeting flower, that, born
“At the blithe call of orient morn,
“Weeps for the sun's departed gleam,
“Nor e'er shall see the morrow beam,
“To thy dear smiles my heart expands,
“Chain'd to thy lot my being stands.
“On thee, beloved, its hopes repose,
“Thy Helga's life, her joys, her woes.”
“Thy joys or griefs must blend with mine.
“If my tears speak not, if the voice
“Faltering betray not love's fond choice,
“O read the guileless heart, and see
“Its anguish only wake for thee!
“Nor deem, if Heaven thy fall foredoom,
“That Helga will not share thy tomb!
“E'en like day's fleeting flower, that, born
“At the blithe call of orient morn,
59
“Nor e'er shall see the morrow beam,
“To thy dear smiles my heart expands,
“Chain'd to thy lot my being stands.
“On thee, beloved, its hopes repose,
“Thy Helga's life, her joys, her woes.”
O now what bliss Hialmar shares!
Warrior, what fate with thine compares!
Say, who would change the melting mood
Of tender virgin fondly woo'd,
The beamy smile of weeping love
Whose gentle rays each doubt remove,
The timid blush, the bashful eye,
The sighs that half-exhaled die,
For those best raptures, which enjoy'd
Leave half the fancied charm destroy'd!
Fix'd on her hand a burning kiss
Glows, promise and sweet pledge of bliss;
And now he cheers her drooping form,
Bids her weak heart with joy be warm,
And points the hour, in glory's pride,
When love shall bloom by valor's side:
But sadness o'er her bosom stole,
And thus she pour'd her troubled soul.
Warrior, what fate with thine compares!
Say, who would change the melting mood
Of tender virgin fondly woo'd,
The beamy smile of weeping love
Whose gentle rays each doubt remove,
The timid blush, the bashful eye,
The sighs that half-exhaled die,
For those best raptures, which enjoy'd
Leave half the fancied charm destroy'd!
Fix'd on her hand a burning kiss
Glows, promise and sweet pledge of bliss;
And now he cheers her drooping form,
Bids her weak heart with joy be warm,
And points the hour, in glory's pride,
When love shall bloom by valor's side:
But sadness o'er her bosom stole,
And thus she pour'd her troubled soul.
“Speak not of bliss or joyous love,
“While the red vengeance wakes above!
“While o'er thine Helga's fated head
“The curse of angry Heaven is spread!
“Last night on restless couch I lay
“Praying for dawn of morning's ray,
“Though not the day could bring relief
“To anxious thoughts and trembling grief.
“If sleep I woo'd, upon mine ear
“Burst the wild shrieks of frantic fear,
“And all the joyous forms of light
“Seem'd vanishing in misty night;
“I woke, by inward power impell'd;
“I thought of thee, my fond heart swell'd:
“To learn thy doom my bosom yearn'd,
“And (chance what may!) that doom I learn'd.
“O best beloved, I may not say
“What terrors frown'd upon my way,
“Nor living tongue such sights reveal
“As I have met, to learn thy weal.
“Suffice, that death's dread bounds I pass'd,
“And reach'd great Vala's tomb at last.
“I pray'd her by each living thing,
“By Hell's abyss, by Heaven's high King,
“To speak thy fate; when sad and slow
“Breathed from her tomb the notes of wo.
“Thy hand shall conquer, if it gain
“A falchion from the drear domain
“Of that fell Pigmy race, that dwells
“Deep-bosom'd in the rugged fells.
“Go boldly forth, thy fortune try!
“Seek the dread caves that northward lie!
“But me, alas! what ills await,
“Pursued and struck by Odin's hate!
“What I have dared, did love inspire,
“Nor Heaven itself shall quench its fire.
“Thrice blest, if I might lay my head,
“Where the lone wild's deep shadows spread,
“And, clinging to my heart's desire,
“Mid fancy's brightest dreams expire!”
“While the red vengeance wakes above!
“While o'er thine Helga's fated head
“The curse of angry Heaven is spread!
“Last night on restless couch I lay
“Praying for dawn of morning's ray,
“Though not the day could bring relief
“To anxious thoughts and trembling grief.
60
“Burst the wild shrieks of frantic fear,
“And all the joyous forms of light
“Seem'd vanishing in misty night;
“I woke, by inward power impell'd;
“I thought of thee, my fond heart swell'd:
“To learn thy doom my bosom yearn'd,
“And (chance what may!) that doom I learn'd.
“O best beloved, I may not say
“What terrors frown'd upon my way,
“Nor living tongue such sights reveal
“As I have met, to learn thy weal.
“Suffice, that death's dread bounds I pass'd,
“And reach'd great Vala's tomb at last.
“I pray'd her by each living thing,
“By Hell's abyss, by Heaven's high King,
“To speak thy fate; when sad and slow
“Breathed from her tomb the notes of wo.
“Thy hand shall conquer, if it gain
“A falchion from the drear domain
“Of that fell Pigmy race, that dwells
“Deep-bosom'd in the rugged fells.
“Go boldly forth, thy fortune try!
“Seek the dread caves that northward lie!
“But me, alas! what ills await,
“Pursued and struck by Odin's hate!
“What I have dared, did love inspire,
“Nor Heaven itself shall quench its fire.
“Thrice blest, if I might lay my head,
“Where the lone wild's deep shadows spread,
“And, clinging to my heart's desire,
“Mid fancy's brightest dreams expire!”
61
E'en as she spoke, her wandering eye
Seem'd sadly bent on vacancy;
O'er her pale cheek expiring play'd
A languid smile, and reason stray'd.
She saw the man her bosom loved,
But knew him not, and wildly moved.
She thought Hialmar was her foe,
And, nimbler than the mountain roe,
Burst from his grasp, and swift to fly
Was lost to his admiring eye.
As one amazed the warrior stood,
Wondering her mien and alter'd mood:
But she had breathed love's tenderest voice,
Which bade his inmost soul rejoice;
And bliss, prevailing o'er surprise,
Lit the young chief's exulting eyes.
But, not one look or word forgot,
He strove to scan his future lot.
Long o'er her speech the mind's eye pored,
Seeking to win the mystic sword.
His purpose fix'd, he busk'd him straight
For journey perilous and great:
For, ere the wintery snows decay,
He must tread back the dangerous way,
And sail for that dark Samian shore
'Gainst which the Baltic billows roar.
To none the strange intention told,
Alone goes forth Hialmar bold;
O'er hills and rocks he takes his road
To the fell Pigmies' far abode.
Seem'd sadly bent on vacancy;
O'er her pale cheek expiring play'd
A languid smile, and reason stray'd.
She saw the man her bosom loved,
But knew him not, and wildly moved.
She thought Hialmar was her foe,
And, nimbler than the mountain roe,
Burst from his grasp, and swift to fly
Was lost to his admiring eye.
As one amazed the warrior stood,
Wondering her mien and alter'd mood:
But she had breathed love's tenderest voice,
Which bade his inmost soul rejoice;
And bliss, prevailing o'er surprise,
Lit the young chief's exulting eyes.
But, not one look or word forgot,
He strove to scan his future lot.
Long o'er her speech the mind's eye pored,
Seeking to win the mystic sword.
His purpose fix'd, he busk'd him straight
For journey perilous and great:
For, ere the wintery snows decay,
He must tread back the dangerous way,
And sail for that dark Samian shore
'Gainst which the Baltic billows roar.
To none the strange intention told,
Alone goes forth Hialmar bold;
O'er hills and rocks he takes his road
To the fell Pigmies' far abode.
But O what tongue the griefs shall tell
Which, mournful Helga, thee befel!
Thy wandering thoughts and timid breast
By thousand shapeless fears possest!
Who now the blithesome dance shall speed
In Ingva's hall, or pour the mead?
Who now with many a tender smile
The tedious hours of age beguile,
And bid the brow obscured by wo
Beam gladly through his locks of snow?
Joy of his heart, his bosom's pride,
Fond Helga stands not by his side;
Her hands no more shall crown the bowl,
Her voice no longer cheer his soul:
No more she dons her robe with care
The sports of festive Yule to share,
Where gallants breathe their secret flame
To willing maid or widow'd dame,
While glowing hearts and nimble feet
To the light strain responsive beat,
And youth with fresh delight inspires
Gay thoughts of bliss and new desires.
In her lone bower obscure she sits,
Mournful, despairing, strange by fits;
And thinks she views the vengeful form
Of Odin in each passing storm.
All to pale melancholy given
The pensive eye she lifts to heaven,
And sometimes warbles with sweet wail
Her wandering and imperfect tale,
And trills so sad the plaintive ditty,
Moving each listening ear with pity,
That e'en the sternest warrior's eye
Glistens with heartfelt sympathy.
Which, mournful Helga, thee befel!
62
By thousand shapeless fears possest!
Who now the blithesome dance shall speed
In Ingva's hall, or pour the mead?
Who now with many a tender smile
The tedious hours of age beguile,
And bid the brow obscured by wo
Beam gladly through his locks of snow?
Joy of his heart, his bosom's pride,
Fond Helga stands not by his side;
Her hands no more shall crown the bowl,
Her voice no longer cheer his soul:
No more she dons her robe with care
The sports of festive Yule to share,
Where gallants breathe their secret flame
To willing maid or widow'd dame,
While glowing hearts and nimble feet
To the light strain responsive beat,
And youth with fresh delight inspires
Gay thoughts of bliss and new desires.
In her lone bower obscure she sits,
Mournful, despairing, strange by fits;
And thinks she views the vengeful form
Of Odin in each passing storm.
All to pale melancholy given
The pensive eye she lifts to heaven,
And sometimes warbles with sweet wail
Her wandering and imperfect tale,
And trills so sad the plaintive ditty,
Moving each listening ear with pity,
That e'en the sternest warrior's eye
Glistens with heartfelt sympathy.
END OF CANTO III.
| Works of the Hon. and Very Rev. William Herbert | |