The Sea-King :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Sea-King

A metrical romance, in six cantos. With notes, historical and illustrative. By J. Stanyan Bigg

Bigg, J. Stanyan (1828-1865)

[dedication]

[section]

THE SEA-KING.

CANTO I. The Legend of Otlauga.

II.

CANTO II. The Scald.

II.

III.

IV.

THE SCALD'S TALE.

THE SCALD'S TALE, continued.

The Valkyries' Chorus.

THE SCALD'S TALE concluded.

III.

CANTO III. The Legend of Ragnar Lodbrog.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

PART I.—The Journey.

II.

PART II.—The Shipwreck.

IV.

CANTO IV. The Tomb of Orvar.

III.

PART III.

II.

III.

III

IV.

VI.

VII.

THE SONG.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

CANTO V. The Mysteries.

IV.

PART IV. THE LEGEND OF RAGNAR CONTINUED.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

THE SONG.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

LI.

LII.

LIII.

LIV.

LV.

LVI.

LVII.

LVIII.

LIX.

LX.

LXI.

LXII.

VI.

CANTO VI. The Recognition.

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CANTO II. The Scald.

“And would the noble lady deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak
He thought e'en yet the sooth to speak
That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear,—”
Scott. Lay of the Last Minstrel.

“Now lithin and listinith, and
Herkinith you aright
And ye shullin hear me tell
You of a doughti Knight.”
Chaucer. The Coke's Tale of Gamelyn.

I.

But now Otlauga sat in her hall,
And many a guest sat silent there;—
The lamps were lit, the fires were bright,—
Outside the clouds formed a funeral pall
For the moon as it slept in the frozen air,
And the stars that hung in the chambers of night
Were wan as ghosts in the pale moonlight;
Mountains of ice, and frozen snow
Were here,—were there,—above and below.

II.

The wind came whistling loud and chill,
Down many a glen, o'er many a hill,
But in the hall the guests were still;
They moved not a limb, they breathed not a breath,
As though they sat in the chambers of death:
And yet each bright enquiring eye
Is fixed on one object,—ask ye why?

III.

An aged man standeth silent there,
With brow so noble and head so bare,
Deserted by the last white hair
That used to speak of times gone by,
A tear stood in his melting eye,
And that old man sighed full well I ween
When the last lock went from his aged brow,
For it told of joys that once have been
And recalled full many an early scene
That must be forgotten now.
Dissevered from the past he stands,
And holds a harp in his trembling hands.

IV.

For he was one of the tuneful train,
And he would sing of beauty's power,
And that old man knew I ween right well
To wile away the weary hour
With many a wild and fervid strain.
And he could sing of magic spell,
And well he loved I ween to tell
The glorious deeds of arms;
And he could picture to the sight,
The bloody field, the fearful fight
With non-intrinsic charms.
Such power belongs alone to those
Whom genius favors with her woes.

V.

And now he struck the sounding strings,
Forth came a soft and plaintive strain,
Wild, sweet unearthly murmurings
That rose and fell and rose again,
Like the wind sweeping o'er the main.
The old man then inclined his head

His life seemed gone,—his spirit fled,—
So deeply was attention hung
On the notes that from his harp-strings rung.
The strain the old man faultless found,
His ear could catch no jarring sound.
A deeper, nobler prelude ran,
Ere thus the Scald his tale began.

THE SCALD'S TALE.

VI.

Along by the side of a rushing stream
Two beings were gliding as if in a dream;
The one was a warrior noble and tall,
The other a lady very fair,
A shadowy figure with auburn hair;
And her beautiful bright and expressive eyes
Were a deeper blue than the summer skies.
But sorrow saddened her marble brow,
And her bosom heaved with many a sigh,
“Oh! Rollo, thou canst not leave me now,
Thou canst not leave me thus to die.

VII.

“Let others seek the battle field,
Who neither love nor friendship know,
Let others smite the glittering shield
Thou Rollo wilt not, shalt not go!
In my sleep last night a figure came,
A figure all in horror drest;
His eyes sent forth a sickly flame,
And a ghastly wound was in his breast.

VIII.

I looked upon his noble brow,
But it was damp as any cloud,
And,—Rollo if I see thee now
I saw thee then and in thy shroud!
The blood ran freezing to my heart,
I shall forget it,—never—never—
Oh hear me! if we now should part,
We part, I know we part,—forever!”

IX.

“Nay, dearest Thora, say not so,

Let not illusions break thy rest;
And weep thou not o'er fancied woe,
Nor let vain dreams disturb thy breast.
Fierce Gylfe comes rushing in his might,
His armed hosts come thundering on,
And Thora I must join the fight
Ere death or victory be won.”
He said, and turned his head aside
To hide the pulsing of his heart,
He turned his secret pain to hide,
He found it hard I ween to part.

X

The maiden marked his secret grief,
She saw the tear stand in his eye,
And aye she would for his relief
Have shared that deep, reluctant sigh.
She strove his fixed resolve to move
And keep him from the bloody fray;
“I pray thee by the power of love,
And by the heavenly host above
My life,—my Rollo stay away.

XI.

“But if the wailings of the dying,
And if the deep despairing groan,
Are sweeter than a maiden's sighing
Then go,—and leave me all alone.
And if the hideous form of war
Presents an aspect fair to thee,
Surpassing my poor charms by far,—
Oh! then forget thy love and me,
And go,—and raise the battle cry,
Why should thy lingering footsteps stay?
Nor shed a tear, nor heave a sigh
For thou art happier far, away.
Haste, haste, and leave the maid alone
Who only asks a maiden's part,
Heed not her prayer, her sigh, her groan,
Go, Rollo go,—and break my heart!”

XII.

“Nay Thora check these idle fears,
My duty calls me hence away,

Restrain the torrent of thy tears,
I must not, cannot, dare not stay.
How could I at my country's need
Desert her when I ought to bleed?
Perish the thought! my very name
Would be a lasting mark of shame.
And if I thus should recreant prove,
I could not look on thee again,
The very sight would give me pain,
I should feel far beneath thy love,
Thou wouldst be lost to me forever;—
Thora it cannot be,—no never!

XIII.

“And Thora though thou sorrowest now,
Thou soon shalt deck a victor's brow.
I seek the field the maddening fight
To set my native country free,
The Gods will surely aid the right
And I will think of them and thee.
Nay lovely being weep no more,
Thy sighs, thy doubts, thy fears are vain,
For when the bloody strife is o'er

We two shall surely meet again.—”
“Yes in another world,” she said,
And meekly hung her pensive head.

THE SCALD'S TALE, continued.

XIV.

The Valkyries maids of mystery,
Who weave the web of destiny,
Were busy on that fatal day,
To chase tormenting pain away.
The wounded warrior was their care,
They softened many a deadly blow,
The generous maids were ready there
To cherish hope, to check despair,
And stay the power of weeping woe—
Were there to say who should succeed,
And who should fall, and who should bleed,
And who should fight, and who should fly,
And who should slay, and who should die.

XV.

And as they sped more fleet than air

They saw that lovely parting pair.
And aye they heaved a heavy sigh,
And, if such thing could ever be,
The tear stood trembling in their eye
While they read the scroll of destiny.
And as they passed,—that fatal throng,
They trilled a chorus loud and long.

The Valkyries' Chorus.

XVI.

“Sing, sisters, sing while the dew-drops are steeping
“The fair drooping flowers in the valley below;
“Sing, sisters, sing ere warriors are sleeping
“In the darkness of death, in the frenzy of woe.
“Sing, ere tumult drives his car
“Midst the bloody ranks of war,
“Ere Hela's pestilential breath
“Tells mortality of death.
“Sing, for ere the pale moonlight
“Breaketh on the depth of night,
“A being aye as Nossa fair,
“And pure and chaste as Giosne

“Shall be beyond the reach of care
“In realms of peace and purity.

XVII.

“Sing, for a hero shall enter Valhalla
“Triumphantly led,
“With the spoils of the dead
“Gracing his hands and gracing his head.
“And that maiden bright and fair
“Who loved him so well in the world below,
“Shall be with him forever there,
“Unknown to grief, unknown to woe,
“Never to part, ah never! ah no!
“But they two shall wander
“Where bright streams meander,
“Near the mansions of Vingolf, of friendship and love;
“And they shall bask in beams of light,
“And they shall be like visions bright
“In that glorious land above.
“Sing, sisters, sing while the dew-drops are steeping
“The fair drooping flowers in the valley below;
“Sing, sisters, sing ere warriors are sleeping

“In the darkness of death, in the frenzy of woe.”

THE SCALD'S TALE concluded.

XVIII.

From Asgard's bright and glistening halls
Odin 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.

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,

Silent and alone sat she,
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

Came from that lifeless form of clay.—
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

Died in a stillness too profound!
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,

And they shall bask in beams of light,
And they shall be like visions bright
In that glorious land above.”

XXV.

And ended thus the old man's tale
Applauded 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,

When from his wild impassioned lay
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 company
There 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,

But more like a spirit than son of the earth,
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 tale
Till 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.

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

In sunshine, or in stormy weather.—
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

He blandly smiled, and gently said,—
“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,

Flew the spectral bird of night.
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,

For she sped away through the open door.

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

Attracted by the light
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

A form will be seen,—
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!