University of Virginia Library

I.

In the dark-rolling waves at the verge of the west
The steeds of Dalinger had hastened to rest,
While Hrimfax advanced through the star-spangled plain,
And shook the thick dews from his grey-flowing mane;
The moon's silver crescent shone feebly on high,
And meteors shot red down the paths of the sky.
By the shore of the ocean Fiolfar reclined,
Where through the rock-fissures loud murmured the wind,
For sweet to his ear was the deep-dashing flow
Of the wide-foaming breakers that thundered below.
—“Alas!” he exclaimed, “were the hopes of my youth,
Though raised by affection, unfounded on truth?
Ye are flown, ye sweet prospects, deceitfully fair,
As the light-rolling gossamer melts into air;
As the wild-beating ocean, with turbulent roar,
Effaces my steps on the sands of the shore!
Thy waters, oh Niord! tumultuously roll,
And such are the passions that war in my soul:
Thy meteors, oh Norver! malignantly dart,
And such are the death-flames that burn in my heart.
Nitalpha! my love! on the hill and the plain,
In the vale and the wood, have I sought thee in vain;
Through the nations for thee have I carried afar
The sun-shine of peace and the tempests of war;
Through danger and toil I my heroes have led,
Till hope's latest spark in my bosom was dead!
Cold, silent, and dark, are the halls of thy sires,
And hushed are the harps, and extinguished the fires;
The wild autumn-blast in the lofty hall roars,
And the yellow leaves roll through the half-open doors.
Nitalpha! when rapture invited thy stay,
Did force or inconstancy bear thee away?
Ah, no! though in vain I thy footsteps pursue,
I will not, I cannot, believe thee untrue:
Perchance thou art doomed in confinement to moan,
To dwell in the rock's dreary caverns alone,
And Lok's cruel mandates, while fast thy tears flow,
Forbid thy Fiolfar to solace thy woe,
Condemn thee unvarying anguish to bear,
And leave me a prey to the pangs of despair.”—
Ha! whence were those accents, portentous and dread,
Like the mystical tones of the ghosts of the dead,
In echoes redoubling that rung through the gloom,
As the thunder resounds in the vaults of the tomb?
—“Fiolfar!”—He started, and wondering descried,
That a sable-clad stranger stood tall by his side:
Majestic he stood, on the surf-beaten steep,
Like a spirit of storms by the roar of the deep:
His soul-piercing eyes as the eagle's were bright,
And his raven-hair flowed on the breezes of night.
—“Fiolfar!” he cried, “thy affliction forsake:
To hope and revenge let thy bosom awake;
For he, that Nitalpha from liberty tore,
Is Lochlin's proud monarch, the bold Yrrodore.
Still constant to thee, she the traitor abhorred;
Haste! haste! let thy valor her virtue reward:
For her let the battle empurple the plain:
In the moment of conquest I meet thee again.”—
He ceased, and Fiolfar beheld him no more;
Nor long paused the youth on the dark-frowning shore:
—“Whate'er be thy nature, oh stranger!” he said,
“Thou hast called down the tempest on Yrrodore's head:
The broad-beaming buckler and keen-biting glaive
Shall ring and resound on the fields of the brave,
And vengeance shall burst, in a death-rolling flood,
And deluge thy altars, Valfander, with blood!”—

II.

To Loda's dark circle and mystical stone,
With the grey-gathered moss of long ages o'ergrown,
While the black car of Norver was central in air,
Did the harp-bearing bards of Fiolfar repair;
The wild-breathing chords, as they solemnly sung,
In deep modulations responsively rung;
To the hall of Valhalla, where monarchs repose,
The full-swelling war-song symphoniously rose:
—“From the throne of Skialfa, Valfander, look down,
And marshal thy sons in the paths of renown:
Be thou too propitious, invincible Thor!
And lend thy strong aid to our banners of war.
As the torrent, in eddies tumultuously tost,
That lately has slumbered in fetters of frost,
Descends from the mountain all turbid with snow,
Shall Norway rush down on the fields of the foe.
Ye spirits of chieftains tremendous in fight,
That dwell with Valfander in halls of delight!
Awhile from your cloud-circled mansions descend;
On the steps of your sons through the conflict attend,
When Lochlin shall glow with the beacon's wide beams,
And the battle-blast mix with the roar of her streams,
And the gaunt raven hover, on dark-flapping wing,
To scent his red feast on the foes of our king!”—
As full to the wind rose the soul-thrilling tones,
Strange murmurs rung wild from the moss-covered stones:
The ghosts of the mighty, rejoicing, came forth,
And rolled their thin forms on the blasts of the north.
On light-flying meteors triumphantly driven,
They scattered their signs from the centre of heaven.
The skies were all glowing, portentously bright,
With strong coruscations of vibrating light:
In shadowy forms, on the long-streaming glare,
The insignia of battle shot swift through the air;
In lines and in circles successively whirled,
Fantastical arrows and javelins were hurled,
That, flashing and falling in mimic affray,
In the distant horizon died darkly away,
Where a blood-dropping banner seemed slowly to sail,
And expand its red folds to the death-breathing gale.
Fiolfar looked forth from his time-honored halls,
Where the trophies of battle emblazoned the walls:
He heard the faint song, as at distance it swelled,
And the blazing of ether with triumph beheld;
He saw the white flames inexhaustibly stream,
And he knew that his fathers rode bright on the beam,
That the spirits of warriors of ages long past
Were flying sublime on the wings of the blast.
—“Ye heroes!” he cried, “that in danger arose,
The bulwark of friends, and the terror of foes;
By Odin with glory eternally crowned;
By valor and virtue for ever renowned:
Like yours may my arm in the conflict be strong,
Like yours may my name be recorded in song,
And when Hilda and Mista my spirit shall bear
The joys of Valhalla with Odin to share,
Oh then may you smile on the deeds I have done,
And bend forward with joy to acknowledge your son!” —

III.

The falchion resounded on helm and on shield,
For Norway and Lochlin had met in the field;
The long lances shivered, the swift arrows flew,
The string shrilly twanged on the flexible yew;
Rejoicing, the Valkyræ strode through the plain,
And guided the death-blow, and singled the slain.
Long, long did the virgins of Lochlin deplore
The youths whom their arms should encircle no more,
For Norway rushed onward, to vengeance awake,
With the roar of the ocean, when thunder-clouds break;
With the strength of the whirlwind, that shatters the wood,
And roots up the oak that for ages has stood;
With the storm-swollen torrent's precipitous shock,
That hurls from the mountain the frost-loosened rock.
Fiolfar through danger triumphantly trod,
And scattered confusion and terror abroad:
Majestic as Balder, tremendous as Thor,
He plunged in the red-foaming torrent of war;
Till he mowed his strong course through the ranks of the brave,
Where deepened the tumult round Yrrodore's glaive.
—“Turn, traitor!” he cried, “thy destruction to prove,
Despiser of justice, profaner of love!
Already the shades of the guilty await
Thy spirit at Hela's implacable gate,
Their vigils of winter and darkness to share
In Nilflhil's nine worlds of eternal despair.”—
Indignantly Yrrodore turned on the foe,
And reared his strong arm for a death-dealing blow.
He stood, vast in stature, collected in might,
As the tower of the hill meets the tempest of night:
But the sword of Fiolfar descended to whelm
The seven-plated buckler, and plume-waving helm,
As the brand of the storm irresistibly falls,
And scatters in fragments the rock-founded walls.
Swift flowed the black blood, and in anguish he breathed,
Yet he muttered these words as expiring he writhed:
—“And deemest thou, Fiolfar, the conquest is thine?
No! victory, glory, and vengeance, are mine!
In triumph I die: thou shalt languish in pain:
For ne'er shall Nitalpha delight thee again!
The wakeful Duergi the caverns surround,
Where in magical slumbers the maiden is bound:
Those magical slumbers shall last till the day,
When Odin shall summon thy spirit away:
Then, then shall she wake to remembrance and pain,
To seek her Fiolfar, and seek him in vain,
Long years of unvarying sorrow to prove,
And weep and lament on the grave of her love!”—
He said, and his guilt-blackened spirit went forth,
And rushed to the caves of the uttermost north;
Still destined to roam through the frost-covered plain,
Where Hela has fixed her inflexible reign,
Till the tempest of fate shall o'er Asgard be driven
In the last lurid gleam of the twilight of heaven,
And the trump of Heimdaller tremendously rear
The deep-thrilling death-note all nature must hear,
And genii and gods, by one ruin enfurled,
Contend, and expire, in the flames of the world.

IV.

Now shone the broad moon on the field of the dead,
Where Norway had conquered, and Lochlin had fled:
The hoarse raven croaked from the blood-streaming ground:
The dead and the dying lay mingled around:
The warriors of Norway were sunk in repose,
And rushed, in wild visions, again on their foes:
Yet lonely and sad did Fiolfar remain
Where the monarch of Lochlin had fall'n on the plain;
In the silence of sorrow he leaned on his spear,
For Yrrodore's words echoed still in his ear:
When, with hope-breathing wonder, again he descried
That the sable-clad stranger stood tall by his side:
—“Behold me, Fiolfar: my promise I keep:
Nitalpha is fettered in magical sleep:
Yet I to thy arms can the maiden restore,
And passion and vengeance shall harm her no more.”—
—“Strange being! what art thou? thy nature declare.”—
—“The name of Nerimnher from mortals I bear:
Mid desolate rocks, in a time-hollowed cell,
At distance from man and his vices I dwell;
But, obedient to Odin, I haste from the shade,
When virtue afflicted solicits my aid:
For the mystical art to my knowledge is given,
That can check the pale moon as she rolls through the heaven,
Can strike the dark dwellers of Nilflhil with dread,
And breathe the wild verse that awakens the dead.
My voice can the spells of thy rival destroy,
And recal thy loved maid to existence and joy.”—
Long, rugged, and steep, was their desolate way,
By the precipice-rock, and the cataract's spray,
Where the wild eagle screamed through night's luminous noon,
And the storm-shattered cedar spread black to the moon.
The dark-tufted pine topped the frost-mantled height:
The larch's long tresses waved lonely and light:
No vestige of man was impressed on the heath,
And the torrent roared deep in its caverns beneath.
From the verge of the glen, from the dash of the flood,
They pierced the recesses of Deuranil's wood.
Through shades, where the yew and the cypress entwined,
Their branches funereal, unmoved by the wind,
Slow-toiling they passed, till before them arose
The caves of Nitalpha's unbreathing repose.
A blue-burning vapor shone dim through the gloom,
And rolled its thin curls round a rude-fashioned tomb,
Where the weary Duergi, by magic constrained,
With eyes never closing, their station maintained.
Loud shouting they rose when the strangers advanced,
But fear chilled their veins, and they paused as entranced,
While the mighty Nerimnher, in fate-favored hour,
Thus breathed the strong spell that extinguished their power:
—“By the hall of Valhalla, where heroes repose,
And drink beer and mead from the skulls of their foes;
By the virtues of Freyer, and valor of Thor;
By the twelve giant sisters, the rulers of war;
By the unrevealed accents, in secret expressed,
Of old by Valfander to Balder addressed;
By the ghosts, in the frost-worlds of Nilflhil that weep;
By the mystical serpent, that circles the deep;
By the banner of Asgard, now beaming on high,
Hence, children of evil! hear, tremble, and fly!”—
Loud yelled the Duergi, and sunk from his sight
To their caverns of toil in the regions of night:
The vapor rolled backward its tremulous wave,
And a star-like effulgence illumined the cave,
As the tomb burst asunder, and scattered the shade,
Where, in death-like entrancement, Nitalpha was laid.
Fiolfar sprang forward, and clasped to his breast
The maid, cold and pale as the marble she pressed:
The kiss of her love broke the spell of the tomb,
And bade life and rapture her beauty relume.
From the silent embrace, that no tongue may declare,
They turned: but Nerimnher no longer was there:
The tomb, and the cave, and the forest, were gone:
And fresh o'er their cheeks blew the breeze of the dawn,
That waved the proud standard, in victory's pride,
On the red field of Lochlin where Yrrodore died.