 | Moina |  |
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ACT V.
Enter Bards returning from the Grave.CHORUS.
Dark, dark is Moina's bed,
On earth's cold lap she lies;
Where is the beauteous form
Which heroes lov'd?
Where is the sparkling eye,
The blushing cheek?
Cold, cold is Moina's bed.
On earth's cold lap she lies;
Where is the beauteous form
Which heroes lov'd?
Where is the sparkling eye,
The blushing cheek?
Cold, cold is Moina's bed.
And shall no mournful lay
With solemn murmurs sooth
Her parted soul?
Shall beauty fall unmourn'd?
Shall no tear wet the grave
Where Moina lies?
The bards shall raise the solemn song,
The bards shall sooth her parted soul,
And drop the tear of grief
On Moina's grave.
With solemn murmurs sooth
Her parted soul?
Shall beauty fall unmourn'd?
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Where Moina lies?
The bards shall raise the solemn song,
The bards shall sooth her parted soul,
And drop the tear of grief
On Moina's grave.
The lily bows its head
Before the passing gale,
The green earth kissing,
But swift the passing gale is fled,
Again the fair flower rears her snowy pride
And drinks the air serene.—
Before the breath of woe
The soul of Moina bow'd,
It bow'd and rose no more.
Before the passing gale,
The green earth kissing,
But swift the passing gale is fled,
Again the fair flower rears her snowy pride
And drinks the air serene.—
Before the breath of woe
The soul of Moina bow'd,
It bow'd and rose no more.
High o'er its banks the rapid river swells
And flows impetuous on the plain—
The poplar meets its rushing waves
And bows its tender stem—
The waters pass,
The plant uprears its bended trunk
And shoots aloft;
The plant uprears its verdant tufts,
And spreads its light green leaves
To meet the warmth of heav'n.
Before the tide of woe
The soul of Moina bow'd,
It bow'd and rose no more.
And flows impetuous on the plain—
The poplar meets its rushing waves
And bows its tender stem—
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The plant uprears its bended trunk
And shoots aloft;
The plant uprears its verdant tufts,
And spreads its light green leaves
To meet the warmth of heav'n.
Before the tide of woe
The soul of Moina bow'd,
It bow'd and rose no more.
Frea from Valhalla's groves
Mark'd the grief of Moina's soul
And dropp'd the golden tear ,
Now she quits the groves of bliss,
And hastes to meet her favour'd child
At heav'n's lofty gates.
With her rosy hand she grasps
Moina's clay-cold palm,
Swift thro' her frame cœlestial vigour shoots,
Cœlestial beauty beams
In Moina's eyes.
Mark'd the grief of Moina's soul
And dropp'd the golden tear ,
Now she quits the groves of bliss,
And hastes to meet her favour'd child
At heav'n's lofty gates.
With her rosy hand she grasps
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Swift thro' her frame cœlestial vigour shoots,
Cœlestial beauty beams
In Moina's eyes.
Fair flower, no more the blasts of woe
Shall shake thy tender form,
Secure in Frea's groves
Thy bloom shall fade no more.
Shall shake thy tender form,
Secure in Frea's groves
Thy bloom shall fade no more.
FIRST BARD.
Did'st thou not notice, e'er the grave was clos'd
On Moina, that she beckon'd to her servant
And whisper'd him? Quick thro' the crowd he struggl'd
And vanish'd from our sight—
SECOND BARD.
I did, and wonder'd much what care intruding
Could for a moment draw her thoughts from death;
'Till then in silent grief she stood, her eyes
Fast rooted on the ground.
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And when the earth
Was cast upon her as we held her struggling
By Harold's side, she call'd aloud on Carril—
CARRIL.
(Entering in haste.)
Who calls on Carril? speak, ye wretches, speak,
Where is my Moina?
BARD.
Moina is no more,
She lies by Harold's side.—
CARRIL.
Inhuman monsters—
Lightnings, lightnings blast thy cursed nation—
Lead me to Moina's grave, haste, haste, perhaps
She yet may breathe, her bosom yet—
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Be calm.
CARRIL.
Ye wretches lead me to the grave, once more
I'll clasp her cold cold breast, kiss her pale lips,
And perish with my Moina.
BARD.
With thy Moina?
CARRIL.
Yes, she was mine, till thy accursed chief.
God of my fathers, thou hast slain the robber—
Till thy accursed chief in sorrow dragg'd her
To these detested walls—I am her lover—
I am Carril—
BARD.
Carril!
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Yes, wretches, yes—
Moina, Moina, think not to fall alone,
I haste to meet thee, Carril hastes to join
Thy gloomy ghost; soon shall our airy forms
A mournful conference hold, ride on the blast
And hover o'er our country—there we'll trace
Thy father's steps—together will we haunt
The well known hills, and listen to the torrent—
The aged bards shall sing our mournful tale—
We'll bend our feeble forms and listening catch
The soothing sounds of woe.—I come, my Moina,
With steps of speed I'll seek the rock's high summit
And plunge to death below .
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When from the foe's bright spear
The soldier trembling turns,
When cold fear shakes his frame
And blasts his strength,
No more he'll hear the song of praise,
No more he'll tell his listening child
The bloody tale of war;
The gloomy vale receives
His slow and sullen steps;
He hates the warrior's eye,
He hates the maiden's look.
Then let shame his bosom fire,
Lead him to the lofty rock,
And plunge him from the airy height.
To death below.
The soldier trembling turns,
When cold fear shakes his frame
And blasts his strength,
No more he'll hear the song of praise,
No more he'll tell his listening child
The bloody tale of war;
The gloomy vale receives
His slow and sullen steps;
He hates the warrior's eye,
He hates the maiden's look.
Then let shame his bosom fire,
Lead him to the lofty rock,
And plunge him from the airy height.
To death below.
When the hero's hardy frame
With lingering sickness droops,
When his broad and sinewy arm
Shrunk and trembling fails,
When that firm breast which dar'd the dart
The sighs of languor heaves,
When those bold knees which rush'd to war
Tottering sink beneath his weight,
When death has rais'd his clay-cold hand
To touch the warrior's heart,
Then let him drag his feeble limbs
To some high rock's projecting cliff,
And from the airy summit plunge
To death below.
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When his broad and sinewy arm
Shrunk and trembling fails,
When that firm breast which dar'd the dart
The sighs of languor heaves,
When those bold knees which rush'd to war
Tottering sink beneath his weight,
When death has rais'd his clay-cold hand
To touch the warrior's heart,
Then let him drag his feeble limbs
To some high rock's projecting cliff,
And from the airy summit plunge
To death below.
When from the aged father's arms
The blooming child is torn,
Forlorn he wanders on the heath,
His white hair waving in the wind—
Forlorn he seeks the hill
His child has trod,
And wipes the falling tear;
Anguish gnaws his heart,
And slowly drags his feeble frame
To Hela's halls—
Haste, haste and seek the lofty rock,
There from its airy summit plunge
To death below.
The blooming child is torn,
Forlorn he wanders on the heath,
His white hair waving in the wind—
Forlorn he seeks the hill
His child has trod,
And wipes the falling tear;
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And slowly drags his feeble frame
To Hela's halls—
Haste, haste and seek the lofty rock,
There from its airy summit plunge
To death below.
When the lover clasps
His mistress dead,
Cleaves to her cold cold breast
Her pale lips kissing,
No more her blue eyes tell
The tale of love,
No more her silver-sounding voice
Shall murmur in his ear—
In speechless agony he hangs upon her—
Awake, awake, and from that form belov'd
Snatch thy distracted soul,
Haste, haste and seek the lofty rock,
There from its airy summit plunge
To death below.
His mistress dead,
Cleaves to her cold cold breast
Her pale lips kissing,
No more her blue eyes tell
The tale of love,
No more her silver-sounding voice
Shall murmur in his ear—
In speechless agony he hangs upon her—
Awake, awake, and from that form belov'd
Snatch thy distracted soul,
Haste, haste and seek the lofty rock,
There from its airy summit plunge
To death below.
THE END.
Habebat, says Keyster, etiam Frea palatia sua quibus defunctas excipiebat. To this palace of Frea virgins, and wives who had died with their husbands, were admitted. See also Edda Sæmundar. Grimnismal xiv.
The practice of suicide was neither unfrequent, nor dishonourable among the Northern nations.
Mortem accersunt et voluntario interitu castigant obeundi tarditatem: quos satietas tenet vitæ de rupe nota præcipitem casum in maria destinant. Hoc sepulturæ genus optimum arbitrantur.
Solinus, de Hyperboreis. Cap. 16.Both Pliny and Pomponius Mela agree with this account of Solinus.
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