Chapter 2

O'er the field the snow is flying, There a wounded Cossack's lying; On a bush his head he's leaning, And his eyes with grass is screening, Meadow-grass so greenly shiny, And with cloth the make of China; Croaks the raven hoarsely o'er him, Neighs his courser sad before him: "Either, master, give me pay, Or dismiss me on my way." "Break thy bridle, O my courser, Down the path amain be speeding, Through the verdant forest leading; Drink of two lakes on thy way, Eat of mowings two the hay; Rush the castle-portal under, With thy hoof against it thunder, Out shall come a Dame that moaneth, Whom thy lord for mother owneth; I will tell thee, my brave prancer, When she speaks thee what to answer.

"O thou steed, than lightning faster, Tell me where's thy youthful master! Him in fight thou hast forsaken, Or has cast him down, I reckon."

"Nor in fight I've him forsaken, Nor have cast him down, I reckon, The lone field with blood bedewing, There the damsel Death he's wooing."

THE THREE SONS OF BUDRYS.

A Lithuanian Ballad. From the Polish of Mickiewicz.

With his three mighty sons, tall as Ledwin's were once, To the court-yard old Budrys advances; "Your best steeds forth lead ye, to saddle them speed ye, And sharpen your swords and your lances.

For in Wilna I've vow'd, that three trumpeters loud I'd despatch unto lands of like number, To make Russ Olgierd vapour, and Pole Skirgiel caper, And to rouse German Kiestut from slumber.

Hie away safe and sound, serve your dear native ground; May the High Gods Litewskian defend ye! Though at home I must tarry, my counsel forth carry: Ye are three, and three ways ye must wend ye.

Unto Olgierd's Russ plain one of ye must amain, To where Ilmen and Novogrod tower; There are sables for plunder, veils work'd to a wonder, And of coin have the merchants a power.

Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way, To whose crosletted doys {32} bitter gruel! There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel, And priests deck'd in diamond and jewel.

Unto Pole Skirgiel's part let the third hero start, There the dwellings but poorly are furnish'd; So choose ye there rather, and bring to your father, Keen sabres and bucklers high-burnish'd.

But bring home, above all, Laskian {33} girls to our hall, More sprightly than fawns in fine weather; The hues of the morning their cheeks are adorning, Their eyes are like stars of the ether.

Half a century ago, when my young blood did glow, A wife from their region I bore me; Death tore us asunder, yet ne'er I look yonder, But memory straight brings her before me."

Now advis'd them he hath, so he blesseth their path, And away they high-spirited rattle; Grim winter comes chiding--of them there's no tiding; Says Budrys: they've fallen in battle.

With an avalanche's might to the gate spurs a knight, And beneath his wide mantle he's laden: "Hast there Russian money--the roubles so bonny?" "No, no! I've a Laskian maiden."

Like an avalanche in might riding comes an arm'd knight, And beneath his wide mantle he's laden: "From the German, brave fellow, bring'st amber so yellow?" "No, no! here's a Laskian maiden."

Like an avalanche of snow the third up rideth now, Nor has he, as it seemeth, been idle; As the booty he showeth, old Budrys hallooeth To bid guests for the brave triple bridal.

THE BANNING OF THE PEST.

From the Finnish.

The plague is solemnly conjured to leave the country, and the speaker offers to find a suitable conveyance, namely a demon-horse summoned from one of those mountains in Norway supposed to be inhabited by evil spirits and goblins.

Hie away, thou horrid monster! Hie away, our country's ruin! Hie thee from our plains and valleys! I will find thee fit conveyance, Find a horse for thee to ride on, One whose feet nor slip nor stumble On the ice or on the mountain; Get thee gone, I do conjure thee; Take thee from the hill a courser, From the Goblin's Burg a stallion For thy dreary homeward journey; If thou ask me for conveyance, If thou ask me for a courser, I will raise thee one full quickly, On whose back though mayest gallop To thy home accurst in Norway, To the flint-hard hill in Norway. When the Goblin's Burg thou reachest Burst with might its breast asunder; Plunge thee past its sand-born witches Down into the gulf eternal; Never be thou seen or heard of From that dismal gulf eternal. Get thee gone, I do conjure thee, Into Lapland's thickest forest, To the North's extremest region; Get thee gone, I do command thee, To the North's most dusky region.

WOINOMOINEN.

From the Finnish.

Woinomoinen was, according to the Mythology of the ancient Finns, the second Godhead, being only inferior to Jumala. He was master of the musical art, and when he played upon his instrument produced much the same effect as the Grecian Orpheus, enticing fishes from the stream and the wild animals from the forest. The lines here translated are a fragment of a poem which describes a musical contest between Woinomoinen and the Giant Joukkawainen, in which the latter was signally defeated.

Then the ancient Woinomoinen, On the bench himself he seated, Took the harp betwixt his fingers, On his knee about he turn'd it, In his hand he fitly plac'd it. Play'd the ancient Woinomoinen, Universal joy awaking; Like a concert was his playing; There was nothing in the forest On four nimble feet that runneth, On four lengthy legs that stalketh, But repair'd to hear the music, When the ancient Woinomoinen, When the Father joy awaken'd. E'en at Woinomoinen's harping 'Gainst the hedge the bear up-bounded. There was nothing in the forest On two whirring pinions flying, But with whirl-wind speed did hasten; There was nothing in the ocean, With six fins about that roweth, Or with eight to move delighteth, But repair'd to hear the music. E'en the briny water's mother {38} 'Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her, On a little sand-hill rais'd her, On her side with toil up-crawling. E'en from Woinomoinen's eye-balls Tears of heart-felt pleasure trickled, Bigger than the whortle-berry, Heavier than the eggs of plovers, Down his broad and mighty bosom, Knee-ward from his bosom flowing, From his knee his feet bedewing; And I've heard, his tears they trickled Through the five wool-wefts of thickness, Through his jackets eight of wadmal.

THE WORDS OF BEOWULF, SON OF EGTHEOF.

From the Anglo Saxon.

Every one beneath the heaven Should of death expect the day, And let him, whilst life is given, Bright with fame his name array.

For amongst the countless number In the clay-cold grave at rest, Lock'd in arms of iron slumber, He most happy is and blest.

THE LAY OF BIARKE.

From the Ancient Norse.

The day in East is glowing, The cock on high is crowing; Upon the heath's brown heather 'Tis time our bands we gather. Ye Chieftains disencumber Your eyes of clogging slumber; Ye mighty friends of Attil, The far-renown'd in battle!

Thou Har, who grip'st thy foeman Right hard, and Rolf the bowman, And many, many others, The forky lightning's brothers! Wake--not for banquet-table! Wake--not with maids to gabble! But wake for rougher sporting, For Hildur's {40} bloody courting.

Now food forego and drinking; On war be ye all thinking, To serve the king who've bound ye For roof and raiment found ye; Reflect there's prize and booty For all who do their duty; Away with fear inglorious, If ye would be victorious!

Great Rolf, the land who shielded, And who its sceptre wielded, Who freely fed and paid us, With mail and swords array'd us, Now lies on bier extended, His life by treachery ended-- To us be like disaster, Save we avenge our master.

THE HAIL-STORM.

From the Ancient Norse.

(This piece describes the disaster of Sigvald, Earl of Jomsborg, a celebrated viking or pirate, who, according to tradition, was repulsed from the coast of Norway by Hakon Jarl, with the assistance of Thorgerd, a female demon, to whom Hakon sacrificed his youngest son, Erling.)

For victory as we bounded, I heard, with fear astounded, The storm, of Thorgerd's waking, From Northern vapours breaking. Sent by the fiend in anger, With din and stunning clangour, To crush our might intended, Gigantic hail descended.

A pound the smallest pebble Did weigh, and others treble; Full dreadful was the slaughter; And blood ran out like water, Ran, reeking, red and horrid From batter'd cheek and forehead. But though so rudely greeted, No Jomsborg man retreated.

The fiend, so fierce and savage, To work us further ravage, Shot lightning from each finger, Which sped, and did not linger; Then sank our brave in numbers To cold, eternal slumbers; There lay the good and gallant, Unmatch'd for warlike talent.

Our captain this perceiving, The signal made for leaving, And with his ship departed, Down-cast and broken-hearted; We spread our sails to follow,-- And soon the breezes hollow, From shores we came to harry, Our luckless remnant carry.

THE KING AND CROWN.

From the Suabian.

The King who well crown'd does govern the land, And whose fair crown well fill'd does stand-- That King adorns his crown, I trow; And he who is thus by his crown adorn'd, And for whose sake never that crown is scorn'd, Does bear a well-fill'd crown on his brow.

ODE.

To a Mountain Torrent. From the German of Stolberg.

O stripling immortal thou forth dost career From thy deep rocky chasm; beheld has no eye The mighty one's cradle, and heard has no ear At his under-ground spring-head his infant-like cry.

How lovely art thou in the foam of thy brow, And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill; For awful art thou and terrific, I vow, In the roar of the echoing forest and hill.

The pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks, And crashing they tumble in wild disarray; The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks, And contemptuously whirlst them like pebbles away.

But why dost thou haste to the ocean's dark flood? Say, art thou not blest in thine own native ground, When in the lone mountain and black shady wood Thou dost bellow, and all gives response to thy sound?

Then haste not, I pray thee, to yonder blue sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod, Whilst here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free-- Free as a cloud-bird, and strong as a God.

Forsooth it is pleasant, at eve or at noon, To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays, When ting'd by the light of the wandering moon, Or when red with the gold of the midsummer rays.

What of that? what of that? thou shouldst ever behold That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare: Ah, what is the summer sun's purple and gold Unto him, who can breathe not in freedom the air?

O pause for a while in thy downward career! But still art thou streaming, my words are in vain: Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.

Then haste not, I pray thee, to yonder blue sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod, Whilst here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free-- Free as a cloud-bird, and strong as a God.

CHLOE.

From the Dutch of Johannes Bellamy.

O we have a sister on earthly dominions! Cried two of the holy Angelical train, And flew up to heaven with fluttering pinions, But quickly to earth they descended again; Their brothers, with voices triumphantly lifted, Behind them came flocking this wonder to view, More fast than the gleam from the cloud that is rifted, Down, down to a forest of beeches they flew,

And there beheld Chloe, all rapt in devotion, Upon the ground kneeling, unable to speak; A tear-drop, the offspring of pious emotion, Was streaming like dew down her beautiful cheek. Confounded, astonish'd, in ecstacy gazing, Around her the spirits aerial stood, Then sudden their voices tumultuously raising Cried: Father, we'll stay with her here in the wood!

Then frown'd the dread Father; his thunders appalling To rattle began, and his whirlwinds to roar, Then trembled the host, but they heeded his calling, And Chloe up-snatching, to heaven they soar. O we had a sister on earthly dominions! They sang as through heaven triumphant they stray'd, And bore with flush'd faces and fluttering pinions To God's throne of brightness the yet praying maid.

NATIONAL SONG.

From the Danish of Evald.

Written to commemorate three great naval victories achieved by the three great Danish heroes, Christian, Juul, and Tordenskiold.

King Christian stood beside the mast In smoke and mist. His weapons, hammering hard and fast, Through helms and brains of Gothmen pass'd, Then sank each hostile sail and mast In smoke and mist. "Fly," said the foe, "fly all that can, For who can Denmark's Christian Resist?"

Niels Juul he mark'd the tempest's roar: "Now, now's the tide!" He hoists his banner, red as gore, And plied his foemen aft and fore, Loud crying 'midst the tempest's roar: "Now, now's the tide!" "Fly each, who knows a refuge path, For who can Juul, when hot with wrath, Abide!"

O North sea, Weasel's {50} flashes rent Thy vapours dun. Down to thy bosom heroes went, For with those flashes death was blent; From the fight rose a yell which rent Thy vapours dun. From Denmark lighteneth Tordenskiold,-- "Yield, yield to heaven's favourite bold, And run."

Thou Danish path to fame and might, Dark-rolling main! Receive thy friend, who holds as light The perils of the stormy fight, Who braves like thee the tempest's might, Dark-rolling main! Bear me through battle, song and sport, Until the grave, my final port, I gain!

SIR SINCLAIR. {51}

From the Danish of Edward Storm.

(At the commencement of the last century, Colonel Sinclair, a Scotsman in the service of the King of Sweden, landed upon the coast of Norway, at the time war was raging between the Danish and Swedish crowns, with a band of Scots which he had levied in his native country. After committing much havoc and cruelty, the invaders were destroyed to a man in a conflict with the peasantry, who had assembled in considerable number. Many of the broad-swords lost by the Scots in this encounter are to be seen in the Museum of Copenhagen, trophies of a victory achieved in a hallowed cause-- the defence of the father-land against unprovoked aggression.)

Sir Sinclair sail'd from the Scottish ground, To Norroway o'er he hasted; On Guldbrand's rocks his grave he found, Where his corse in its gore is wasted.

Sir Sinclair sail'd o'er the blue, blue wave, For Swedish pay he hath sold him, God help the Scot, for the Norsemen brave Shall biting the grass behold him.

The moon at night shed pale its light, The billows are gently swelling; See a mermaid merge from the briny surge, To Sir Sinclair evil telling.

"Turn back, turn back, thou bonny Scot: Thy purpose straight abandon: To return will not be Sir Sinclair's lot, Should Sir Sinclair Norroway land on."

"A curse on thy strain, thou imp of the main, Who boding ill art ever! For what thou dost preach, wert thou in my reach, Thy limbs I would dissever."

He sail'd for a day, he sail'd for three, With all his hired legions; On the fourth day's morn Sir Sinclair he Saw Norroway's rocky regions.

On Romsdale's sands he quickly lands, Himself for a foe declaring; Him follow'd then twelve hundred men Such evil intentions bearing.

They vex'd the people, where'er they rov'd, With pillage and conflagration; Nor them old age's feebleness mov'd, Nor the widow's lamentation.

The child was slain at the mother's breast, Though it smil'd on the murderous savage: But soon went tidings, east and west, Of all this wo and ravage.

From neighbour to neighbour the message runs, On the mountain blaz'd the beacon; Into lurking-holes crept not the valley's sons, As the Scots perchance might reckon.

"The soldiers have follow'd the King to the war, Ourselves must arm us, brothers! And he who here his life will spare Shall be damn'd as a cur by the others."

The peasants of Vaage, of Laxoe and Lom, With axes sharp and heavy, To the gathering at Bredaboig, one and all, come, On the Scots fierce war to levy.

A pass, which all men Kringe call, By the foot of the mountain goeth; The Lauge, wherein the Scots shall fall, Close, close beside it floweth.

The aged shooters are taking aim, Each gun has been call'd into duty; The Naik {54} his wet beard uplifts from the stream, And with longing expects his booty.

Sir Sinclair fell the first, with a yell His soul escap'd him for ever, Each Scot loud cried when his leader died; "May the Lord-God us deliver!"

"Now fierce on the dogs, ye jolly Norse-men, To the chine strike down and cleave them!" Then the Scots would fain be at home again, Their vaunty spirits leave them.

Filling their craws to their hearts content 'Midst carnage the ravens wander'd; The Scottish maids shall long lament The young blood on the Kringe squander'd.

Not a single man escap'd, not one, To his landsmen to tell the story; 'Tis a perilous thing to invade who wone On Norroway's mountains hoary.

A pillar still towers on that self-same spot, Which Norraway's foes defyeth; To the Norman wo, whose heart glows not When he that pillar eyeth.

HVIDFELD.

From the Danish.

Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted, Who bravery as their duty deem'd, And ne'er from danger started; Such Tordenskiold, and Adeler, And Juul, and many others were. Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.

But who had e'er of bravery The gallant Hvidfeld's measure? Who e'er saw Death so plain as he, And enter'd it with pleasure? Ne'er shall his name oblivion meet, For with his death he sav'd our fleet. Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.

'Gainst numerous foes we fought one day A fight so fierce and gory, And next the foe Sir Hvidfeld lay, To danger close and glory; And there was no man fought so stout As Hvidfeld fought, that bloody bout. Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.

But as Sir Hvidfeld broadsides loud Lay taking and returning, His own fire set his vessel proud, His Dannebrog, a burning. "Slip anchor, Sir," his sailors cry, "To land for safety let us fly!" Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.

"No!" answer'd he, "for danger then 'Midst Denmark's fleet we carry; Shall it be risk'd by Danish men, That they alive may tarry? We'll die, but we'll avenge our death; We'll fight until our latest breath." Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant hearted.

"Yes, to the latest breath we'll fight!" His seamen answer'd, cheering; Around was death in horrors dight, But still they fought unfearing, Till the fire reach'd the powder-store, And all died heroes midst its roar. Our native land has ever teem'd With warriors gallant-hearted.

And Hvidfeld's fame shall ne'er decay, His gallant seamens' never; A worthy countryman shall they In every Dane find ever; When Denmark dear to us shall cry, Like them will we grim death defy. Our native ground shall still abound With warriors gallant-hearted.

BIRTING.

A Fragment. From the Ancient Danish.

It was late at evening tide, Sinks the day-star in the wave, When alone Orm Ungarswayne Rode to seek his father's grave.

Late it was at evening hour, When the steeds to streams are led; Let me now, said Orm the young, Wake my father from the dead.

It was bold Orm Ungarswayne Stamp'd the hill with mighty foot: Riv'n were wall and marble-stone, Shook the mountain to its root.

It was bold Orm Ungarswayne Struck the hill with such a might, That it was a miracle, That the hill fell not outright.

From the hill Orm's father cried, Where so long, so long he'd lain; "Cannot I in quiet lie Deep within my dark domain?

Who upon my hill doth stand? Who doth dare disturb my bones? Cannot I in quiet lie 'Neath my heavy roof of stones?

Who doth dare my sleep to scare? Who brings down this ruin all? Let him fear, for now I swear That by Birting he shall fall."

"I'm Orm Ungarswayne, thy son, Youngest son, O father dear: And to beg a mighty boon In my need I seek thee here."

"If thou be Orm Ungarswayne, Orm the kempion bold and free, Silver, gold, last year I told-- All thou cravedst--o'er to thee."

"Thou wast free of gold and fee, Glittering trash of little worth-- Birting now I crave of thee, Birting bravest sword of earth."

"Never shalt thou Birting win, To obtain the King's fair daughter, Till to Ireland thou hast been, And aveng'd thy father's slaughter."

"Give to me the Birting sword, And with Birting bid me thrive, Or I will thy sheltering hill Into thousand atoms rive."

"Stretch thou down thy right hand here, Take the falchion from my side; If thou break thy father's hill, Dreadful wo will thee betide."

From the hill he Birting stretch'd, Plac'd the hilt within his grasp: "Strong of hand and valiant stand, That thy foes before thee gasp."

From the hill he Birting stretch'd, Plac'd the hilt within his hold: "Save good fate on thee await, I shall never be consol'd."

INGEBORG'S LAMENTATION.

From the Swedish of Tegner. (An extract from Frithiof's Saga.)

Autumn winds howl; Ocean is swelling so stormy.--My soul, Would with the sighs which I utter Forth thou wouldst flutter!

Long did I view Far in the West the sail which flew-- Happy my Frithiof to follow O'er the wave hollow!

Blue billow run O not so high, for it still sails on! Stars, for my mariner sparkle, As the nights darkle!

Spring will appear. He will come home, but unmet by his dear Or in the hall, or the dingle, Or on the shingle.

She'll lie in mould, All for her love's sake, pallid and cold, Or she will bleed, by no other Slain than her brother.

Hawk, left behind! Thou shalt be mine and I'll prove ever kind: Ever, wing'd hunter, I'll scatter Food on thy platter.

Here on his hand Work'd on my kerchiefs hem thou shalt stand, Pinions of silver and glowing Gold-talons showing.

Hawk-pinions tried Freia {63} one time, and around about hied; Sought North and South to discover Oder her lover.

E'en shouldst thou lend Me thy brave wings, yet I could not ascend; Only Death brings me, poor minion, The divine pinion.

Hunter so free! Sit on my shoulder and look to the sea; Spite of our looking and yearning, He's not returning.

When I'm at rest, And he comes safe, do thou mind my behest: O with best greetings receive him, Frithiof, who'll grieve him.

THE DELIGHTS OF FINN MAC COUL {65}

From the Ancient Irish.

Finn Mac Coul 'mongst his joys did number To hark to the boom of the dusky hills; By the wild cascade to be lull'd to slumber, Which Cuan Na Seilg with its roaring fills. He lov'd the noise when storms were blowing, And billows with billows fought furiously, Of Magh Maom's kine the ceaseless lowing, And deep from the glen the calves' feeble cry; The noise of the chase from Slieve Crott pealing, The hum from the bushes Slieve Cua below, The voice of the gull o'er the breakers wheeling, The vulture's scream, over the sea flying slow; The mariners' song from the distant haven, The strain from the hill of the pack so free, From Cnuic Nan Gall the croak of the raven, The voice from Slieve Mis of the streamlets three; Young Oscar's voice, to the chase proceeding, The howl of the dogs, of the deer in quest; But to recline where the cattle were feeding That was the delight which pleas'd him best. Delighted was Oscar, the generous-hearted, To listen when shields rang under the blow: But nothing to him such delight imparted As fighting with heroes and laying them low.

CAROLAN'S LAMENT.

From the Irish.

The arts of Greece, Rome and of Eirin's fair earth, If at my sole command they this moment were all, I'd give, though I'm fully aware of their worth, Could they back from the dead my lost Mary recall.

I'm distrest every noon, now I sit down alone, And at morn, now with me she arises no more: With no woman alive after Thee would I wive, Could I flocks and herds gain and of gold a bright store.

Awhile in green Eirin so pleasant I dwelt, With her nobles I drank to whom music was dear; Then left to myself, O how mournful I felt At the close of my life, with no partner to cheer.