Take countless wounds, and yet survive.
Then rush the eagles to his cry
Of slaughter and of victory,
And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl,
Deep drinks his sword,-deep drinks his soul; And all that meet him in his ire
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire,
Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den,
And couches till he's man agen.—
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb,
When 'gins that rage to overbrim—
Thou know'st when I am moved, and why;
And when thou seest me roll mine eye,
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot,
Regard thy safety and be mute;
But else speak boldly out whate'er
Is fitting that a knight should hear.
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power
Upon my dark and sullen hour;—
So Christian monks are wont to say
Demons of old were charm'd away;
Then fear not I will rashly deem
Ill of thy speech, whate'er the theme."
As down some strait in doubt and dread
The watchful pilot drops the lead,
And, cautious in the midst to steer,
The shoaling channel sounds with fear;
So, lest on dangerous ground be swerved,
The Page his master's brow observed,
Pausing at intervals to fling
His hand on the melodious string,
And to his moody breast apply
The soothing charm of harmony,
While hinted half, and half exprest,
This warning song convey'd the rest.
"Ill fares the bark with tackle riven,
And ill when on the breakers driven,―
Ill when the storm-sprite shrieks in air,
And the scared mermaid tears her hair;
But worse when on her helm the hand
Of some false traitor holds command.
"Ill fares the fainting Palmer, placed
'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste,-
Ill when the scorching sun is high,
And the expected font is dry,-
Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath,
The barbarous Copt has plann'd his death.
"Ill fares the Knight with buckler cleft,
And ill when of his helm bereft,-
Ill when his steed to earth is flung,
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung;
But worse, if instant ruin token,
When he lists rede by woman spoken."-
"How now, fond boy?-Canst thou think ill," Said Harold, "of fair Metelill?".
"She may be fair," the Page replied,
As through the strings he ranged,"She may be fair; but yet," he cried, And then the strain he changed,
Far fairer have I seen
Than she, for all her locks of jet,
And eyes so dark and sheen.
Were I a Danish knight in arms,
As one day I may be,
My heart should own no foreign charms,—— A Danish maid for me.
"I love my father's northern land,
Where the dark pine-trees grow, And the bold Baltic's echoing strand Looks o'er each grassy oe.1
I love to mark the lingering sun,
From Denmark loath to go,
And leaving on the billows bright,
To cheer the short-lived summer night,
A path of ruddy glow.
"But most the northern maid I love,
With breast like Denmark's snow,
And form as fair as Denmark's pine,
Who loves with purple heath to twine
Her locks of sunny glow;
And sweetly blend that shade of gold
With the cheek's rosy hue,
And Faith might for her mirror hold
That eye of matchless blue.
""Tis hers the manly sports to love
That southern maidens fear,
To bend the bow by stream and grove,
And lift the hunter's spear.
She can her chosen champion's flight
With eye undazzled see,
Clasp him victorious from the strife,
Or on his corpse yield up her life,—
A Danish maid for me!"
Then smiled the Dane-"Thou canst so well
The virtues of our maidens tell,
Half could I wish my choice had been
Blue eyes and hair of golden sheen,
And lofty soul;—yet what of ill
Hast thou to charge on Metelill?
"Nothing on her," 1 young Gunnar said,
"But her base sire's ignoble trade.
Her mother, too—the general fame
Hath given to Jutta evil name,
And in her grey eye is a flame
Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame.-
That sordid woodman's peasant cot
Twice have thine honour'd footsteps sought,
And twice return'd with such ill rede
As sent thee on some desperate deed."-
"Thou errest; Jutta wisely said,
He that comes suitor to a maid,
Ere link'd in marriage should provide,
Lands and a dwelling for his bride-
My father's by the Tyne and Wear
I have reclaimed."-" O, all too dear,
And all too dangerous the prize,
E'en were it won," young Gunnar cries;
"And then this Jutta's fresh device,
That thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane,
From Durham's priests a boon to gain,
'["Nothing on her," is the reading of the interleaved copy of 1831-" On her nought," in all the former editions.]
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