(9.)-CLAUD HALCRO'S VERSES. AND you shall deal the funeral dole; Ay, deal it, mother mine, And you shall deal my horses of pride; Ay, deal them, mother mine; And you shall deal my lands so wide, And deal my castles nine. But deal not vengeance for the deed, The body to its place, and the soul to Heaven's grace, And the rest in God's own time. Saint Magnus control thee, that martyr of treason; Saint Ronan rebuke thee, with rhyme and with reason; By the mass of Saint Martin, the might of Saint Mary, Be thou gone, or thy weird shall be worse if thou tarry! If of good, go hence and hallow thee; If of ill, let the earth swallow thee; If thou'rt of air, let the grey mist fold thee;- If a Pixie, seek thy ring; If a Nixie, seek thy spring;- Slave of sorrow, shame, and sin, Hast eat the bread of toil and strife, And dree'd the lot which men call life; Begone to thy stone! for thy coffin is scant of thee, The worm, thy play-fellow, wails for the want of thee: Hence, houseless ghost! let the earth hide thee, Till Michael shall blow the blast, see that there (10.)-NORNA'S INCANTATIONS. CHAMPION, famed for warlike toil, Yet be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight But what I seek thou well canst spare. Be it to my hand allow'd To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud; Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough To shield thy bones from weather rough. See, I draw my magic knife- When point and edge were glittering near; Thou wilt not wake-the deed is done! The prize I sought is fairly won. Thanks, Ribolt, thanks,-for this the sea She, the dame of doubt and dread, Chap. xxv. [AT INTERVIEW WITH MINNA.] Thou, so needful, yet so dread, With cloudy crest, and wing of red; Thou, without whose genial breath The North would sleep the sleep of death Who deign'st to warm the cottage hearth, Yet hurls proud palaces to earth,-Brightest, keenest of the Powers, Which form and rule this world of ours, With my rhyme of Runic, I Thank thee for thy agency. Old Reimkennar, to thy art Girdle of our islands dear, From our rock-defended land; Elements, each other greeting, Thou, that over billows dark Oft thy breath hath through it sung, She who sits by haunted well, She who walks on lonely beach, To the Mermaid's charmed speech; She who walks round ring of green, Offends the peevish Fairy Queen; And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's cave, A weary weird of woe shall have. By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore, And yet hath the root of her sorrow and ill, A source that 's more deep and more mystical still. |