Shall bear the scroll of doom? So shout the Scalds, as the long ships are nearing

The low-lying shores of a beautiful land.

Nor keener from their castled rock
Rush eagles on their prey,

Than, panting for the battle-shock,
Young Harald leads the way."
It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible
beauty,

Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce
of heroes.

"The ship-borne warriors of the
North,

The sons of Woden's race,
To battle as to feast go forth,
With stern, and changeless face;
And I the last of a great line-
The Self-devoted, long
To lift on high the Runic sign
Which gives my name to song.
In battle-field young Harald falls
Amid a slaughtered foe,
But backward never bears this flag,
While streams to ocean flow;-
On, on above the crowded dead
This Runic scroll shall flare,
And round it shall the lightnings
spread,

From swords that never spare."
So rush the hero-words from the Death-
doomed one,

While Scalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.

86

In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp
Reel headlong to the grave,

There Harald's axe shall ponderous

Let them come on, the bastard-born,
Each soil-stain'd churle!—alack!
What gain they but a splitten skull,
A sod for their base back?
They sow for us these goodly lands,
We reap them in our might,
Scorning all title but the brands
That triumph in the fight."

Flag! from your folds, and fiercely It was thus the land-winners of old gained

their glory,

wake

War-music on the wind,
Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to
shake

The sternness of my mind;
Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair,
Pale watcher by the sea,

I hear thy wailings on the air,
Thy heart's dirge sung for me;—
In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung
Above the salt sea foam;

The wave that bears me from thy bower,
Shall never bear me home;
Brynhilda! seek another love,
But ne'er wed one like me,-
Who death-foredoomed from above,
Joys in his destiny."

Thus mourned young Harald as he thought
on Brynhilda,

While his eyes filled with tears which glittered, but fell not.

"On sweeps Sigurdir's battle-flag,
The scourge of far frem shore ;
It dashes through the seething foam,
But I return no more!
Wedded unto a fatal bride-
Boune for a bloody bed-
And battling for her, side by side,
Young Harald's doom is sped!

ring,

There Sigurd's flag shall wave ;-
Yes, underneath this standard tall,
Beside this fateful scroll,

Down shall the tower-like prison fall
Of Harald's haughty soul."

So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer
and nearer

The fleet of the Northmen bears down to the shore.

"Green lie those thickly timbered shores

Fair sloping to the sea;

They're cumbered with the harvest
stores

That wave but for the free;
Our sickle is the gleaming sword,
Our garner the broad shield-
Let peasants sow, but still he's ford
Who's master of the field;

And grey stones voiced their praise in the bays of far isles.

"The rivers of yon island low,
Glance redly in the sun,

But ruddier still they're doom'd to

glow,

And deeper shall they run;

The torrent of proud life shall swell
Each river to the brim,

And in that spate of blood, how well
The headless corpse will swim!
The smoke of many a shepherd's cot
Curls from each peopled glen;
And, hark! the song of maidens mild,
The shout of joyous men!
But one may hew the oaken tree,
The other shape the shroud:
As the LANDEYDA o'er the sea
Sweeps like a tempest cloud!"
So shouteth fierce Harald-so echo the

Northmen,

As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard

The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!"

tenderest human sympathies for the Christian sufferer. Love stronger than life, and unchanged while life is dimly fading away, possesses the bosom of the poor forgiving girl, along with pity for his sake almost overcoming sorrow for her own, with keen self-reproach and humble penitence for the guilt into which they two had been betrayed-once too happy in their innocence. 'Tis not the voice of com

"Familiar matter of to-day,
Which has been and will be again;

but never before told more affecting-
ly, or so as to waken more overflow-
ingly from their deepest fount all our

VOL. XXXIII. No. CCVII.

plaint but of contrition; and through her trouble there are glimpses of peace. In that anguish we hear the breathings of a pure spirit-pure though frail-and delicate though fallen-and feel in such ruin how fatal indeed is sin. It is utterly mournful.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.
My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break-
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake!

Oh lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane-
Oh say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will-
But let me rest upon your briest,
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair!

Oh wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met-
Oh wae's me for the time, Willie,

Nor are the lines which follow less
touching; indeed their sadness is
more profound-and it would be

That our first tryst was set!
Oh wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae-

almost painful, but for the exqui- And wae's me for the destinie,
site simplicity of the language, in
which there is a charm that softens
the "pathos too severe." "Tis an
old story;

That gart me luve thee sae!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life-
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair—
Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strang is its despair!

Oh! dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame-
But oh! it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin;
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow and for sin?

2 x