"Far in the Northern land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the ger-falcon ; "Oft to his frozen lair Sang from the meadow. "But when I older grew, With the marauders. Set the cocks crowing, Filled to o'erflowing. "Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; Fell their soft splendour. Our vows were plighted. By the hawk frighted. When of old Hildebrand "While the brown ale he quaffed, And though she blushed and smiled, "Scarce had I put to sea, Among the Norsemen !- With twenty horsemen. "Then launched they to the blast, When the wind failed us; Laugh as he hailed us. Through the black water! With his prey laden; "Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Stands looking seaward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, O, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison-bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl THE WRECK OF THE IT was the schooner Hesperus, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May. *In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order to preserve the correct pronunciation. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, row South. Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish Main, pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. 66 I "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see !" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the North-east; The snow fell hissing in the brine, She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast, "Ofather! I hear the church-bells ring, O say what may it be?" ""Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, O say what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. [The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart. of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.] OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!" The butler hears the words with pain, Fill with red wine from Portugal!" The gray-beard with trembling hand obeys; A purple light shines over all, It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, "This glass of flashing crystal tall Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; She wrote in it: If this glass doth fall, Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall! ""Twas right a goblet the Fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall! First rings it deep, and full, and mild, The glorious Luck of Edenhall. "For its keeper takes a race of might, The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!" The guests in dust are scattered all, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall. On the morrow the butler gropes alone, The gray-beard in the desert hall, He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. "The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, Down must the stately columns fall; Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride; In atoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall!" THE ELECTED KNIGHT. FROM THE DANISH. [The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the translation.] SIR OLUF he rideth over the plain, Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, But never, ah never can meet with the man A tilt with him dare ride. He saw under the hill-side A Knight full well equipped; His steed was black, his helm was barred; He was riding at full speed. He wore upon his spurs Twelve little golden birds; Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, And there sat all the birds and sang. He wore upon his mail Twelve little golden wheels; Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, And round and round the wheels they flew. He wore before his breast A lance that was poised in rest; And it was sharper than diamond-stone, It made Sir Olur's heart to groan. He wore upon his helm A wreath of ruddy gold; And that gave him the Maidens Three, The youngest was fair to behold. Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon If he were come from heaven down; "Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, "So will I yield me unto thee." "I am not Christ the Great, Thou shalt not yield thee yet; I am an Unknown Knight, Three modest Maidens have me be dight." "Art thou a Knight elected, And have three Maidens thee be dight; So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, For all the Maidens' honour!" The first tilt they together rode They put their steeds to the test; Neither of them would yield; And their blood runs unto death; Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, The youngest sorrows till death. 59 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 1842. [The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand!- And then at furious speed he rode His bridle-reins were golden chains, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter that the soul |