Romantic Ballads | Page 4

in many a strange belief,

Now stern as steel, now soft as grief -
Wild, witching, warlike,
brief, sublime,
Stamped with the image of their time;
When
chafed--the call is sharp and high
For carnage, as the eagles cry;

When pleased--the mood is meek, and mild,
And gentle, as an
unweaned child.
Sing, sing of haunted shores and shelves,
St. Oluf
and his spiteful elves,
Of that wise dame, in true love need,
Who of
the clear stream formed the steed -
How youthful Svend, in sorrow
sharp,
The inspired strings rent from his harp;
And Sivard, in his
cloak of felt,
Danced with the green oak at his belt -
Or sing the
Sorceress of the wood,
The amorous Merman of the flood -
Or
elves that, o'er the unfathomed stream,
Sport thick as motes in
morning beam -
Or bid me sail from Iceland Isle,
With Rosmer and
fair Ellenlyle,
What time the blood-crow's flight was south,
Bearing
a man's leg in its mouth.
Though rough and rude, those strains are rife

Of things kin to immortal life,
Which touch the heart and tinge the
cheek,
As deeply as divinest Greek.
In simple words and unsought
rhyme,
Give me the songs of olden time.
THE DEATH-RAVEN.
FROM THE DANISH OF
OEHLENSLAEGER.
The silken sail, which caught the summer breeze,
Drove the light
vessel through the azure seas;
Upon the lofty deck, Dame Sigrid lay,

And watch'd the setting of the orb of day:
Then, all at once, the
smiling sky grew dark,
The breakers rav'd, and sinking seem'd the
bark;
The wild Death-raven, perch'd upon the mast,

Scream'd 'mid
the tumult, and awoke the blast.
Dame Sigrid saw the demon bird on high,
And tear-drops started in
her beauteous eye;
Her cheeks, which late like blushing roses bloom'd,

Had now the pallid hue of fear assum'd:
"O wild death-raven, calm
thy frightful rage,
Nor war with one who warfare cannot wage.


Tame yonder billows, make them cease to roar,
And I will give thee
pounds of golden ore."
"With gold thou must not hope to pay the brave,
For gold I will not
calm a single wave,
For gold I will not hush the stormy air,
And yet
my heart is mov'd by thy despair;
Give me the treasure hid beneath
thy belt,
And straight yon clouds in harmless rain shall melt,
And
down I'll thunder, with my claws of steel.
Upon the merman clinging
to your keel."
"What I conceal'd beneath my girdle bear,
Is thine--irrevocably
thine--I swear.
Thou hast refus'd a great and noble prey,
To get
possession of my closet key.
Lo! here it is, and, when within thy maw,

May'st thou much comfort from the morsel draw!"
The polish'd
steel upon the deck she cast,
And off the raven flutter'd from the
mast.
Then down at once he plung'd amid the main,
And clove the
merman's frightful head in twain;
The foam-clad billows to repose he
brought,
And tam'd the tempest with the speed of thought;
Then,
with a thrice-repeated demon cry,
He soar'd aloft and vanish'd in the
sky:
A soft wind blew the ship towards the land,
And soon Dame
Sigrid reach'd the wish'd-for strand.
Once, late at eve, she play'd upon her harp,
Close by the lake where
slowly swam the carp;
And, as the moon-beam down upon her shone,

She thought of Norway, and its pine-woods lone.
"Yet love I
Denmark," said she, "and the Danes,
For o'er them Alf, my mighty
husband, reigns."
Then 'neath her girdle something mov'd and yearn'd,

And into terror all her bliss was turn'd.
"Ah! now I know thy meaning, cruel bird . . . "
Long sat she, then,
and neither spoke nor stirr'd.
Faint, through the mist which rob'd the
sky in gray,
The pale stars glimmer'd from the milky way.
"Ah!

now I know thy meaning, cruel bird . . . "
She strove in vain to
breathe another word.
Above her head, its leaf the aspen shook -

Moist as her cheek, and pallid as her look.
Full five months pass'd, ere she, 'mid night and gloom,
Brought forth
with pain an infant from her womb:
They baptiz'd it, at midnight's
murky hour,
Lest it should fall within the demon's power.
It was a
boy, more lovely than the morn,
Yet Sigrid's heart with bitter care
was torn.
Deep in a grot, through which a brook did flow,
With
crystal drops they sprinkled Harrald's brow.
He grew and grew, till upon Danish ground
No youth to match the
stripling could be found;
He was at once so graceful and so strong -

His look was fire, and his speech was song.
When yet a child, he
tam'd the battle steed,
And only thought of war and daring deed;

But yet Queen Sigrid nurs'd prophetic fears,
And when she view'd
him, always swam in tears.
One evening late, she lay upon her bed,
(King Alf, her noble spouse,
was long since dead)
She felt so languid, and her aching breast

With more than usual sorrow was oppress'd.
Ah, then she heard a
sudden sound that thrill'd
Her every nerve, and life's warm current
chill'd:-
The bird of death had through the casement flown,
And
thus he scream'd to her, in frightful tone:
"The wealthy bird came towering,
Came scowering,
O'er hill and
stream.
'Look here, look here, thou needy bird,
How gay my
feathers gleam.'
"The