and retirement, animated alone by the love of his art, and sustained through many long years of trial and of toil by the distant gleam of posthumous fame, it will not be disputed that his motives to action were exalted, and his exertions in the cause of human improvement disinterested.

Ossa quieta, precor, tuta requiescite in urna ;
Et sit humus cineri non onerosa tuo.

GLASGOW, DEC. 23, 1846.

J. M'C.

POEMS.

I.

THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD.

I.

THE eagle hearts of all the North

Have left their stormy strand;

The warriors of the world are forth

To choose another land!

Again, their long keels sheer the wave,
Their broad sheets court the breeze;

Again, the reckless and the brave,
Ride lords of weltering seas.

Nor swifter from the well-bent bow

Can feathered shaft be sped,

Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow

Their snoring galleys tread.

Then lift the can to bearded lip,

And smite each sounding shield,

Wassaile! to every darked-ribbed ship,
To every battle-field!

So proudly the Skalds raise their voices of triumph,

As the Northmen ride over the broad-bosom'd billow.

II.

Aloft, Sigurdir's battle-flag
Streams onward to the land,

Well may the taint of slaughter lag

On yonder glorious strand.

The waters of the mighty deep,

The wild birds of the sky,

Hear it like vengeance shoreward sweep,

Where moody men must die.

The waves wax wroth beneath our keel

The clouds above us lower,

They know the battle sign, and feel

All its resistless power!

Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag,

Nor shuns an early tomb?

Who shoreward through the swelling surge,

Shall bear the scroll of doom?

So shout the Skalds as the long ships are nearing The low-lying shores of a beautiful land.

III.

Silent the Self-devoted stood

Beside the massive tree;

His image mirror'd in the flood

Was terrible to see!

As leaning on his gleaming axe,

And gazing on the wave,

His fearless soul was churning up,
The death-rune of the brave.
Upheaving then his giant form
Upon the brown bark's prow,
And tossing back the yellow storm
Of hair from his broad brow;
The lips of song burst open, and

The words of fire rushed out,

And thundering through that martial crew
Pealed Harald's battle shout ;-

It is Harald the dauntless that lifteth his great voice,
As the Northmen roll on with the Doom-written banner.

IV.

"I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag

Through sunshine or through gloom;
Through swelling surge on bloody strand

I plant the scroll of doom!

On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste,
Beneath a starless sky,

The shadowy Three like meteors passed,

And bade young Harald die ;—

They sang the war-deeds of his sires,

And pointed to their tomb;

They told him that this glory-flag

Was his by right of doom.

Since then, where hath young Harald been,

But where Jarl's son should be ?

'Mid war and waves-the combat keen

That raged on land or sea!"

So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory,
As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden banner.

V.

"Mine own death's in this clenched hand!

I know the noble trust;

These limbs must rot on yonder strand—

These lips must lick its dust,

But shall this dusky standard quail

In the red slaughter day;

Or shall this heart its purpose fail

This arm forget to slay?

I trample down such idle doubt;

Harald's high blood hath sprung

From sires whose hands in martial bout
Hath ne'er belied their tongue ;—

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.

VI.

"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 Skalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.

VII.

"Flag! from your folds, and fiercely 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,

*And round it shall PALE lightnings spread.-MS. copy.