Like foam of sea-billow,

Thy white bosom shows,

Like flash of red levin

Thine eagle eye glows:

Ha! firmly and boldly,

So stately and free,

Thy foot treads this chamber,

As bark rides the sea:

This likes me-this likes me,

Stout maiden of mould,

Thou wooest to purpose;

Bold hearts love the bold.

So shouted Jarl Egill, and clutched the proud maiden.

Away and away then,

I have thy small hand;

Joy with me-our tall bark,

Now bears toward the strand;

I call it the Raven,

The wing of black night,

That shadows forth ruin

O'er islands of light:

Once more on its long deck,

Behind us the gale,

Thou shalt see how before it

Great kingdoms do quail;

Thou shalt see then how truly,

My noble-souled maid,

The ransom of kings can

Be won by this blade.

So bravely Jarl Egill did soothe the pale trembler.

Ay, gaze on its large hilt,

One wedge of red gold;

But doat on its blade, gilt

With blood of the bold.

The hilt is right seemly,

But nobler the blade,

That swart Velint's hammer

With cunning spells made;

I call it the Adder,

Death lurks in its bite,

Through bone and proof-harness
It scatters pale light.

Fair Daughter of Einar,

Deem high of the fate

That makes thee, like this blade,

Proud Egill's loved mate!

So Jarl Egill bore off Torf Einar's bright daughter.

THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI.

'Tis not the grey hawk's flight

O'er mountain and mere;

"Tis not the fleet hound's course

Tracking the deer;

"Tis not the light hoof print

Of black steed or grey,

Though sweltering it gallop
A long summer's day;
Which mete forth the Lordships
I challenge as mine;

Ha ha! 'tis the good brand
I clutch in my strong hand,

That can their broad marches

And numbers define.

LAND GIVER! I kiss thee.

Dull builders of houses,

Base tillers of earth,

Gaping, ask me what lordships
I owned at my birth;

But the pale fools wax mute
When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,

Shouting, "There am I Lord!" Wold and waste, town and tower, Hill, valley, and stream,

Trembling, bow to my sway

In the fierce battle fray,

When the star that rules Fate, is

This falchion's red gleam.

MIGHT GIVER! I kiss thee.

I've heard great harps sounding,
In brave bower and hall,

I've drank the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,

I've hunted in greenwood,

And heard small birds sing;