POEMS. THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD. I. THE eagle hearts of all the North The warriors of the world are forth Again, their long keels sheer the wave, Nor swifter from the well-bent bow Can feathered shaft be sped, Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow Their snorting galleys tread. Then lift the can to bearded lip, And smite each sounding shield, Wassaile! to every dark-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 His image mirror'd in the flood Was terrible to see! As leaning on his gleaming axe, His fearless soul was churning up Upheaving then his giant form 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 batle-flag Through sunshine, or through gloom; 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; From sires whose hands in martial bout Nor keener from their castled rock Than, panting for the battle-shock, Young Harald leads the way.' It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty, 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 But backward never bears this flag, While streams to ocean flow; |