O’ER THE FAR MOUNTAIN PEAK ON HIGH.
O’er the far mountain peak on high
First shines the morning’s ray;
And latest from the crimsoned sky
The beam of parting day.
Yet there, to greet the partial light,
Nor flowers nor verdure bloom;
But barren all—though coldly bright—
And cheerless as the tomb.
While in the modest vale’s recess,
Where sunlight scarce descends,
Fresh flowerets spring the beam to bless,
And grateful foliage bends.
Thus hearts that bask in fortune’s smile,
Undimmed by clouds of care,
Feel not the joys their hours beguile,
Which humbler bosoms share.
INCANTATION OF HERVOR.[13]
Spirit of the royal dead!
Many a weary year is sped,
Since these stern mountains, wild and high,
Echoed thy lofty battle cry.
Silence and peace their hallowed gloom
Have shed upon the warrior’s tomb.
I come to break the sacred rest
The grave has heaped upon thy breast;
The daughter of a warlike name,
And deeds of glory—here I claim
The sword of more than mortal fire,
That fiercely armed thee, royal sire!
That drank Hialmar’s murderous breath,
And held at every point a death.
All hushed? Are Andgrym’s fiery race,
—Ever the first in battle’s face—
Dim now and dust? Hath Eyvor’s son,
The free, the bold, the glorious one,
His pride forgot? Or sleep ye all?
Each of the brethren twelve I call!—
Hiorvardur!—In vain—in vain!
Unbroken death and silence reign.
I know the spells, with danger fraught,
With which that fearful blade was wrought;
I know the hand whose mystic seal
Gave power and vengeance to the steel;
When the dark dwarf-king in his ire
Begirt it thrice with central fire,
And thrice denounced, in accents dread,
His curse upon the victor’s head,
Who bore it from its flaming bed.
I know that curse, whate’er it be,
Has not been all fulfilled in thee;
That he who dares this sword to wield
Must his own heart its victim yield:—
Yet will I brave the death, the guilt,
To grasp in pride its blood-stained hilt.
Now give! Believe, the subtle brand
Shall grace a northern maiden’s hand.
Still silent? Then by spear and shield
I bid thee to my wishes yield!
By bucklers strewn upon the plain—
By thousand foes in battle slain—
By Saxon bones in fearful trust
That crumble o’er thy conquering dust—
By banners in the red field borne—
By hearts from bleeding bosoms torn—
By hate-lit eye—and lowering brow—
By lifted hand—and solemn vow—
I charm thee from repose—and doom
Thine ashes to a restless tomb,
Till from the shelter of the grave
Thy hand shall give the boon I crave!
By this o’ershadowing vine, whose stem
Gives to the wind thy requiem—
By spreading forest—flowing stream—
By mountain shade—and sun light’s gleam—
By crimsoned clouds at eve that lie
Upon the margin of the sky—
By midnight tones from every flower—
By viewless steps in every bower—
By songs that from its caverns sweep
When twilight shrouds the foaming deep—
By moonlight forms that nightly lave
Their locks upon the emerald wave—
By all that’s bright in earth or sky—
Monarch! I charm thee to comply!
By gathering clouds and tempests driven
When the red lightning rends the heaven—
By Odin’s self, when his dread form
Bestrides and guides the vengeful storm—
By Eger’s hoary sceptre, spread
Across the ocean’s crystal bed—
By mighty Thor’s cloud-girdled throne,
Who hurls the thunderbolt alone—
I ask the gift with spirit bold,
Which none but thee would dare withhold.
Now by all hidden spells that lie
In the deep soul of poesy—
By the stern death-song of the brave,
The last best gift that Odin gave—
And by the power that gives to me
The keys of nature’s secresy—
And by the prophet glances thrown
Into the depths of worlds unknown—
By thine own proud and royal name—
Once more the enchanted sword I claim!
It comes! the gleaming point I see—
It comes with solemn minstrelsy!
With bounding heart and rapturous eyes
I grasp the long contested prize!
Now let the broken turf-bed close
In peace above thy deep repose;
Thou canst not feel another spell—
Prince! To thy dust a long farewell!