SÖLVAR-HOW.
Up the valley of Brathay rode Dagmar the Dane.
There was gold on her bit, there was silk on her rein.
You might see her white steed in the distance afar,
On the green-breasted hill, shining out like a star;
Where beyond her on high in his barrow lay sleeping
Old Sölvar the chief; and the shade, that sat keeping
His fame, by his tomb sang the Norseland's wild strain.
As the white steed of Dagmar shone, breasting the hill;
To the mound where old Sölvar lies lonely and still,
In the red light of evening, arresting her gaze,
Flocked the meek mountain ewes and the steers up the ways,
With the firstlings and yearlings, from hill top and hollow,
Gathering far, the sweet voice of the Phantom to follow—
To them sweeter than murmur of fountain and rill.
There was joy in their looks, in their eyes the clear light
Glistened searchingly forth on that mystical sight.
And from far, too, the white steed of Dagmar the Dane
Pricked his ears, stepping proudly, unheeding the rein;
And aside to the summit turned joyfully pacing;
While the steers and the ewes listened wistfully gazing,
And the Phantom sat singing of Sölvar the Bright.
O'er the pools of the Brathay, from Skelwith's lone tower
The sire of the princess looked forth in that hour.
He beheld the white steed of his child, like a star
On the green-breasted hill, and he cried from afar—
"She has heard his wild strains on the hill-top awaken,
And I from this hour am alone and forsaken.
—Not her voice nor her foot-fall, to come to me more!"
For to Dagmar the fair, when the flocks of the field
And the herds were in motion their homage to yield
To the bright Norseland Boy—with the fire and the grace
Of his sires in his limbs and their pride in his face—
In the garb of his country, rehearsing the story
Of chiefs and of kings and the Norseland's old glory—
Was the Phantom in all his bright beauty revealed.
There entranced in that vision, enchained by his tongue,
As the strains through his harp-strings melodiously rung,
Sat the maid on White Svend mid the yearlings; till now
Far departing he turns from the hill's sunny brow;
And the ewes at his feet awhile falteringly follow,
Then range back bewildered to hill-top and hollow;
While the Maid on his fast-fading accents still hung.
Through the still light receding his loose tresses streamed;
But to fly with him still was the dream she had dreamed;
Side by side o'er the hills, through the valleys, and on
To the Norseland to hear his wild songs all alone;
And to chase from his lips every accent of sorrow,
As they walked through the dawn of a brighter to-morrow
Into sunlight that heaven upon earth never beamed.
Springing down from White Svend, swiftly Dagmar the Dane
Cast aside on his neck the rich silk-tassel'd rein;
With her eyes fixed afar o'er the green mountain sward,
Whence the bright Norseland Boy cast a backward regard.
Call aloud from thy Tower, call aloud and implore her,
Hapless sire! to return, ere the night gathers o'er her!
She can hear but the voice of the Phantom's sweet strain.
Light and fleet was her foot over hollow and hill;
Till they reached the rude cleft of the deep-roaring Ghyll.
On the black dungeon's brink not a moment he stay'd;
O'er the black roaring Ghyll glided softly the Shade.
Like a thin wreath of mist she descried him far over—
And her cry pierced the night-boding hill tops above her;
When down the loose rocks plunged, and bridged the dark Ghyll.
Heard the eagle that shriek from his eyrie on high?
Struck his wings the poised rocks as he rushed to the sky?
Did the wild goat leap, startled, and press from their hold
With his hoof the loose crags?—that they bounded and roll'd
Far above, down, and on, soughing, plunging, and clashing,
Till they reached the dark Ghyll, and fell, wedging and crashing,
In the gulf's horrid jaws, there for ever to lie.
The fleet foot of Dagmar sprang light to the stone,
Where it bridged the dread gulf, in the twilight, alone.
For one moment she stood with her eyes straining o'er
Into space, for the bright one that answered no more.
He was gone from the hand she stretched, vainly imploring;
He was gone from the heart that beat, madly adoring:
And a voice from the waters cried wailingly—"Gone."
Roar thou on, Dungeon-Ghyll! there was mourning in vain
In the fortress of Skelwith for Dagmar the Dane.
From their tower on the cliff they looked, tearful and pale,
On her riderless steed as it came down the vale.
In her bower and in hall there was wailing and sorrow.
And the hills shone renewed with each glorious to-morrow.
But their bright star, their Dagmar, they knew not again.