THE SEA KING'S DEATH-SONG.
"I'll launch my gallant bark no more,
Nor smile to see how gay
Its pennon dances, as we bound
Along the watery way;
The wave I walk on's mine—the god
I worship is the breeze;
My rudder is my magic rod
Of rule, on isles and seas:
Blow, blow, ye winds, for lordly France,
Or shores of swarthy Spain:
Blow where ye list, of earth I'm lord,
When monarch of the main.
"When last upon the surge I rode,
A strong wind on me shot,
And tossed me as I toss my plume,
In battle fierce and hot.
Three days and nights no sun I saw,
Nor gentle star nor moon;
Three feet of foam dash'd o'er my decks,
I sang to see it—soon
The wind fell mute, forth shone the sun,
Broad dimpling smiled the brine;
I leap'd on Ireland's shore, and made
Half of her riches mine.
"The wild hawk wets her yellow foot
In blood of serf and king:
Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe,
And helm and cuirass ring;
The foam flies from the charger's flanks,
Like wreaths of winter's snow;
Spears shiver, and the bright shafts start
In thousands from the bow—
Strike up, strike up, my minstrels all
Use tongue and tuneful chord—
Be mute!—My music is the clang
Of cleaving axe and sword.
"Cursed be the Norseman who puts trust
In mortar and in stone;
Who rears a wall, or builds a tower,
Or makes on earth his throne;
My monarch throne's the willing wave,
That bears me on the beach;
My sepulchre's the deep sea surge,
Where lead shall never reach;
My death-song is the howling wind,
That bends my quivering mast,—
Bid England's maidens join the song,
I there made orphans last.
"Mourn, all ye hawks of heaven, for me
Oft, oft, by frith and flood,
I called ye forth to feast on kings;
Who now shall give ye food?
Mourn, too, thou deep-devouring sea,
For of earth's proudest lords
We served thee oft a sumptuous feast
With our sharp shining swords;
Mourn, midnight, mourn, no more thou'lt hear
Armed thousands shout my name.
Nor see me rushing, red wet shod,
Through cities doomed to flame.
"My race is run, my flight is flown;
And, like the eagle free,
That soars into the cloud and dies,
I leave my life on sea.
To man I yield not spear nor sword
Ne'er harmed me in their ire,
Vain on me Europe shower'd her shafts,
And Asia pour'd her fire.
Nor wound nor scar my body bears,
My lip made never moan,
And Odin bold, who gave me life,
Now comes and takes his own.
"Light! light there! let me get one look,—
Yon is the golden sky,
With all its glorious lights, and there
My subject sea flows by;
Around me all my comrades stand,
Who oft have trod with me
On prince's necks, a joy that's flown,
And never more may be.
Now put my helmet on my head,
My bright sword in my hand,
That I may die as I have lived.
In arms and high command."
In the prose department the most striking is the description of Abbotsford, quoted in our 339th number. There is an affecting Tale of the Times of the Martyrs, by the Rev. Edward Irving, which will repay the reader's curiosity. The Honeycomb and Bitter Gourd is a pleasing little story; and Paddy Kelleger and his Pig, is a fine bit of humour, in Mr. Croker's best style. The brief Memoir of the late Sir George Beaumont is a just tribute to the memory of that liberal patron of the Fine Arts, and is an opportune introduction into such a work as the present. The letter of Lord Byron, too, from Genoa in 1823, will be interesting to the noble poet's admirers.
Among the illustrations we can only notice the Lute, by C. Rolls, after Bonnington; Morning, by E. Goodall, from Linton's "joyful" picture; Sir W. Scott in his Study (qy. the forehead); a little "Monkeyana," by Landseer; Chillon, by Wallis, from a drawing by Clarkson Stanfield—a sublime picture; Fonthill, an exquisite scene from one of Turner's drawings; Beatrice, from a picture by Howard; the Lake View of Newstead, after Danby; the Snuff-Box, from Stephanoff; and last, though not least, Gainsborough's charming Young Cottagers, transferred to steel, by J.H. Robinson—perhaps the most attractive print in the whole series.
With this hasty notice we conclude, in the language of our announcement of the present work, "wishing the publisher many Anniversaries"