THE ICELANDER'S SONG.
From a MS. Volume of Poems, by Mr. G. Rathbone.
The southern may talk of his meads crown'd with flow'rs,
Where the gale, breathing incense, unceasingly flies;
He may vaunt the rich hue of his rose-tangled bowers
Or the sapphire and gold of his bright sunny skies;
But it is not a theme that will light up emotion
In an Icelander's breast; since his pride and his boast
Are his hoar-cover'd mountains, that frown on the ocean,
Lit up with the ice-blink that girdles the coast.
When the winter of night darkles round him all dreary,
And his snow-bosom'd hills mourn the absence of day,
With a heart void of care, and with limbs seldom weary,
He launches his bark in pursuit of his prey;
Rough is his bed, and uneasy his pillow,
When far off in ocean he rambles from home;
Blithe scuds his boat, as her prow cleaves the billow
Of the gem-spangled brine, with its ridges of foam.
Dear is the dawn of the fork'd northern light,
That illumines old Hecla's broad cone with its rays;
And dearer its splendour, increasingly bright,
When the peaks of the ice-bergs appear in the blaze:
Brightly it plays on his dart's glossy pride,
When it flies, steep'd in spray, on the snake's scaly crest,
To bury its point in the whale's finny hide,
Or flesh its curv'd barb in the sea-lion's chest.
Dear is the summer of day, when the fountains,
Unfetter'd and free, pour the bright crystal stream;
Dear is the cataract's leap in the mountains,
When sparkling at night in the moon's silver beam;
Dear are the shoals where the sea-horse is bounding,
With his icicled mane and his eyeballs of fire;
But dearer than all, is the comfort surrounding
The wife of his choice, and the hearth of his sire.