In fury Sivard seiz'd his shining shield,
His mail, his helm, and spear;
He mounts his car, and thunders o'er the field;
Now Norway knows no fear.
Great Rollo falls beneath his dreadful arm,
His steeds are stain'd with blood;
Young Eric smil'd to hear the loud alarm,
And flew to stop the flood.
He rag'd, he foam'd—fierce flew the thirsty spear,
Down fell the foremost steed:
Astonish'd Sivard felt unusual fear,
"Tyrant thou'rt doom'd to bleed!"
Up sprang the youth—deep fell the sword,
Sunk in the tyrant's brow:
Fast fly the Swedes, and leave their hated lord,
His mighty pride laid low.
Now Norway's sons their great deliv'rer hail,
But lo! he bleeds! he falls!
Old Athold strips the helm and beamy mail,
And on his Gods he calls.
He lifts the helm, and down the snowy neck
Fast falls the silky hair—
And could those limbs, the conq'ring Sivard check!
Oh pow'r of great despair!
Life ebbs apace—she lifts her languid head,
She strives her hand to wave;
Confess to all, the beauteous Ella said—
"Thanks, thanks companions brave:
"Freedom rewards you—naught can Ella give,
"Low, low poor Ella lies;
"Sivard is dead! and Ella wou'd not live."
She bleeds—she faints—she dies!
N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos., II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.
PEASANT OF THE ALPS.