Loud leaps the strong wind forth,
Fierce from the caves of the mighty North,
Ages untold,
O'er town and wold,
That rest 'neath a softer sky,
Swept that blast in anger by,
And in his wrathful eddies bore
The fiery song of Odin and Thor.
Then little avail,
'Gainst the Vi-king's arm,
The maiden's tear, the warrior's mail,
Or the priestman's charm.
And o'er the bright South-land
A shadow of dread was the North wind's course,
Whene'er his surging currents fanned
The raven banner of the Norse.
Years pass, and time new rays has brought,
Yet still the Northman's heart is warm;
But light on his soul a change has wrought,
And he loves the calm as he loved the storm.
Another god than the fearful Thor
In heaven's blue he saw,
And he gave to Peace his might in war—
His anger to the law.
And the strong hand holds the sickle now,
The anvil rings at morn;
And waving sunbeams tinge with gold
The hues of the ripening corn.
And the land he loves in peace has grown
To be mighty in wealth and name;
But o'er its brightness a cloud has flown,
And evil men to its councils came.
And all seemed locked in a deadly sleep,
While treason walked in her halls of state,
And good men grieve, but hopeless weep,
And the song of the scoffer is loud at the gate.
'The nation must pass away.
For the Northman's blood is cold,
And little he recks of honor or name,
If his hand may clutch the gold.
'Work treason—work your will—
Divide our Fatherland;
Hearts are craven, souls are base—
'Tis fit for the traitor's hand.
'Fear no more the Northman's rage,
The blood of the Vi-kings is old and worn;
No ancient mem'ry can stir him now,
To stand by the flag his fathers have borne.'
The words half-sung in silence fall,
Hushed in dread by a mightier call,
That stays the hand—that throbs the heart;
Cleaving the gloom, that wild war-note—
The traitor's foot is on your flag,
His bayonet at our throat.
And hark! the North-wind's sullen moan
Rises high to a sterner tone,
That sinks away, then bursts anew
In joy, as 'mid its surges grew
The shout, the stroke, the cannon's peal,
The tread of countless number.
For the flash of a traitor's steel
Has broken the nation's slumber;
And sighing breeze and southern gale,
Seized by the fierce wind's grasp, are torn
From gentle haunt by hill or dale,
And in the whirling vortex borne.
There murm'ring on his hollow breast,
And wond'ring at his wild unrest,
Their shrieking echoes sounding far,
Loud swelled the Northman's shout to war;
For with death's dark shadows flitting by,
And the day as dark as night,
A nation's hands are raised on high
To hold their ancient right.
And the ages are rolled from the record of time;
For the years of peace with its soft'ning beam,
That soothed in love the Northman's heart,
Are now but the mists of a warrior's dream.
And the tinsel of life is burned in the glow
That flames in his heart as in years long ago,
When Norman sea-kings swept the wave,
Who loved the night, the storm, and bloody grave.
And through all the blue of heaven's vault,
Rolls the Vala's mystic charm,
Swelled with strains of the mighty past—
Victory strikes with the Northman's arm.
F.
Truly the old Northman is not dead among us. He lived in the iron Monitor, of the descendant of Eric, and he lives in scores of thousands of brave hearts and strong arms who came and are still coming to the battle-call:
'Northmen, come out!
Forth into battle with storm and shout,
He who lives with victory's blest;
He who dies gains peaceful rest.
Living or dying, let us be
Still vowed to God and liberty!
Northmen, come out!'
The following poem is certainly not behind the times:
PAYING THE SHOT.
BY J. IVES PEASE.
Yes, pay them! pay them in their chosen coin,
Bomb-shell and cannon-balls, well served and hot;
Ay, 'shell out' all the treasures of 'the mine,'
Since that's the way we've got to 'pay the shot.'
We 'owe them one!' and now's the time to settle,
And finish up the business to a dot;
A half a million men, upon their metal,
Accounts will soon square off, and 'pay the shot.'
We owe them one; but 'tisn't one for niggers;
Master or slave no more shall treason plot.
We've settled that account with steel and triggers,
And the two millions, daily, 'pay the shot.'
We owe them one for hemp, that, coil on coil,
Judge Lynch has tendered us, in noose and knot;
We've now a sort that's grown upon free soil,
That, properly paid out, soon 'pays the shot.'
There's a snug sum due on the Sumner books;
That must be paid, each tittle and each jot;
A good accountant no mistake e'er brooks,
But strikes his balance fair, and 'pays the shot.'
There's some old 'scores,' on tar-and-feather martyrs,
We've now the 'devil to pay,' the 'pitch all hot;'
In every Jack-tar, Jeff now finds a Tar-tar,
Bound to 'pitch in,' and bound to 'pay the shot.'
So, onward, mudsills! fanatics! vandals! vipers!
Wipe out this treason now, nor leave one blot;
When Dixie dances, Dixie must 'pay the piper;'
Enough for 'U. S.' that we must 'pay the shot.'
War stories and war songs are in vogue—for instance: