The warlike Norsemen of the isles,
Erst o'er the wave held sovereignty—
A sound is swelling where, erewhile,
Their ringing spears made melody:
Rude hunters of the seal and whale
Are chaunting out the Saga's tale,
To the wild winds sweeping by—
How their heroes heard the Valkyriur call
To the feast and song in Odin's hall—
To the white mead foaming high!
The stirring Scottish border tale,
Pealed from the chords in chieftain's hall—
The wild traditions of the Gäel,
The wandering harper's lays recall:
All have their legends, and their songs—
Records of glory, feud, and wrongs.
What nerved the fair chivalric Gaul,
When woke the bold 'Parisienne?'
The 'Marsellois?' what foeman then
Roused him to conquer or to fall?
What thought the Switzer's bosom thrills,
When sounds the 'Ranz de Vache' on high;
A race as ancient as their hills,
Still echoes their wild mountain cry:
He springs along the rocky height—
He marks the lammergeyer's flight—
The chamois bounding by:
He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn—
He winds again the mountain horn,
And the loud Alps reply!
Our fathers bore from Albion's isle,
No stories of her sounding lyres—
They left the old baronial pile—
They left the harp of ringing wires!
Ours are the legends old and dim,
The household song—the evening hymn,
Sung by your bright hearth-fires!
Each tree that in your soft wind stirs,
Waves o'er our ancient sepulchres—
The ashes of our sires!
Yea, forth they went, nerved to forsake
Home, and the chains they might not bear—
And woman's heart was strong, to break
The links of love which bound her there.
Here, free to worship and believe,
From many a log-built hut, at eve,
Went up the suppliant voice of prayer.
Is it not writ on history's page,
How the strong arm claimed our heritage?—
Of the lion claimed his lair!
Our people sang no loud war-songs,
They shouted no loud battle-cry—
A burning memory of their wrongs
Lit up their path to victory!
With prayer to God to aid the right,
The yeoman girded him for fight,
To free the land he tilled, or die!
They bore no proud escutcheon'd shield—
No blazoned banners to the field—
Nought but their motto—'Liberty!'
Their sons—when after years shall fling
O'er these romance—when time hath cast
The mighty shadow of his wing
Between them and the stoned past—
Will tell of foul oppression's heel,
Of hands which bore the avenging steel,
And battled sternly to the last—
By their hearth-fires—on the hill-side free,
Till the swell is caught by the echöing sea,
And hymned by the wandering blast!
Ione.