Romantic Ballads Part 16

What darkens, what darkens?--'t is heaven's high roof: What lightens?--'t is Heckla's flame, shooting aloof: The proud, the majestic, the rugged old Thor, The mightiest giant the North ever saw, Transform'd to a mountain, stands there in the field, With ice for his corslet, and rock for his shield; With thunder for voice, and with fire for tongue, He stands there, so frightful, with vapour o'erhung.

On that other side of the boisterous sea Black Vulcan, as haughty as ever was he, Stands, chang'd to a mountain, call'd Etna by name, Which belches continually oceans of flame.

Much blood have they spilt, and much harm have they done, For both, when the ancient religions were gone, Combin'd their wild strength to destroy the new race, Who were boldly beginning their shrines to deface.

O, Jesus of Nazareth, draw forth the blade Of vengeance, and speed to thy worshippers' aid; Beat down the old G.o.ds, cut asunder their mail-- Amen!--brother Christians, why look ye so pale.

THE VIOLET-GATHERER.

FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER.

Pale the moon her light was shedding O'er the landscape far and wide; Calmly bright, all ills undreading, Emma wander'd by my side.

Night's sad birds their harsh notes utter'd, Perching low among the trees; Emma's milk-white kirtle flutter'd Graceful in the rising breeze:

Then, in sweetness more than mortal, Sang a voice a plaintive air, As we pa.s.s'd the church's portal, Lo, a ghostly form stood there!

"Emma, come, thy mother's calling; Lone I lie in night and gloom, Whilst the sun and moon-beams, falling, Glance upon my marble tomb."

Emma star'd upon the figure,-- Wish'd to speak, but vainly tried, Press'd my hand with loving vigour, Trembled--faulter'd--gasp'd--and died!

Home I bore my luckless maiden, Home I bore her in despair; Chilly blasts, with night-dew laden, Rustled through her streaming hair.

Plunging then amid the forest, Soon I found the stately tree, Under which, when heat was sorest, She was wont to sit with me.

Down my cheek ran tears in fever, While with axe its stem I cut; Soon it fell, and I with lever Roll'd it straight to Emma's hut.

Kiss'd her oft, and love empa.s.sion'd Sung a song in wildest tones; While the oaken boards I fashion'd, Doom'd to hide her lovely bones.

Thereupon I sought the bower, Where she kept her single hive; Morning shone on tree and flower, All around me look'd alive.

Stung by bees in thousand places, Out I took the yellow comb; Emma, deck'd in all her graces, Past my vision seem'd to roam.

Soon of wax I form'd a taper, O'er my love it cast its ray, 'Till the night came, clad in vapour, When in grave I laid her clay.

Deep below me sank the coffin, While my tears fell fast as rain; Deep it sank, and I, full often, Thought to heave it up again.

Soon as e'er the stars, so merry, Heaven's arch next night illum'd, Sad I sought the cemetery, Where my true love lay entomb'd.

Then, in sweetness more than mortal, Sang a voice a plaintive lay; Underneath the church's portal Emma stood in death array.

"Louis! come! thy love is calling; Lone I lie in night and gloom, Whilst the sun and moon beams, falling, Glance upon my lowly tomb."

"Emma! dear!" I cried in gladness, "Take me too beneath the sod; Leave me not to pine in sadness, Here on earth's detested clod."

"Death should only strike the h.o.a.ry, Yet, my Louis, thou shalt die, When the stars again in glory, Shine upon the midnight sky."

Tears bedeck'd her long eyelashes, While she kiss'd my features wan; Then, like flame that dies o'er ashes, All at once the maid was gone.

Therefore, pluck I painted violets, Which shall strew my lifeless clay, When, to night, the stars have call'd me Unto joys that last for aye.

ODE TO A MOUNTAIN-TORRENT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF s...o...b..RG.

How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam, And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill, When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home, 'Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.

The pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks, And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground, The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks, And whirl'st them like pebbles contemptuously round.

The sun-beams have cloth'd thee in glorious dyes, They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow Those hovering columns of vapour that rise Forth from the bubbling cauldron below.

But why art thou seeking the ocean's dark brine?

If grandeur makes happiness, sure it is found, When forth from the depths of the rock-girdled mine Thou boundest, and all gives response to thy sound.

Beware thee, O torrent, of yonder dark sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod, Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,-- Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a G.o.d.

True, it is pleasant, at eve or at noon, To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays, When ting'd with the light of the wandering moon, Or red with the gold of the midsummer rays.

But, torrent, what is it? what is it?--behold That l.u.s.tre as nought but a bait and a snare, What is the summer sun's purple and gold To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air.

Abandon, abandon, thy headlong career-- But downward thou rushest--my words are in vain, Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.

Then haste not, O torrent, to yonder dark sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod; Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,-- Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a G.o.d.

RUNIC VERSES.

O the force of Runic verses, O the mighty strength of song Cannot baffle all the curses Which to mortal state belong.

Slaughter'd chiefs, that buried under Heaps of marble, long have lain, Song can rend your tomb asunder, Give ye life and strength again.

When around his dying capture, Fierce, the serpent draws his fold, Song can make him, wild with rapture, Straight uncoil, and bite the mould.

When from keep and battled tower, Flames to heaven upward strain, Song has o'er them greater power, Than the vapours dropping rain.

It can quench the conflagration Striding o'er the works of art; But nor song nor incantation Can appease love's cruel smart.

O the force of Runic verses, O the mighty strength of song Cannot baffle all the curses Which to mortal state belong.

THOUGHTS ON DEATH.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF C. LOHMAN.