Targum Part 4

Then the ancient Woinomoinen, On the bench himself he seated, Took the harp betwixt his fingers, On his knee about he turn'd it, In his hand he fitly plac'd it.

Play'd the ancient Woinomoinen, Universal joy awaking; Like a concert was his playing; There was nothing in the forest On four nimble feet that runneth, On four lengthy legs that stalketh, But repair'd to hear the music, When the ancient Woinomoinen, When the Father joy awaken'd.

E'en at Woinomoinen's harping 'Gainst the hedge the bear up-bounded.

There was nothing in the forest On two whirring pinions flying, But with whirl-wind speed did hasten; There was nothing in the ocean, With six fins about that roweth, Or with eight to move delighteth, But repair'd to hear the music.

E'en the briny water's mother {38} 'Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her, On a little sand-hill rais'd her, On her side with toil up-crawling.

E'en from Woinomoinen's eye-b.a.l.l.s Tears of heart-felt pleasure trickled, Bigger than the whortle-berry, Heavier than the eggs of plovers, Down his broad and mighty bosom, Knee-ward from his bosom flowing, From his knee his feet bedewing; And I've heard, his tears they trickled Through the five wool-wefts of thickness, Through his jackets eight of wadmal.

THE WORDS OF BEOWULF, SON OF EGTHEOF.

From the Anglo Saxon.

Every one beneath the heaven Should of death expect the day, And let him, whilst life is given, Bright with fame his name array.

For amongst the countless number In the clay-cold grave at rest, Lock'd in arms of iron slumber, He most happy is and blest.

THE LAY OF BIARKE.

From the Ancient Norse.

The day in East is glowing, The c.o.c.k on high is crowing; Upon the heath's brown heather 'Tis time our bands we gather.

Ye Chieftains disenc.u.mber Your eyes of clogging slumber; Ye mighty friends of Attil, The far-renown'd in battle!

Thou Har, who grip'st thy foeman Right hard, and Rolf the bowman, And many, many others, The forky lightning's brothers!

Wake--not for banquet-table!

Wake--not with maids to gabble!

But wake for rougher sporting, For Hildur's {40} b.l.o.o.d.y courting.

Now food forego and drinking; On war be ye all thinking, To serve the king who've bound ye For roof and raiment found ye; Reflect there's prize and booty For all who do their duty; Away with fear inglorious, If ye would be victorious!

Great Rolf, the land who shielded, And who its sceptre wielded, Who freely fed and paid us, With mail and swords array'd us, Now lies on bier extended, His life by treachery ended-- To us be like disaster, Save we avenge our master.

THE HAIL-STORM.

From the Ancient Norse.

(This piece describes the disaster of Sigvald, Earl of Jomsborg, a celebrated viking or pirate, who, according to tradition, was repulsed from the coast of Norway by Hakon Jarl, with the a.s.sistance of Thorgerd, a female demon, to whom Hakon sacrificed his youngest son, Erling.)

For victory as we bounded, I heard, with fear astounded, The storm, of Thorgerd's waking, From Northern vapours breaking.

Sent by the fiend in anger, With din and stunning clangour, To crush our might intended, Gigantic hail descended.

A pound the smallest pebble Did weigh, and others treble; Full dreadful was the slaughter; And blood ran out like water, Ran, reeking, red and horrid From batter'd cheek and forehead.

But though so rudely greeted, No Jomsborg man retreated.

The fiend, so fierce and savage, To work us further ravage, Shot lightning from each finger, Which sped, and did not linger; Then sank our brave in numbers To cold, eternal slumbers; There lay the good and gallant, Unmatch'd for warlike talent.

Our captain this perceiving, The signal made for leaving, And with his ship departed, Down-cast and broken-hearted; We spread our sails to follow,-- And soon the breezes hollow, From sh.o.r.es we came to harry, Our luckless remnant carry.

THE KING AND CROWN.

From the Suabian.

The King who well crown'd does govern the land, And whose fair crown well fill'd does stand-- That King adorns his crown, I trow; And he who is thus by his crown adorn'd, And for whose sake never that crown is scorn'd, Does bear a well-fill'd crown on his brow.

ODE.

To a Mountain Torrent.

From the German of s...o...b..rg.

O stripling immortal thou forth dost career From thy deep rocky chasm; beheld has no eye The mighty one's cradle, and heard has no ear At his under-ground spring-head his infant-like cry.

How lovely art thou in the foam of thy brow, And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill; For awful art thou and terrific, I vow, In the roar of the echoing forest and hill.

The pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks, And crashing they tumble in wild disarray; The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks, And contemptuously whirlst them like pebbles away.

But why dost thou haste to the ocean's dark flood?

Say, art thou not blest in thine own native ground, When in the lone mountain and black shady wood Thou dost bellow, and all gives response to thy sound?

Then haste not, I pray thee, to yonder blue sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod, Whilst here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free-- Free as a cloud-bird, and strong as a G.o.d.

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

What of that? what of that? thou shouldst ever behold That l.u.s.tre as nought but a bait and a snare: Ah, what is the summer sun's purple and gold Unto him, who can breathe not in freedom the air?

O pause for a while in thy downward career!

But still art thou streaming, my words are in vain: Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.

Then haste not, I pray thee, to yonder blue sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod, Whilst here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free-- Free as a cloud-bird, and strong as a G.o.d.