Oepse o fs and ypciooicmyiid Mrs, DisDe^j Leifb mOM AMONG THEB®KS OF t^ Fibm tfle JCiBrary of <♦ to a; (D Mgefnon Charles SwinBurfie i />n^„ / ORIGINAL VERSES TRANSLATIONS. BY Mrs. DISNEY LEITH, AUTHOR OF "the CHORISTER BROTHERS," ETC. LONDON : J. MASTERS AND CO., 78, NEW BOND STREET. 1895. •NLF ^Y6o3M-%^ TO MY MOTHER AND MY CHILDREN CONTENTS MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. PAGE June: an Ode and a Parable 3 The Wreck of the ' Sirenia,' March 1888 7 A Look-out , 10 The Pass of Ballater 12 Brown Wings and White 14 The Captain's Fiddle 16 Between the Acts 18 Jock: an Arab Pony 20 A Ride at St. Andrews 22 To a Favourite Mare 23 H. M.S. 'Victoria,' 1893 25 Hereward 27 Through the Years ... 30 Our Vicar's Son 31 Jeanie o' Stratheveron 33 The Engine-Driver's Wife 38 Glamour , 41 The Organist's Wedding Gift 42 The First Flight of the Swallow 44 Songs in a Trip to Iceland 46 I. Faro Isles : After Klakksvig — 2. Iceland : First Greeting — 3. Reekie Bay— 4. Farewell, 1894 — 5, A Second Greet- ing— 6. Verthu Soel, 1895, CONTENTS. First Sight, 1894 52 Asta: a Sketch in REYKjAviK 55 AllamannagjA 58 Dying by the Sea 60 Ex Tenebris Lux 64 II. BALLADS. The Magic Lute 67 Hallgerda's Hair 69 Riding Rhymes (To E. C. L.) 70 Lord Lionel 73 The Fiery Vigil 75 Primrose Time 78 III. IN MEMORIAM VERSES. Shorwell Spire (H. P. G.), 1876 83 «Stooky' Sunday, 1886 (A. Rankin, Priest) 85 Passion Sunday, 1887 (A. Harper, Priest) 88 Lost on the Hills (A. H. Mackonochie, Priest), 1887 ... 90 M. K. L., 1894 93 T. H., Chorister, December 31, 1885 96 J. W., 1886 97 IV. SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. The Death Song of Skarphedinn (Njala) loi The Finding of Burnt Njal (Njala) 103 Kari's Revenge (Njala) 106 CONTENTS. PAGE Flosi's Last Cruise (Njala) 109 Queen Gunnhillda m Illugi (Gretla) 113 Valkyria's Song 115 Christmas AT Skalholt (Thorlakssaga) 116 V. TRANSLATIONS FROM MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. Translator's Note 121 Eldgamla ISAFOLD (Bjarni Thorarinsson) 123 Swan-winged Soul (Steingrimr Thorsteinsson) 125 The Ear of Corn and the Rose 126 'I LOVE YE, Iceland's Mountain Tracts' 127 Remembrance 129 Blue Eyes — Black Eyes 131 Maiden's Adornment — From 'Asta-visur' (Love-songs) ... 132 Greeting 133 Where are the Birds? 134 Swan-song o'er the Heather 135 Summer-Night 136 Seamen's Song 137 The Name 139 Song of Praise 140 As a New Year's Psalm (Hallgrimr Petursson) 141 Morning Verse — Evening Verse 144 Out of the Courtyard (Grimur Thomsen) 145 A Spurt (Hannes Hafsstein) ... ... ... ... ... 146 Jarpur (Thorsteinn Gislason) ... ... ... 148 From ' Gunnarsholmi' (Jonas Hallgrimsson) 150 I. MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. MISCELLANEOUS VERSES, JUNE : AN ODE AND A PARABLE. June is here ! and from far and near the air is filled with the voice of song ! Time of mirth for the teeming earth, thy wheels were slow, thou hast tarried long ; Now at length art thou come in strength ; and hearts are hopeful and hopes are strong. Ah ! sweet summer, thou fair late-comer, hast no comfort for hearts that mourn ? Thou art glad though men's souls be sad, yea, sore for days that can ne'er return ; Hopes that died in the autumn-tide, can June-fire yet bid their ashes burn ? Bays on bays, through the distant haze the coastline runneth from red to white, Steep and stiff, where the pearly cliff is robed in mist-cloud and lost to sight. Greenest grass, as along we pass, with gold gorse-blossom is all alight. MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Far below us the wild waves show us a thousand tints in their changeful glee ; Far, far over the fields of clover the larks sing wildly to welcome thee ; Clear o'erhead is the blue sky spread ; and spread beneath and around, the sea. Festal noon of the year, great June, whose breath fans faintly the pale young wheat, Wild white roses in woodland closes press and cluster around thy feet Where, in shimmer of leaves that glimmer, tense air quivers and thrills with heat. Gracious bringer of songs to singer, sun-flecked shadow in flower-filled trees ; How forget for a lifetime yet that once thou broughtest us, bringing these Fairest craft that the wind might waft us, sweetest wonder of summer seas ? There she lay in the heavenly bay, at sundown lapt in a golden light. Stem to stern of her seemed to burn, on sleeping waters that waxed more bright ; Clear and red at the dim masthead her watch-star showed through the short still night. There she lay through the long still day ; and fain, yea, proud of her presence we (Was it gladness, or was it madness, jovial midsummer's wine of glee ?) While she tarried, our hearts that carried day and night o'er the summer sea. JUNE: AN ODE AND A PARABLE. 5 Junetide gladness ! to Junetide madness that short joyance must Ukest seem, Passing sweet as the dreams that fleet, a flower's brief fragrance, a meteor's gleam. Dream of summer that joyous comer dreamlike came, yea, and went as dream ! June, the bringer of fair gifts, the light of love on land and sea. Passing through the waving meadows with the hayflower at the knee, June the rose-crowned, 'mid thy roses hast thou kept one rose for me ? ' Yea, beloved ! of my flower gifts great and manifold the store : Of its fulness I may give thee, in thy bosom running o'er. But the first white rose I brought thee 1 7nay bring thee never more.' June, the bringer of soft zephyrs, breathing balm through grass and tree, Bringing white-winged bird in safety, bringing white-winged ship o'er sea ; Will thy breath o'er gleaming waters bring one fairy ship to me? ' Yea, beloved ! fair and stately are the ships that swell my train, And in many a gallant vessel may'st thou tempt the summer main ; But that first fair bark I brought thee thou shalt never board again.' MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. June, the bringer of sweet music in the woodland, vocal June, Thou whose anthem swells and ceases not from midnight to high noon. Hast thou brought to me one cushat, to delight me with its croon ? ' Yea, beloved ! all fair secrets of my woodland thou shalt know, All the sweet stops of my organ thou shalt draw from high to low, But the wood-dove's note thou lovedst first was silenced long ago: Yet, yet one boon more, sweet mother of all sweetest sounds that are ! Bring, as years ago thou broughtest o'er the sea-foam from afar, Heavenliest strains of earthly music, fair as fallen from a star. ' Yea, beloved ! thine are all my stores of music, far and near. Art's as Nature's best and highest, in the noontide of the year. But the first viol tone that charmed thee, save in dreams, thou ne^er mafst hear^ Ne'er again the golden glory of one sunset's vanished gleam ! Ne'er again as one first rosebud may June's fairest roses seem : Once awakened, ne'er we dream again our Midsummer night's dream. THE WRECK OF THE ' SIRENIA.' THE WRECK OF THE ' SIRENIA; March 1888. Stem to land and stern to seaward, stirring never from the place Where that cruel grip hath pinned her, showing yet a steadfast face, Stands the good ship, lone, deserted, where around the red cliff's base Like a storm-tost soul that sleeps at length when some fierce strife is o'er Sleeps the ocean, grey and sullen, creeping to the rocky shore. Where the sun-gleams peep and vanish, smiling as they smiled before That one eve of gloom and terror, dumb despair and hope forlorn, That one night of fearful wrestling, victory of anguish born. When men wrought and fell like heroes 'twixt the sundown and the morn. Bring the lifeboat ! how that message like a voice of thunder broke ! And the gallant crew flocked seaward, answer to the voice that spoke ; Patient courage to the tiller, strong backs bending to the stroke. MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Save the children ! once in safety hath the stormy gulf been crost, Once again are hands to launch and man her, counting not the cost, O'er the sheer cliff's steepness lowered — if they linger, all is lost. Who shall paint that awesome grappling with the waves for life and breath, How the brave boat now rose sky-ward, drifted now to chasms beneath. While the work of rescue speedeth in the face of sternest death ? How, when last they loose the hawser, straining make them for the shore. As a wounded lion turns to bay, uprising with a roar. So the fierce sea smote her end-wise, with one buffet turned her o'er. How she righted in an instant, half by drifting waves borne on. Half propelled by those last efforts, till the rocky shore was won. And they know, in helpless anguish, from their band that two have gone. Gone, unheard, unseen, unsuccoured — that clear head and skilful hand Which for years had led and drilled them ; gone his second in command. In the silence and the darkness, in the very grasp of land. THE WRECK OF THE ' SIRENIA: Woe, ah woe ! for homes sore stricken, orphan child and widowed wife ; But for these, what needs our weeping ? faUing in victorious strife. Passing, in that day's dim dawning, to the dawn of truer Life. O'er the darkness and the terror, though heart fail and sense be dim, Heard they not, in accents sweeter than the chant of Seraphim, Voice of One Who on the water bade His servant ' come ' to Him ? MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A LOOK-OUT. O, MY heart is sick with watching and with waiting, And my eyes are dim with looking o'er the sea ; Like a tide rising now and now abating Is the weary heart in me ! The tall ships are sailing, sailing over, The little boats creep inward to the shore, But the one ship I watch for is a rover Evermore. Day by day, longing glances sweep the horizon All along, from the east unto the west ; And oft, as some ship I rest my eyes on. Fair on ocean's glassy breast, I think, will she bring one heart such gladness, When she cometh to her haven from the sea, As the one ship I wait for in my sadness Brought to me ? There are ships deeply freighted with their treasure- Tall sails set square against the sky ; Ships of war, ships of peace, and ships of pleasure, One by one they pass me by ; There are ships of every rig and every rating, There are ships of every flag beneath the sun. And for one I am watching, I am waiting But for one ! A LOOK-OUT. O speed them, fair breezes blowing lightly, Fill all sails set and trimmed for flight ; O guide them, star-lanterns shining brightly Through dimness of the night ! And bring each seafarer to the haven. That haven whereas his soul would be ; And one name on heart and lips engraven Bring to me ! MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THE PASS OF BALLATER. The hills stand wide along the strath In panoply of purple sheen, And beauteous as an angel's path The smiling valley winds between, Where, pressing each on each, they rise In ever-changing shade and shine Till, far beneath the western skies The chain divides, the hills decline Towards the Pass of Ballater. Around it and on either side Those everlasting watchers stand, The giant Grampian girdle wide. Dark-crested Morven, stern and grand, Mount Keen's clear peak, o'er depths of blue, The sweeping shadows of the glens. And, shimmering far as sight can view. The misty arcs of two vast ' Bens ' Beyond the Pass of Ballater. And Lochnagar's calm majesty By virgin autumn snows made pale, Like some vast altar rear'd on high, Whereon, beneath its spotless veil. THE PASS OF BALLATER. Is laid the oblation. At their feet Now gleaming clear, now lost again, Like silver clue, the river fleet \\'inds through the rich and varied plain Far as the Pass of Ballater, There comes, 'mid autumn's fall, a day (Mark it) wherein the setting sun (That wending on his southward way Doth kiss the mountains one by one In turn) sheds here his parting rays. Which, through the narrowing portal driven, Flood all the plain with golden haze, As if the very gate of Heaven Lay through the Pass of Ballater. 14 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. BRO WN WINGS AND WHITE. Brown wings and brown wings Golden in the sun, Who may count your number Passing one by one ? Who may track your pathways O'er the trackless foam ? But brown wings and brown wings, Heaven send you safely home. White wings and white wings Flitting o'er the blue, Butterflies of ocean, Who takes count of you ? Basking in the sunlight With winds and waves ye play — But white wings and white wings, Ye bore my heart away ! Brown wings and brown wings Are toilers of the deep, White wings and white wings Bask and dream and sleep ; Brown wings and brown wings Furl them by the shore, But white wings and white wings Ye come not any more. BROWN WINGS AND WHITE. 15 Brown wings and brown wings, Heaven guide you on your way, White wings and white wings, Heaven keep you night and day. Brown wings and brown wings, Bring harvest from the sea, But white wings, O white wings. Bring my heart back to me ! 1 6 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THE CAPTAIN'S FIDDLE. A WILD and roving life is mine On changeful billows tossing, In many a cruise to distant shores And many a stormy crossing. A blithesome life from day to day, Unrecking of the morrow ; But sharer of my master's joy, And solace in his sorrow. All patient in my darksome nest The silent hours I number, Until he comes whose magic touch Can rouse me from my slumber. Yes, he can make me speak ! his art Endows me. Undine-fashion, With semblance of a human soul That throbs with human passion. And then I sing, as ne'er was sung Before, each plaintive story ! The wailings of a ' Waefu' Heart,' The loves of Annie Laurie ; The woes of Allan's luckless maid ; ' Auld Robin's ' notes entrancing ; Or haply in a Highland reel I set the pulses dancing. THE CAPTAIN'S FIDDLE. 17 All these, and hundreds more I sing, In memory's ear that linger. Strained in his passionate embrace Thrilled by his forceful finger ; The spell that drives him forth to seek His joy upon the ocean, But binds his soul more fast to mine In uttermost devotion. So fare we, loving and beloved, In harmony together ; In summer's cheer, in winter drear In fair or stormy weather. I share his thoughts both night and day, His fortune or disaster, His truest friend till life shall end — My sympathetic master ! Then deem who may, will come the day When I shall lie forsaken, What time another heart than mine Responsive chords shall waken- Away the thought ! whate'er betide. Whoe'er may solve the riddle, In love or pain, in loss or gain. He'll not forsake his fiddle ! l8 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. BETWEEN THE ACTS. I WATCHED through many a shifting scene The actors strut and rave and call ; I saw a form of princely mien, Who seemed the first among them all. He laughed with all the laughing crowd : He joined their pastimes glad and free ; But once (O, speak it not aloud ! ) I thought his glance was turned on me. And since I marked him, all the rest I saw as shadows come and go ; The poorly clad, the richly drest. The sounds of joy, the sobs of woe Were all as naught. As by a spell On one alone I fixed my eyes Entranced — until the curtain fell And shut me out of Paradise. For since the curtain fell, meseems, The light from out my life is gone : I see my hero yet in dreams ; I know the time is wearing on, BETWEEN THE ACTS. 19 The scenes are shifting, that may change Both dream and fancy into fact ; The play-bill reads — ('tis passing strange) — ' A year must pass 'twixt act and act.' What passeth now behind the scenes I cannot tell — I may not know : That envious curtain intervenes Between me and the coming show. So, haply, best. Behind the gates In patience till the parts are cast I know my hero lives and waits. And that the veil will lift at last. And I, too, sit and wait for him. ' A year must pass ' — O, how it lags ! Before the stage the lights burn dim, The music jars, the music drags. Unfold, O mystic scroll, at will — I shall not pale, I shall not wince — Dull curtain, lift for good or ill. And show once more the Fairy Prince ! MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. JOCK: AN ARAB PONY, Form, from crest to tail Perfect mould ; Eyes that will not quail, Bright and bold. Ears pricked out to catch Word of love ; Courage without match- Mild as dove. Spirit fierce as fire, Bright as morn ; Thews that will not tire, Desert-born. Mouth — did ever rein Govern such ? Yielding, not a strain, To the touch. Skin — the swan can show Not a whiter ; Sheen of sun on snow Gleams not brighter. JOCK : AN ARAB PONY. Speed of wind or flight Of the swallow Urge him ; sense and sight Scarcely follow. Blood, of purest strains Subtly blended, From what monarch's veins Straight descended ? Sense and heart and head, Form and feature ; When hath desert bred Fairer creature ? Temper true as gold, Staunch as rock. Why should more be told ? That is Jock. 22 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A RIDE AT ST. ANDREWS. Across and away, by the long low ridge of the land, And the mile-long length of unbroken wave in the bay. While the keen air shrills in your ears as it blows from the strand. Across and away. Where the sand-spit is merged in a looming horizon of grey, Afar from the towers of the town 'gainst the sunset that stand. No sound but the roar of the sea and the winds in their play. And the firm hard ring of the hoof-beats heard on the sand : No life but the wild sea life of the bird of the spray, And the strong fierce spirit that bears you, and bounds at your hand Across and away. TO A FAVOURITE MARE. 23 TO A FAVOURITE MARE. {Imitated from E. B. Browning.) Form of strength and breed and beauty, Limbs of lithe and supple grace, Fit no less for homely duty Through descent of noble race. How they show it ! Well might poet Love to praise their silken sheen ! Fairest ears were ever seen ! Broad full brow, on which serenely Locks are parted, woman-wise ; One pure snowy fleck set queenly Like a pendant, 'twixt the eyes Senseful gleaming, Gently beaming : And, to point their glances keen, Fairest ears were ever seen. Widespread nostrils, ruddy glowing With their graceful Arab curve ; Countenance most comely, showing Truest temper, fire and nerve : Never vicious Or malicious, Flattened to the head, I ween Fairest ears were ever seen ! 24 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Warm and glossy tints that darken Into tips of purest jet, Ever graceful, curved to hearken, Or in crescents forward set ; So I bless them, And caress them. Long be pricked with vigour keen Fairest ears were ever seen ! Loving words about them linger. Gentle be the hands that guide ! And when Time's relentless finger, Sweeping old friends from our side. Must remove them, Still I'll prove them, For the love's sake that hath been, Fairest ears were ever seen. H.M.s. ' victoria: 25 H.M.S. 'VICTORIA: 1893. Bright and brave on the tideless wave the line of battle-ships lay to sight. Faultless order and true accord in all their movements to left and right ; Linked in length of a wondrous strength — a nation's joy and a nation's might. Self-reliant, each mail-clad giant lay unmoving on ocean's breast. What delusion, the failure whose ? a sign misconstrued, a meaning guess'd ? Sudden terror — a hairbreadth's error in steering — turning — you know the rest. Shuddering, backed from the fierce impact, as a shot -struck elephant shuddereth, One not scatheless steers landward, nathless — one, her heartwound is unto death. Strong to endure, yet the doom is sure 3 and all men watch her with bated breath. Words but few to the well-trained crew their leader uttered in calmest tone. Calm they went to their doom though sent, while calm he waited to meet his own, Disobeyed, but when offered aid put by, he sought but to die alone. 26 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Launch the boats while the doomed ship floats ! the word Hke flash of the lightning ran. Save the sick ! and brave hands were quick to snatch them forth ere the strife began, Last fierce strife for the hard-lost life, the last wild throes of Leviathan. Fathoms deep down the fearsome steep of gurgling water her proud head bore, Fierce screws lashing the air, 'mid crash of prisoned engines that throbbed and tore Stroke on stroke, till their great heart broke in muffled thunder and pulsed no more. Down through swirling of waters curling, curdling in o'er the mighty wreck, Down, deep down, where their roarings drown the cries that rose from the wave-swept deck. Downward course of the Titan force that none may measure and no man check. All is still, nor hath mortal skill availed to wrestle with Fate's stern rod. Ask not, why was this death ? they lie full calm, the heroes her deck who trod : Calm as dove broods the wave above them, calm as Paradise rest in God. HEREWARD. 27 HERE WARD. The Last of the English ! a name that shall ring through the echoing arches of Time ; Name evermore held 'mid the heroes of eld who are sung of in saga and rhyme. Yes ! we give him his due, be it false, be it true, what the chroniclers ancient have said, In his strength he stands fast, by the hand of a Master once drawn for us never to fade. And we see him alway, and we know him to-day, in the bloom of his beautiful youth, When the fame of the Northmen had beckoned him forth, as an outlaw from pity or ruth ; With the rich locks of gold o'er his shoulders that rolled, and the watch-fire that burnt in his eye. The fire that might quench not, the cheek that would blench not, though nothing be left but to die. With the arm strong in fight, strong to strike for the right, wise in counsel and valiant in song ; True in love, firm in truth to the friends of his youth, through long years of oppression and wrong. None sleeping e'er found him, whom men gathered round as they fought for a desperate stake, And foemen fell back, and each sword-arm grew slack at the terrible cry of ' A Wake ! ' 28 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Waging strife unto death with an uttermost faith in a lost and a perishing cause — Till the last turn of luck, till the last blow was struck, and his land owned the outlander's laws. Yet we follow him still, as through good so through ill, with a love that can never grow cold ; Steed and mail, child and wife, honour, pride, love and life, how they slip one by one from his hold, As his star waned and set, though he knew it not yet, when he fell from his truth and his faith, And the false love prevailed o'er the true love that failed not, the love that was stronger than death ; Till that last fateful hour when his foemen o'erpower him, their treacherous vengeance to slake, And he stands, turned to bay, still in death strong to slay, and he dies as he lived like the Wake ; Till we weep o'er his fall in his father's old hall, when at last the keen watch was outworn, And the mighty lay dead, and the fair golden head hung high o'er the gateways of Bourn. Who says that the last of the English hath passed from the land in those ages gone by ? If any in aught ever cherished the thought, thousand witnesses give him the lie ! Where in joy or in wrath o'er the trackless ' Swan's pathway ' the sons of the Vikings have fared. From the south to the north where their fame has gone forth, and 'tis sung how they wrought and they dared ; Where'er in the brunt of the battle's fierce front English blood hath been willingly shed. Or in uttermost strife for the saving of life men have stood 'twixt the living and dead, — HERE WARD. 29 Or have held by a cause that was faiUng, nor paused to weigh chances, but cheerfully gave Lands, country and home, and have sought o'er the foam in exile an honourless grave — Or have carried the name of their England, her fame far forth o'er the limitless sea, In deeds that shall shine in the innermost shrine of her temple, the pure and the free, Still in hour of her need, when men suffer and bleed, yea, strive to the last for her sake. Lived, and lives evermore that brave spirit of yore — even the spirit of Hereward Wake ! 30 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THROUGH THE YEARS. 'Neath misty skies the waters grey Come lapping up, glide swirling on ; No leaf is on the wintry spray, No bracken clothes the bare cold stone ; The east wind's breath in sweeping by Is moist with raindrops like to tears. As by the river margin I Am looking backward through the years. The self-same cold grey waves flow on, And still may hold their ceaseless race When you and I and all are gone Who knew us, from the wonted place. And in that long and tranquil sleep, Haply it may be, whoso hears The ' fourfold River's ' murmur deep Shall take no reckoning of the years. I know not how, I know not whether Beside the stream, beyond the stream Where once on earth we walked together. Shall be fulfilment of the dream That some time there shall dawn a day When, past the realm of doubts and fears My soul shall face your soul, and say, ' I was your friend through all the years.' OUR VICAR'S SON. 31 OUR VICARS SON; I88I. A Soldier's Letter. {A true episode of the Kaffir- War,) Ah ! little you guess of the chances, out here, for death or for life ! The first of our men has fallen, cut off in this lawless strife. This tells you I'm living, mother, and spared to write to you still. But they've shot down our vicar's son, alone, on the slope of the hill. We cried — we could none of us help — when he was brought into camp. 'Twas said he hadn't been always steady — a bit of a scamp. Not like the child of his parents — and maybe he wasn't ; but sure He loved his church and his home, and he loved the Lord in His poor. For he'd talk to me, now and again, of the old home days we knew, And I seemed to see our street —his church, that was my church too, And his father's face in the pulpit standing to catechize — I can see the light on his brow, the searching look in his eyes. 32 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. I can see the look, I can hear the words, through sorrow and joy — The kind encouraging glance, and the gentle ' Speak out, my boy,' And the trumpet tones to warn, and the dove-like tones to plead — And I think his prayers may be round me yet in the hour of need. You won't wonder it all came back when I saw him lying cold — He taken and I left— and both of us sheep of one fold ! You're fretting for me, mother, maybe — don't give me all of your care. But think of our vicar's lady, the trouble she has to bear. And think of him, that was always so holy and wise and mild, His reverend head bowed down with grief for his first-born child ; Maybe he'd caused them sorrow — we needn't despair for such, For 'tis written ' the prayer of a righteous man availeth much.' And he'd the prayers of a righteous man, if ever was one ! God help the father and mother, who mourn for their only son. We cried — we could none of us help — when they carried him into camp. But he fell like a man at his duty — please God, he had trimmed his lamp ! JEANIE C STRATHEVERON. 33 JEAN IE C STRATHEVERON. {A Raikvay Lyric, Aberdeenshire.) He came there when the briard* was green, And there he saw her sweet and mild, Of golden smiamers scarce eighteen. The station-agent's only child, Beside the trellised garden-door ; Her widowed father's cherished one — No fairer flower the garden bore Than Jeanie o' Stratheveron. She was, I ween, the sweetest maid Both up and down on all the line ; Blue eyes beneath dark lashes' shade, And glossy locks of golden shine. And like a flower's deep crimson dye Mantled the delicate cheek, if one Gazed in her face o'er boldly. Shy Sweet Jeanie o' Stratheveron ! He waited by the trellised gate. The up-train passes there the down. The up-train was a little late That morning, on its way to town. * Young corn. V 34 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Was it a thing to wonder at Tliat, waiting iifteen minutes, one Should wile the time in harmless chat With Jeanie o' Stratheveron? He travels north, he travels south — He speaks to all in friendly wise ; A pleasant smile's about his mouth, An honest light is in his eyes. He talks of guanos, phosphates, crops, The price that hay has reached per stone, With Jeanie's father, when he stops On fair-days at Stratheveron. And Httle Jeanie, day by day, Dreams of the bright-faced traveller. And knows that, come whene'er he may, He has a nod and smile for her. The sweetest maid on all the line. His brave bright looks her heart have won. O will he wear, and never tyne. The flower of sweet Stratheveron So day to day, and hour to hour. Wear by the pleasant summer days : Her favourite tropeolum flower Around the gate is all ablaze ; The crops are golden in the fields, The busy ' hairst ' is drawing on : A fair and bounteous harvest yields The vale of sweet Stratheveron. JEANIE a STRATHEVERON. 35 One dewy morn she's boun' to seek The field, to bind her father's stooks.* From out the train she hears one speak With gladness in his voice and looks, Hailing her father, passing forth : ' Good news ! a better post I've won, A larger district in the north, But far from old Stratheveron ! ' ' Eh, but gweed luck t' ye, man ! ' she heard Her father's answer, clear and quick. She gives no sign, she speaks no word, But feels her very heart grow sick. She works all day among the sheaves, And all day long her heart rings on One steady mournful chime : ' He leaves. He gladly leaves Strathevei-on ! ' At length the weary workers pause. The day to eventide has worn ; The broad red sun, declining, draws Long shadows from the stooks of corn ; She leans and listens for the train — His train (for her there is but one) — For soon he will not come again By braes of sweet Stratheveron. The hour — but sure the hour is past ; There runs a murmur through the field Of ' What's adee ? ' t ' She comes at last,' And yet the truth is half revealed. * Sheaves. t Ado. MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. She comes at last — but oh, so late ! They mark her drawing slowly on. Ah ! never train bore such a freight Before, to sweet Stratheveron. And then the news like wildfire's spread. ' A smash — the engine left the line — Went ower the bank ! ' 'Is ony dead ? ' 'They're bringing in some eight or nine.' Away with sickle and with band ! Fast to the station hasten on The workers all to lend a hand In helping at Stratheveron. ' Come, Jean, my lassie, hist ye ben With a' your skill to whaur they're lyin' ! Alas ! they've brought us ene ye ken — Peer lad ! I'm feared he's jist at dyin' ! ' No need to ask her does she know The form that lies in anguish on Her father's humble couch — ah, woe For Jeanie o' Stratheveron ! She chafes his hands, she bathes his brow With gentlest touch — he moans, he stirs, Turns round a piteous glance, and now The piteous eyes are raised to hers. They see — ah ! do they see aright ? Poor eyes, fast darkening to the sun — Thy form between them and the light, Sweet Jeanie o' Stratheveron. JEANIE C STRATHEVEKON. 37 He crushes in a grasp of pain Her tender, trembling maiden hand, AVhich lover ne'er shall clasp again In all the land, in all the land ! He travelled north, he travelled south, But now that travelling days are done Is there no message from his mouth For Jeanie o' Stratheveron ? None ! though she list with lips apart — If that unspoken love so true Had e'er found echo in his heart No whisper told — -she never knew. One memory is hers to keep — The glance of those pathetic eyes, Ere once they closed in painless sleep, Shall haunt her hourly till she dies. The crimson tropeolum flower Still garlands o'er the station gate ; The trains go by from hour to hour ; And swells and ripens soon or late Through shine and shower the golden grain _, But mid the stocks at set of sun The passing eye shall look in vain For Jeanie o' Stratheveron. 3S MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THE ENGINE-DRIVER'S WIFE. {Aberdeenshire Dialect.) DiNNA ye hear the rushin' wheels That's birhn' o'er the lea ? They bring the train to the toon again And my gweedman to me. Dinna ye see the driftin' steam As fite's the driven sna' ? Dinna ye hear the lang lang scream Of the dirlin' fustle bla' ? 'Tis the nicker o' his airn steed — A fiery yaud is she ! Her twa red een, like starnies' sheen, Are glintin' merrily. His face is bruckit wi' the coal, His hands are hard's the airn. But he hath a true and tender saul For wife and hame and bairn. O, some 's gaen far to the fields o' fecht, And some sails ower the sea ; And some 's i' the coal-mine's darksome nicht- But wi' nene o' these is he. THE ENGINE-DRIVER'S WIFE. 39 The sodger's wife, she fears the strife When shalls are burstin' roon' ; The sailor's dreid's the sunken rock, And the grun' swell's angry soon But there are wracks upo' the land As weeFs upo' the sea ; And there are bombs that never yet Were sprung by an enemy. And there are perils o' the line Alike to gryte and sma' ; And my gweedman stands i' the front And heeds them nocht ava'. But o' wintry nichts I sit an' think, Wi' the bairnies beddit near, O' the swirlin' blasts roon' the engine fire And the snawy cuttin's drear. An' I sets ma lampie i' the neuk, Afar that he may see, For yon's the dearest signal-licht Of a' unto his e'e. There's meydals for the sodger brave And for grand deeds deen at sea ; But fat'll they gie to my gweedman For sairvin' his ain countree ? There's laurels for the sodger fa'en. And sangs for the lost at sea ; But fa '11 sing o' my ain gweedman Gin at his post he dee ? 40 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. But there's Ene abeen, Wha's watchful een Luiks doon and kens nae odds ; And some that's least i' the sicht o' man Are o' muckle warth in God's. He brings the sodger frae the fecht, The sailor frae the sea ; And He'll aye watch ower my ain gweedman That's birlin' hame to me. GLAMOUR. 41 GLAMOUR. The world is bright, the world is gay, The world rejoices far and nigh, A deeper green on bank and brae, A deeper blue in sea and sky ; Such gleams of blue as glint and glide Through sun-smit leaves of swaying trees Down on a world of promise wide And endless Possibilities. Yet there are more than these, we know. A face once seen, a voice once heard, A hand clasped once — no more — yet so Have human souls been deepliest stirred Since time began. What distant path He treads, or sails what alien seas I know not, but I know that faith Hath endless Possibilities. And so my heart is bright and gay. And questions not of ' where ' or ' how,' The length or briefness of the way (Though hope say ' here,' and love say ' now '). What need to vex the soul with strife, And jar the hidden harmonies. While two hearts beat with life — that life Of endless Possibilities ? 42 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THE ORGANISTS WEDDING GIFI Within the old cathedral fane At solemn eventide She stood, the maiden fair and young At morn to be a bride. The lights are quench'd, the choir is still — The vesper hour of pray'r Is o'er — the worshippers are gone ; Why doth she linger there ? Adown the vast and dusky aisles The gathering twilight falls, The storied windows light no more The cold and silent walls. But in the organ-loft alone A hght burns full and clear, And hark ! what burst of melody Floats, soothing, on the ear? Now swelling high, now sinking low, The music rolls along : Without or word or voice, unmix'd That pure great organ-song. Ah ! well she knows each thrilling chord ; All mellow stops that blend Are to her as the pleasant speech Of some familiar friend. THE ORGANIST'S WEDDING GIFT. 43 She knows the subtle master-strains In golden chords that weave Their mystic web, are brought by one To bless her bridal eve. Not gold nor gems are his, to lay Before her — but alone That which he has he gives, his best Immortal gift of tone. So to her ear her childhood's friend His tale of gladness tells, What hopes, what dreams, what thoughts are hers Whileas it sinks and swells ? ^\^lat musings and what memories Waked by the waves of sound. As in that vigil pure and high God's Blessing folds her round ! Rise up, sweet bride-elect, go forth In joyous trustfulness ; Oft may the heavenly notes return In thought to cheer and bless ! No fairer gift of all is laid Before thy virgin feet Than this sweet dower of melody Thy marriage eve to greet. 44 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THE FIRST FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOW. 1892. Thf: days of dependence and durance are over, The time of thy weakness and waiting is done ; Spread wings to the sunshine, O beautiful rover ! Go forth to the sun ! Yea, fear not ! the pinions that never yet bore thee Nor faint nor betray thee in this the first flight ; For love is around thee and life is before thee. And life is delight. Did'st dream, 'mid the dark mud-built Avails of thy dwelling. The neat narrow nest that erst bounded thy view, Of that world in its vastness and glory excelling, So wondrous, so new ? That world of green gladness around thee, above thee The mystic blue height of an infinite sky ; And myriad companions to greet thee and love thee, And guide thee to fly ? Who gave thee those exquisite graces of motion ? Who fiU'd with that marveUous fitness and strength The wings that shall bear thee o'er land and o'er ocean So weary a length ? Thou fledgling so tender, so frail to our seeing. Who taught thee thy lesson ? who lent thee thy power The purpose of life and the end of thy being To grasp in an hour ? THE FIRST FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOW. 45 God speed thee ! The lesson thou readest to mortal Is graved on each nest whence the nestling hath flown ! Shall His children fear, when they stand at its portal To face the Unknown ? Though sense may not image, though sight may not follow The path of the newly-freed soul on its flight, The Hand that is guiding the course of the swallow Shall cruide it aright. 46 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. SONGS IN A TRIP TO ICEIAND. I. Faro Isles : After Klakksvig. Between the light and the dark, when the wan day sinks to its rest Behind its pageant of clouds, the masque of the sons of the air. Fare we forth and away, on the wings to the gates of the West, Gates that are spread to invite, and wings that are broadened to bear. Forth ! for the way is clear, lo ! for the portal is wide ! Never hath kinglier portal witnessed a guest go forth ! Stern and solemn and still the warders on either side, Faro's giant guard, the great outposts of the North. Far behind us the mists close round on the land-locked bay, Over the sleeping homes, in their cool green solitude vast : What should we do to tarry, guests that abide but a day ? Welcome the rough-hewn path, so cometh the haven at last. SONGS IN A TRIP TO ICELAND. 47 II. Iceland : First Greeting. Hail, the desire of my eyes, and the hope and the dream of my youth. Glory of centuries past, a glory for ages to come ! How and wherewith shall I greet thee, whose eyes that behold thee in truth Fail for delight of fulfilment, whose lips that should praise thee are dumb ? Yea, with what words shall I praise thee, thou queen of all islands that are ? Only a skald of thine own who was cradled and fed at thy breast Haply might sing of thee worthily — I, that have loved from afar, I can but gaze and give thanks with a spirit full filled and at rest. Gaze, and give thanks for the sight and the touch of so goodly a gem, Drinking deep draughts of thy beauty, alive with the breath of the sea. Suffer me, outlander born, of thy mantle to kiss but the hem Steeped to the lips in delight of the joy and the glory of thee ! III. Reekie Bay. O, fair is bonnie Scotland, with river, moor and tree, And fair mine own dear islet,* beloved of the sea ; And fairer yet than these be, in foreign lands, they say, But who may paint thy fairness, O lovely Reekie Bay ? t * Isle of Wight. f The name ' Reekie Bay ' is a literal translation of Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland. 48 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Full deep may lie the snow-drifts when winter nights are long, But surely brighter summer ne'er wooed a poet's song : When laughs the far blue ocean, and blooms the emerald hay Around thy smihng homesteads, O homely Reekie Bay ! The sea that is thy glory, the sea that hath thy store, Engirdeth and enricheth and guardeth evermore ; The purple peaks of Esja, that watch thee night and day, Are given thee for vesture, O royal Reekie Bay ! O purple peaks of Esja, O heavenward mounting crest, With hues that mock the painter, that shame the wood- dove's breast ; O green and smiling islets, O boulders vast and grey, That garland as a necklace the lovely Reekie Bay ! The glories of thine Althing are glories of the past, But thou art clothed with glory that while earth lives shall last, The glory that man gave not, and cannot take away — Thy mountains and thy sea-board, O peerless Reekie Bay ! The stranger's foot may spurn thee, the stranger's hand oppress. The stranger's flag above thee floats ever challengeless : But thy sons are true and stalwart, at home or far away, O never may they shame thee, their mother, Reekie Bay ! O ne'er shall I forget thee, ' Eldgamla Isafold ! ' The sea shall watch between us, with love that grows not cold ; O ne'er can I forget thee until my latest day. Thou queenly land of Iceland, and lovely Reekie Bay ! SONGS IN A TRIP TO ICELAND. 49 IV. Farewell. Farewell to thee, ' rime- whitened mother ! ' Thou fire-opal, gem of the sea, The joy of my heart and none other That glows with the beauty of thee. But a week, and thy glorious vision First dawned on my wondering sight — Enthralling, entrancing, Elysian, A crown of delight. And now with what words shall I greet thee Who sadly must bid thee farewell ; Clasp thy knees, kiss thy feet, and entreat thee, To bear with me yet for a spell ? Wilt teach me thy praises to utter, With heart by thy sagas beguiled ; I, that halt in thy speech — yea, that stutter And lisp as a child ? A wind from thy uplands is speeding Our bark o'er the jubilant foam ; A voice from the southward is pleading, ' O wanderer, hasten thee home ! ' And yet, with a soul full of yearning. And full of the joy of the past, Mine eyes to the northward are turning To gaze to the last. Till fields that the snow ever lies on. And islet, and headland, and crest. Have sunk in the sunset horizon — • Are lost in the infinite West. so MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. But heaven is on fire with thy token — Flame pennants that stream in the sky ; O Iceland, my queen, hast thou spoken To bid us good-bye ? 'Twixt thy Jokulls supernal, gigantic, And dales that are greening with hay, Be our Mizpah, O mighty Atlantic, A watch and a witness for aye ! From a heart that is filled with thy story, A soul that is lit by thy light, O Iceland, my vision, my glory, * Skoal ! skoal ! and good-night ! V. A Second Greeting. Hail ! with the cloud on thy brow, and the snow on thy wonderful crest. Shrouded, half-veiled from our eyes in the mists of the short summer night ; Hail thee ! a thousand times hail ! while the pulse of the ocean's great breast Rises and heaves as the heart that is filled with the grace of thy sight ; Grace that again for a season mine eyes may behold thee, — again Lips that have fed on thee, sung of thee, praised thee as outlander may. Greet thee in deed and in truth, if in feeble and stammering strain, Drink for a season once more of thy joy, and exult for a day ! * The old Norse toast. SONGS IN A TRIP TO ICELAND. 51 Words, what are words but as spray of the sea-foam blown through the air ? Song, what is song while the sea's song hails thee in ceaseless unrest ? Yea, what can word or song say more than ' Behold, she is fair'? Fold hands, praise God for such beauty — worship in silence is best. VI. Verthu Scel ! 1895. Farewell, and be thou blest ! a second time Mine eyes have seen thee, and my feet have prest Thy friendly soil, thy flowery braes to climb 3 Farewell, and be thou blest ! Not yet the tardy summer sun will rest His head behind thy changeless fields of rime ; The chill grey night clouds draw around thy breast, The heaving ocean sings its ceaseless chime Between us. Fading in the boundless west, Farewell, and be thou blest ! 52 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A FIRST SIGHT. 1894. Sweet to the soul is accomplished desire, saith the wise : he saith well. We knew, by the roll of the ship that night, as she plunged in the swell Of the meeting oceans' embrace, where the fervent Atlantic sends forth Her great glad heart to the Arctic her lover, the soul of the North — We knew that the goal was near, the land of our longing : we knew That the morning would bring us Iceland — the breath of the wind that blew Was Iceland's. Before the sunrise I rose and I went above. And there, on our right, was Iceland. The heart may forget its love, A dream be forgotten at waking, and day be forgotten of night, But never shall aught blot out from soul that beheld it that sight ! The clear vast form of the island that lay in her queenly length. Enthroned and engirt of two oceans, a vision of glory and strength ; A FIRST SIGHT 53 The pure still plain of the Myrdal uplifted, supreme, serene, New-touched with the glimmer ot sunrise, its gold upon virgin sheen Of snows everlasting, unshrinking, impervious through years upon years To summer and sun-ray, untrodden of men and unsullied, that rears An arch, as a great white throne, in the midst of the land, aglow With faint light clouds on its summits ; while all the sea- board below Lay merged in a purple shadow each inlet and headland and crest Half seen, in varying outline from infinite east to west ; Weird shapes, in innumerous hosts, dark, sheer, unexplored, such as be Grim ports where no ship may harbour, whence no man puts forth to sea. And ever our ship wrought onward — and ever the shifting shore Unfolded new types of wonder for eyes that could see and adore. Names dearer than song can utter, forms fairer than hand can paint, The birthplace of skald and of baresark, the homestead of hero and saint ; The scenes of burning and bloodshed, of treason and sorrow and scathe. Of hard and heroic endurance, wonfameandtriumphantfaith ; The haunts of gods and of troll-sprites that peopled the flood and the glen, The shrines of leader and shepherd and teacher and healer of men ; 54 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. The land of Skarphedin and Gunnar and Grettir and Gisli and Njal, The land that was hallowed of Thorlak and Magnus and Gudmund and Pal. And ever the years wear onward ; the days of the years we see, That shift as the shifting sea-board, may pass and forgotten be As visions vanish at daybreak ; but never may heart forget One day that is framed as in sunlight, a sunlight that shall not set. My eyes may behold it again, but never as once shall burst Upon me that vision of glory, no more as that wondrous first Glad hour when I looked upon Iceland desired of me, Iceland my queen, Clasped close, save for one strip of water that thundered exultant between ; Felt the breath of her hills on my brow, knew the scoop of her sea under feet. And felt, in each throb of the pulse, that desire accomplished is sweet. ASTA : A SKETCH IN REYKJAVIK. 55 ASTA : A SKETCH IN REYKJAVIK. AsTA with the mild blue eyes, Lips and cheeks so ruddy, Little face of shy surprise, Quite a painter's study ; 'Mid thy schoolmates in the street Scarcely may be seen a Moorland flower more simple-sweet, Asta Jakobina ! Like a breath of olden fame Saga-legend laden. Such a grand historic name — Such a tiny maiden ! With the manners soft and meek, Nature's self hath taught her, Child of sunny Reykjavik Gunnlaug's little daughter. Gazing in those shy blue eyes. Wonder comes unbidden — Wonder what before her lies In the future hidden. Will she far o'er ocean seek Life 'mid new conditions ? Will the roofs of Reykjavik Bound her small ambitions ? MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Will she, while the quiet bay Smiles in summer beauty, Tend the kine and toss the hay For her daily duty ; Wash the clothes at boiling fount, Through the sunny weather ; Deftly guide her sturdy mount O'er the moorland heather : Ply her wadmal* loom through nights Gay with song and story. While above, the northern lights Flash in winter glory ? Till, in broidered kirtle drest, Cap and veil (Heaven speed her ! ), Some day he who loves her best To the kirk shall lead her ! Till the troth-plight word is said. Marriage blessing spoken ; Till — but ah ! the dream is fled And the spell is broken ! School and playtime share her thought. Childhood's years beseeming ; Simple maid, she wotteth naught Of our idle dreaming ! The homespun woollen cloth. ASTA: A SKETCH IN REYKJAVIK. 57 Wed or single, near or far, Poor, or goods possessing. Little Asta, love or star. Take a stranger's blessing ! Farewell, hardy Iceland flower Blooming where we found thee ! Light of Heaven's own love for dower Evermore be round thee ! 58 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. ALLAMANNA GJA* In Allamannagja As in the days gone by The cliffs stand sheer and high ; As then, so now, While sunlight decks the plains, Dark shadow still remains And solemn silence reigns In Allamannagja. In Allamannagja No sound, no voice is heard Save cry of moorland bird, And Oxara, Which thunders evermore The rocks and boulders o'er To reach the lower shore Of Allamannagja. In Allamannagja Each cloven crag and peak In silence seems to speak. And tell us how In those brave days of old The fair, the fierce, the bold Rode in rank manifold Through Allamannagja. * Allamannagja (pronounce the final a as ow), or All Men's Rift, is the great chasm in the lava-bed through which travellers approach the historical Thingvellir, or Fields of Meeting. ALLAMANNAGJA. 59 In AUamannagja, The clamouring disputants, The wordy htigants, Where are they now ? Their places know them not, Yet in this Time-crowned spot Their fame lives unforgot In AUamannagja. In AUamannagja No mystic saga told When He Whose clouds enfold The mountain's brow First spake the word of thunder Which rent the rocks asunder, And earth beheld a wonder In AUamannagja. In AUamannagja No mortal stood anear, None of that hour of fear May guess or trow, When through their sheer descent The shattered rocks were rent, Or first whose footfall went Through AUamannagja. In AUamannagja Though kingdoms wax and wane This glory shall remain j All tongues tell how Through giant birthpangs driven The mighty Road was riven, A way to all men given In AUamannagja. 6o MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. DYING BY THE SEA. A True Sketch. Low tide : behind the fisher's cove the sun is going down ; The breakwater's brown wave-worn piles are touch'd to golden-brown ; Up the warm sand the wavelets curl, with rippling murmur mild, Like to the wordless hum of one who lulls a sleeping child. Low tide : far out along the coast the weed-grown rocks are bare ; The fragrance of the fresh sea-wrack fills all the summer air. Low tide around the sun-lit ledge, and in the shadow'd bay — And low tide with one human life that ebbs so fast away ! Low tide : so low, so faint and far, its echoes scarcely reach The stillness of one lonely cot that stands upon the beach, That has sea -weed for garden flowers, sea rocks for garden wall, And, for the song of hedgerow birds, the roving sea-mew's call. DYING BY THE SEA. 6l One by the couch of weary pain has watch'd the long day through With ministry of faithful love, the patient and the true ; And knows that, ere a few more tides have wrought 'twixt ebb and flow, Upon her widow'd home must fall the desolating blow. One 'neath the sultry summer sun has wrought with patient toil, Seeking alone from briny depths to draw the fisher's spoil, With hands so willing for their strength, so weary — doth he guess How soon, alas ! the brave young heart shall be left father- less? His task is done ; the evening sun a milder glory hath As it draws a lengthen'd shadow now across his homeward path ; With duteous ear he bends to hear (how in his soul they burn ! ) The low faint tones that once — this once — may greet his sad return ' You have brought the old boat in, Johnnie, and made her fast ashore On the sand below the slipway — 'longside of the " Commo- dore " Laid up for Sunday, and the rest — with sails spread to the sun, I've seen 'em all in fancy, as they put in one by one ! I've sail'd far in my time, boy — and now at last I've come To die on this green island shore, beside the sea, at home ; 62 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. To die — I thought the fresh sea-breath would give me hfe again To work a little longer — but that hope has been in vain ! ' You've grown strong and handy, Johnnie, since your fish- ing days began, And now I leave you all alone, to do the best you can ; You'll have little time for sorrow, with your work and mine to do, But be good to your mother, Johnnie — she has ne'er a one but you. ' I don't seem 'fear'd to leave you, though all beyond be dim, For there's One Who bids the fatherless and widow trust in Him ; On earth He lov'd the fisher-folk — they knew His powerful arm ; Take Him aboard your boat, Johnnie, you'll never come to harm ! I've nothing left to think about, to vex me or to fear, For years I've pray'd for you, my lad, and for your mother dear, That she and you may meet me in the happy Home above ; And now I've naught to think about, but rest upon His love. ' I haven't serv'd Him as I should — we are all so weak and frail ! But He lets me hold His anchor now, that's fast within the veil ; DYING BY THE SEA. 63 I needn't fret because the debt is more than I can pay, For I leave all to His love Who came to take our sins away. 'Low tide — 'tis dead low-water mark with me, and no mis- take ! I scarcely think I'll live to see another morning break ; The haven seem'd so hard to sight, through the mists of pain and sin, But I trust the faithful Pilot's Hand to steer my poor craft in.' High tide, and sunrise on the cove : the rocks are out of sight. The ' Commodore ' has trimm'd once more her tan-brown wings for flight ; And brisk hands bait the lobster pots — the bay is all astir ; The rest is past, the work-day life begins again in her. The mackerel boat is far afloat, to seek the distant shoal ; A fair wind fills the orphan's sail to waft him to his goal ; There's risen life in earth and air, a swell upon the deep — But Heaven's own rest in the tranquil breast of one who has fallen asleep. 64 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. EX TENEBRIS LUX 1895. O SWEET and bitter northern strand That took and gave with either hand, That holds me more than any land ! There erst I had what since I miss'd, There once I lost what erst I kiss'd, There was I blest o'er that I wist. There joy was quenched in tears and pain ; Thence joy took heart to live agam, Thence new-born joy arose to reign. There life and death for one brief span Held conflict, one in race outran, And life brought death, through death began. One bird clung close, one bird took wing : One chime in heaven began to ring : One voice on earth found place to sing. Man's ways turn not as man hath planned. God's ways can no man understand, O sweet and bitter northern strand ! II. BALLADS. BALLADS. THE AfAGIC LUTE. Slake the fire on Lymerstoun hearth, I-ock the gates of Lymerstoun Hall ; Bats shall cling to the vaulted roof, Rust shall hang on the mouldering wall. Lymerstoun's lord to the sea is gone, Sailing over the stormy main ; He's taken with him his magic lute To soothe his soul with its wondrous strain. Lymerstoun's lord hath a lute of power ; Maidens list to its lightest chord ; But never the heart of mortal maid May hold the heart of Lymerstoun's lord. He draws them in from far and near To list to the strains that he will play : He binds their souls in a magic spell — Then up with his sails and flees away ! For a spirit dwells in the magic lute That holdeth him ever, awake, asleep ; And drives him forth from his father's hall To find his joy in the stormy deep. 68 BALLADS. For well wotteth he, that crafty sprite, When his ear shall bend to a mortal strain. And his heart shall seek to an earthly love, The magic lute will be brast in twain. But ere the fateful hour shall come His heart must speak in its last wild chord. So the maidens stand by the shore and weep Who have looked their last on Lymerstoun's lord. It's woe, deep woe, to the maiden hearts Which the crafty sprite doth hold in thrall ; But death and doom to the crafty sprite When a bride shall come to Lymerstoun Hall HALLGERDA'S HAIR. 69 HALLGERDA'S HAIR. {Old Norse.) ' Give me two locks of thy golden hair, Soft as silk and yellow as grain, To weave me a bow-string firm and fair, For arrows are falling like Odin's rain.' ' Does aught lie on it, my lord,' she said (Soft as silk and yellow as grain), ' That I should give thee the hair of my head ? ' (And arrows are falling like Odin's rain). ' My life lies on it, if ye would know ' (Soft as silk and yellow as grain), ' For they slay me not while I bend my bow ' (And arrows are faUing like Odin's rain). * Hast thou not smitten me once ? ' she said (Soft as silk and yellow as grain), ' So give I thee never a hair of my head ' (And arrows are falling like Odin's rain). ' Hold thou out little, hold thou out long ' (Soft as silk and yellow as grain), ' I care no whit so I wreak my wrong ' (And arrows are falling like Odin's rain). And all for lack of two locks of her head (Soft as silk and yellow as grain) On the floor of his dwelling the chief lies dead, And arrows have fallen like Odin's rain. 70 BALLADS. RIDING RHYMES. TO E. C. L. {Iceland To-day.) 1895. Scampering over the heather, Jostling one, two, or three, All in the bright summer weather — Arni and Halldor and we ! Miles upon miles of the moorland Round us to left and to right : Never a call or a whistle, Never a homestead in sight. Only a haridful of kindur* Scouring the heather at large ; Only the trill of a spoif Scared by our cavalry charge. On over fissure and boulder, On over heather and lea. Jostling shoulder to shoulder, Arni and Halldor and we ! Slithering over the lava, Up to our knees in the moss, Through the long grass of the heit/n,t Now here's a river to cross ! * Sheep. f Curlew. J Moor. RIDING RHYMES. 71 Ha ! how the ears are pricked forward ! See how they make for the tun,'^ Ljosbleikur, Jarpur and Raudur, Lysing, and Skjoni, and Briin ! t Hey for the friendly green gables, Hey for the reek of the farm ! Hey for the Icelander's welcome, Hearty and homely and warm. Forward ! it boots not to tarry, Scarce half an hour must we stay. Forward then,t ' blessad' og soelir ! ' Giants refreshed, on our way. Skjoni has fallen behind us ; Ha ! something wrong with the packs Then with a rush and a rattle Scour we the parallel tracks. Briin — ah ! the rascal ! is starting Off on a line of his own \ Ami is on with the pack-horse, Halldor must chase him alone. Scutter and rustle and patter All in the lengthening light : Late in the day — why, what matter ? Day that will never be night ! * Green enclosure round the farm. f The ponies are commonly named from their colours ; in this verse dun, bay, chestnut, white, skewbald, brown. X The ordinary greeting of the Icelander, ' blessed and happy.' 72 BALLADS. Down through the Rift of the Raven, Down by the shores of the lake, Creeping o'er rocks to the water. Thirst of the weary to slake. Forward, and forward, and forward, On through the birch-scented brush, On through the grassy Thing-valley, Scatter and patter and rush. Welcome the great Rift of All Men ! Hey for the Axewater wave ! Drink as you'd dry up the river, Skjoni the staunch and the brave ! Splash right and left through the water, Up the green lane to the door ; Off with the packs and the saddles, Now the day's labour is o'er ! Welcome the green and the hobbles ! Welcome the haven of rest ! Ljosbleikur, Skjoni and Raudur Surely have sped with the best ! Long may the bright summer weather Find us yet over the lea Galloping bravely together — Arni and Halldor and we ! LORD LIONEL. 73 LORD LIONEL. Why fare ye o'er the sea, Lord Lionel, Why fare ye o'er the sea, O ? For a hameless hame, and a bootless quest. And a weird that I maun dree, O ! For a hameless hame, and a fameless fame I fare across the sea, O ! Whither is your good ship bound. Lord Lionel, Whither is your good ship bound, O ? My ship is bound to the far, far North, With the berg and the frozen sound, O ! Athwart the track whence nane come back, Thither is my good ship bound, O ! What will ye do with your towers. Lord Lionel, Your towers so high and old, O ? Let them stand an they will, let them doon fa', Or pass for stranger's gold, O ! Let them stand an they will, let them doon fa'. My towers so high and old, O ! What will ye do with your harp. Lord Lionel Ye played by night and day, O ? Let it hang up ahint the door Till it shall rust away, O ! Let it hang up, the strings are brast. My harp that nane shall play, O ! 74 BALLADS. When are ye comin' hame, Lord Lionel, When are ye comin' hame, O ? When the sun shall wed wi' the cauld, cauld meen, And the frost shall wed wi' the flame, O ! When sun and meen shall shine in ene, Then am I comin' hame, O ! THE FIERY VIGIL. 75 THE FIERY VIGIL. One went down at eventide, seeking for flowers, Flowers for the altar, flaming as a fire ; Dreaming of the coming joy, of the festal hours, Dreaming most of all of one face in the choir. ' To-morrow is the eve of the great Whitsun feast, Dossal and frontal flaming as a fire. Red are the vestments of altar and priest — I weave a red garland for one place in the choir. ' To-morrow eve we sing the Pentecostal hymn — " Veni Creator Spiritus, our souls inspire ! " Ah, how sweet to listen, while the shades are falling dim, Ah, how sweet to listen to one voice in the choir ! ' Rood-screen and reredos, subsella and sedilia, Wreathed with ruddy blossoms, flaming as a fire ! Will the angels listen, as once to S. Cecilia — Listen to my angel, leader of the choir ? ' Angel-like he seemeth, against the spotless vesture Shall not the ruddy-blossomed wreaths flame as a fire ? Noble in his bearing, reverent in gesture — Ah ! my peerless angel, leader of the choir ! 76 BALLADS. ' Scarlet soft geraniums with their petals glossy, Crimson azaleas, flaming as a fire,' In her heart she laughed as she twined the circle mossy, ' Shall they not make radiant his place in the choir ? ' So she sat and wreathed, ruddy blossoms round her Heaped on the velvet sward, flaming as a fire ; So the sunset left her, so the moon-rise found her — Weaving, and dreaming of one face in the choir. She sleeps. Is the great eve come? Surely : they are bending Before the red-stoled altar, flaming as a fire : Organ-tones are pealing, sweet boy-voices blending — Yet she looks in vain for one face in the choir. At the chancel gateway, lo ! a bier is placed. Red cross on the purple pall flaming as a fire ; Just below the wreathed stall in ruddy garlands traced. Just below the entrance to one place in the choir. Through the western window the evening sun is slanting, Lighting up the eastern end as a flame of fire ; In the glowing chancel the choristers are chanting — Chanting ' Dies Iras ' for the leader of the choir. And the ruddy garland her hands so late were twining — Azaleas, geraniums, flaming as a fire — Lay upon the purple pall where the sun is shining, Lay upon the coffin of the leader of the choir. One sharp cry of agony she giveth, fallen lowly Before the red-stoled altar flaming as a fire. ' T/iou didst make him pure and true, reverent and holy. Could I choose but worship my angel in the choir ? ' THE FIERY VIGIL. 77 ' Yet,0 gracious Lord, forgive ! I have sinned before Thee; Search my heart, try it out, purge it as by fire ! Blinded by an earthly love, how could I adore Thee ? Setting up an idol in Thy place, in the choir ! ' Then a Voice spake tenderly : 'Truly hast thou spoken ! For the love of thy whole heart doth thy Lord require. By the Hand of Mercy thine earthly idol broken, Still one angel waits thee in the angel-choir ! ' 78 BALLADS. PRIMROSE TIME. She dosed her eyes and went to sleep In primrose time ; She left us here behind to weep (The birds sing all in primrose time). They carried her over land and sea In primrose time, Till that they came to a fair countrie (The birds sing sweet in primrose time). They carried her under the old church-tower In primrose time. The hawthorn brakes were all one flower (The birds sing loud in primrose time). They carried her unto the churchyard green In primrose time ; Her bed was made in flowers, I ween (One bird sang clear in primrose time). They laid a white cross above her breast In primrose time ; He laid it there who loved her best (The birds sing soft in primrose time). PRIMROSE TIME. 79 Sleep, sweet heart, till morning bright In primrose time : Christ thee grant perpetual light Who died for us in primrose time. Wake, sweet soul, and watch and pray In primrose time : Christ have mercy in that day, Who rose for us in primrose time. III. IN MEMORIAM VERSES. IN MEMORIAM VERSES. SHOE WELL SPLHE. H. P.G.— 1876. * The crooked shall be made straight.^ It stood for centuries above the village, Crowning the church, the smiling hamlet's pride ; Through many a cycle's harvesting and tillage. While many a generation lived and died. Our crooked spire. 'Tvvas said the lightning glancing, Long since, the fair erection marr'd and bent ; We could not tell : but still, with years advancing. In growing fear, mark'd how the steeple leant. Years it might stand ; but to rebuild were surer, Said one, whose spirit never knew delay : So was each stone laid fitter and securer. So did the work go on from day to day ; And now 'tis done. O'er hill and tree and meadow The gilded vane points faultlessly on high ; But one new grave is dug within its shadow For him — the father-heart, the master-eye. The worker hath ' gone home and ta'en his wages ' ; The lowly guest is bidden ' come up higher ' : For him the sweet-ton'd bell, the voice of ages, Tolls its first knell from the restored spire. ' It must not be — we cannot do without him ! ' Went up one common wail from high and low, When from the stricken mourners round about him Came to that home the tidings of the blow. 84 IN MEMORIAM VERSES. Ah, well ! For hath he not been all men's servant — Open that patient ear to every call ? Not slothful in his earthly calling : fervent In spirit, serving first the Lord of all. No swerving in the Heavenward-pointing finger, No dallying ere the crooked was made straight : The work was done : why should the worker linger ? The Master call'd : why should the servant wait ? He needs no lofty stone for fame's securing, No lengthen'd scroll of panegyric high ; Enough that faithful witness most enduring. That 'silent finger pointing to the sky.' Doth not its reverend form, the vale adorning. Speak truest comfort unto hearts that bleed ? Doth it not lift a voice of loving warning, Of heavenly counsel, if we will but heed ? ' Let not your hands hang down in idle sorrow. Strengthen your weak steps in the Heavenward way ; Leave not a present duty for to-morrow ; Work ye your work while it is called to-day. ' Let not the mists of earth your course bewilder : Strive evermore to make your calling sure ; Leave nought undone, as the wise master-builder From base to summit knows each stone secure. ' So shall your upward path be straight and steady \ So shall your hope point brightly to the skies ; So at the last Christ's summons find you ready As he, who bade my outline faultless rise.' 'STOOKY' SUNDAY, -/S~S6. 85 'STOOKY' SUNDAY, 1S86. (x\. Rankin, Priest.) Stooky Sunday ! pause of rest 'mid autumn toil and autumn gain, Fairest day of fair September upon Garioch's fertile plain ; AVhen each crested knoll and valley laughs with shocks of golden grain. See ! the fields in ripe abundance vaunt their treasure all ablaze, Sparkling in the crystal distance, mellowing in the mellow rays — Meekly waiting to be garnered with the song of joy and praise. Who would mourn for such ingathering when the heat and storm are past ? Who, that knows the springtide promise sealed by autumn sure and fast. Fruits of faith and hope and patience safely garnered at the last. Note. — ' Stooky ' Sunday is the name given in Aberdeenshire to the Sunday which falls in the middle of harvest, when the greatest number of ' stooks,' or sheaves, are out in the fields. 86 IN MEMO RI AM VERSES. So we mourn him not, now gathered in Time's fulness to his rest, Full of years and full of honour, ripened treasure of the best; Labours ended, meek hands folded now across the quiet breast. Past all pain and toil and evil, past the range of griefs and fears, Like a shock of corn in season, in the ripeness of his years Gathered to his loved departed, not for him shall be our tears ! Not for him — although unchidden still the grief must have its way. Son beloved of his Mother, loving, duteous to obey. Whom old Scotland's Church bewaileth with a mother's tears to-day. Reverend presence in her synods, wise in council, mild of speech, Zeal unswerving, mien most courteous, fiery eloquence to teach. Shrine of sacred memories linking with a past beyond our reach. Long his faithful works shall follow him whose work on earth has ceased : Sorely they who knew shall miss him, from the greatest to the least : Miss his mild majestic greeting, genial friend and faithful priest. 'STOOKY' SUNDAY, ■iSsC. 87 So this day of fair mid-harvest, with its restful calm and brief, Speaks to us of him and for him in a voice assuaging grief, Bidding us behold his image in each golden gathered sheaf Meekly waiting to be garnered, 'neath the vault of heaven's blue dome. So he waits for earth's redemption, till the final hour shall come To be ' garnered up in glory ' at the Lord's own Harvest Home. S8 IN MEMORIAM VERSES. PASSION SUNDAY, 1887. (A, Harper, Priest.) Hush'd in the stillness of an awful calm, Beneath the Cross we wait with streaming eyes : The echoes of our Passion Sunday psalm Are haply heard to-day in Paradise. The father's loss must not his children weep ? The shepherd smitten, shall the flock not mourn, Owning with chastened grief, not wild but deep. The stroke that leaves them orphaned and forlorn ? Yea, happier flocks, untouched by change or loss. With us shall mourn the rooted love of years, With bleeding hearts who seek Good Friday's Cross, Whose Easter garlands must be wet with tears. And well ! for none hath better wist than he To draw all hearts to him in bonds of love, With guileless art of kindliest sympathy. The gentle influence of the Holy Dove. Not in the strife of tongues, in loud debate. Nor seeking place 'mid great ones of the earth : In one fair spot he kept his lowly state. And shed the violet-fragrance of his worth. PASSION SUNDAY, iSSy. 89 To feed the lambs, the shepherd's part to bear : Content with one dear flock alone to dwell : One plot of heavenly seed-ground to prepare ; And live and die with those he lov'd so well. So by his church, with prayer and choral song, Mid all his mourning people lay him down : And may the souls he led and fed so long Shine as the gems of his immortal crown ! Rest well, dear Saint ! We bow to His good Will Who lent and takes thee, mid our sore distress : Thine own true words shall linger with us still, Telling of Love that blesses and ' can bless ' Through all ' — were every earthly joy withdrawn ; Through gloomiest presage of a world's decay ; Through Death's dark night, unto the glorious Dawn That ushers in the Everlasting Day. 90 IN MEMORIAM VERSES. LOST ON THE HILLS. (A. H. Mackonochie, Priest.) 1887 Tread softly ! o'er the snow-clad moor the weary search is ended ! The wayfarer hath laid him down, by faithful watchers tended ; And stand we dumb in stricken woe, or rend the air with weeping, We cannot mar the blessed sleep that God's true priest is sleeping. How gently, see ! the pitying snow would shield him from its bleakness : (Fit emblem of the stainless robe he wore so long in meek- ness ;) They clear it from the cold still form upon its bosom lying- It hath not changed the peaceful look that seal'd his face in dying. Well ? was it well with him ? we ask, and still, with awe- struck faces, Dumb lips, and sad remorseful hearts, count o'er the mournful traces — The failing clue, the fainting hope, the forces slowly sinking — Might not the bravest fear and shrink, on such a death scene thinking ? LOST ON THE HILLS. 91 Alone, upon the trackless waste, no landmark left to guide him — No light, no human voice — yea, none but those dumb friends beside him : The long, long strife those footprints tell, the wanderings unavailing. Till in despair he laid him down with sight and senses failing ! Despair ? Ah ! no — how may we tell what communings sustained him ? What All-sufficient Love was nigh to still what else had pained him ? Or how upon his frozen couch, the drift-cloud stealing o'er him Seemed but the soft white angel wings of those to rest who bore him ? The winds that howled across the moor with wailings wild and dreary Have surely borne him heavenly notes of welcome to the weary ; The steps that wandered all around, that seemed to err so blindly. Have led him to the golden Gate thrown wide in welcome kindly. His name — it was a name to some for taunting byword serving, To some the type of fearless faith, of constancy unswerving. Now, all who praised and all who blamed, made silent by this token. Must lay their hands upon their lips, and own that God hath spoken. 92 IN MEMORIAM VERSES. Alone he lived and work'd for God, a life of heavenly beauty ; Scorn'd by the world, misjudged, condemned for loyalty and duty : Now wherefore make we this ado and weep ? he needs no weeping : Alone, he fell asleep in Christ. So let us leave him sleeping. M. K. L. 93 M. K. L. April 6, 1894. Where shall we find a voice for grief to borrow, Such grief as ours who mourn thee vanished, Light of to-day and promise of to-morrow ? Spring turned to autumn, joy to ashes dead — Ah ! when has death laid low so dear a head ? But thrice three moons have waxed to orb from crescent Since thou within our midst didst stand a bride, Cloth'd in thy youthful glory evanescent, In virgin loveliness and virgin pride, To crown his life who waited at thy side. The dream is past. They wreathe white flowers above thee. Thyself of all a flower most pure, most fair : And we, who craved a little hour to love thee. Stand desolate — though anguished tear and prayer Beat at the gates of death with vain despair. How shall we praise thee, who no more behold thee Serene and pure and gracious as the morn ? From out the silence which doth now enfold thee Comes there no whisper of compassion born. Whisper like thine, our rose without a thorn? How shall we praise thee, who no more may hearken Thy perfect voice, or meet thy love-lit eyes, Love-lit for ours that years and sorrows darken, Pure lips, that soothe the hunger of our sighs No more while life endures, till sorrow dies ? 94 IN MEMO RI AM VERSES. Sweet, was thy life not as a watered garden Whose dial numbered only sunny hours? Soft heart, that never cares of earth shall harden, Glad heart, that shall not know this grief of ours, Dear flower set high among the King's own flowers. God clothed thee, as a raiment, with His beauty. And set His seal of heaven upon thy face, And fenced thee round with bonds of faith and duty. And gave thee, flawless, to love's pure embrace, To fill all functions with an equal grace. And what had life of all its gifts to show thee More, that thou hast therein not had thy part ? Heaven's smile above, earth very fair below thee, Dear was the love of home, and dear was Art ; And dearer yet the chosen of thy heart. And motherhood was thine : the gracious burden, The seal of love and crown of wedded bliss, The hallow'd sorrows and the beauteous guerdon, The sweet contentment of an infant's kiss Were thine — and shall we not give thanks for this . Is it not lawful for the loving Master That which He willeth with His own to do ? He blesses, where we only see disaster : He giveth and He taketh. We who rue, Hereafter, if we trust, shall find Him true. Thou who of all dost closehest mourn, art leaving Thy very heart within her flower-lined nest, Look up ! through all the loss and all the grieving The Via dolorosa leads to rest. One walked before thee there Who loveth best. M. K. L. 95 He walked before thee, now Who walks beside thee, As step by step, to share the pressing load ; It shall not crush. If He sustain and guide thee, Fear not for length and darkness of the road That late, so late, with hope and pleasure glowed. Thou canst not see the ways by which she goeth : Thou canst not take her by the hand, and say All in thine heart — the language which she knoweth Is seal'd : lay hand upon thy lips, and pray For patience ; thou shalt understand one day. Thy dead shall live — yea, even now is living ; And His best gift He to the last doth keep. Ah, me ! we talk of loving and of giving. And He — He giveth His beloved sleep A while. Why make we this ado and weep ? 96 IN MEMORIAM VERSES. NEW YEAR'S EVE. (T. H., Chorister.) Confirmed August 30; died December 31, 1885. When the warrior goes forth newly plighted and seal'd, New-girt with his weapons to follow his chief, If the battle be turn'd ere a dint on the shield, Do we mourn that the conflict hath proven so brief? When the wayfarer, counting the miles he must roam Ere the last ridge be climb'd, on a sudden his eye Lights up, for he stands in the gate of his home. And knew not, in sooth, that his home was so nigh ; When the workman has wrought but an hour of the day And his task is fulfilled that he rest ere the noon. And the Master, well pleased, comes his toil to repay — Do we grudge these their rest, that it cometh so soon ? And were it not well for thee, brother, so young To lay down thy life with the fast-dying year's, Ere faded the garlands thy fingers had hung. While the last Christmas carol was fresh in thine ears ? Yea, well ! for the anthem, unfinish'd below, Shall be yet taken up where the songs never cease ; And the ' Happy New Year ' that thy spirit shall know Is the dawn of the endless — the Year of Release. So rest, where the snows meetly surplice thy grave (Though their eyes yet who miss thee awhile must be dim); For the Christ Who was born to redeem thee and save Hath mark'd thee thus early and called thee to Him. /■ ^. 97 July 4, 18S6. Good-bye is said 'twixt us and tliee, Since that to-day has seen thee laid To rest within the church's shade, In that fair churchyard by the sea. And we, who saw thy patient ways. Thy daily cross so meekly borne — We miss thee, but we may not mourn Our friend of those brief summer days, Our friend, please God, for evermore ! — Who mourns, because the shore is won, The billows crost, the rest begun ? God keep thee, on that quiet shore. The haven where thou wouldest be ! As welcome after strife and storm To soul, as to the weary form Its Sabbath rest beside the sea. IV. SONGS FROM THE SAGAS SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. THE DEATH-SONG OF SKARPHEDINN. (NjALA.) Fast, fast the firebrands fall, Filling the reeking hall — Faster and fiercer the red flakes are spreading ! Spent is the work of ire — Slain is thine aged sire — Stay'st thou yet 'midst the fire, mighty Skarphedinn? Leap forth ! the way is clear ! Leap forth, for life is dear ! Linger not ! loiter not ! why wilt thou perish? ' Leap thou, O kinsman, first ! Let the foes work their worst — Glad is my spirit, for vengeance thou'lt cherish ! ' Last in thy father's hall. How dost thou scale the wall While the red timbers fall crashing around thee ! Now 'tis too late, too late ! Bend to thy stubborn fate ; Vain is thy vaunted strength ! vengeance hath found thee ! Now with a lurid flash Crumbling, the cross-beams crash, Rafters and roof fall in ruins before thee ! SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. Heap'd the huge fragments He, Hiding the murky sky — Black'ning and blinding the smoke-cloud rolls o'er thee ! Now the flames smoulder low, Now with a fitful glow Round the red ruins they flicker up higher : Yet the remorseless flame Could not thy spirit tame ; Sounded thy song in the midst of the fire ! None dealt the fatal blow; No man might lay thee low — Thou, whose bright weapon ne'er falsely was wielded ! * Though thy foes press around No man might deal thee wound. Well thy brave form hath the shining flame shielded ! Not in fight didst thou fall. But by the blacken'd wall, With the charr'd timbers all heap'd up around thee. With thy hands cross'd in rest. And the Cross on thy breast, In thy last slumber, wild warrior, they found thee ! * ' Never have I aimed weapon at man that I have not smitten him. {See ' Burnt Njal,' Vol. 2, p. 143.) THE FINDING OF BURNT NJAL. THE FINDING OF BURNT NJAL. (NjALA.) Over all the fertile Land-isles Bright the beams of morning fell ; From the rocky shore resounded Ceaseless forth the breakers' swell ; Up to yonder ruin'd homestead Wound a melancholy train, There to seek, amid the ruins, For the bodies of the slain. Still above those blacken'd ruins Dim blue wreaths of vapour roll — Morn shall never more awaken Busy life on BergthorsknoU ! Foul hath been the deed of bloodshed Which such retribution brought : Fouler yet the retribution Both on pure and guilty wrought : And the ruthless hand hath wrought it As the traitor's heart hath plann'd ; And the sons of Njal, the guileless, Have been swept from off the land. He, the man of wondrous foresight, He whose counsel aye was good, He, the gentle and the generous, Who ne'er dipped his hands in blood — Meekly down to rest hath laid him All amid the scorching flame ; Choosing death, though death was fearful. More than life, when life was shame. 104 SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. All unscathed by fire they found him, Pure and peaceful as in life, And beside him fair Bergthora, His brave-hearted loving wife : She, who in her proud affection With him in the fire hath died ; When the bright flames blazed above them She hath scorn'd to leave his side ; And the young fair boy between them — He, the darling of their heart, Who hath loved with them to suffer Rather than be saved apart. Search they now for brave Skarphedinn, Seeking heedfuUy and long In that quarter whence hath sounded Forth the mighty skald's last song. And they search with cautious footsteps, Voices hushed, and bated breath — ' Fearful was his living aspect. What shall be his mien in death ? ' And they find him where, 'mid ashes. Blackened beam and rafter lie ; Where the flaming roof hath fallen. And hath hemmed him in to die : With his trusty axe deep driven In the wall above his head. Telling of a fearful struggle Ere the last wild hope had fled ! There they find him, lifeless leaning By the ruined gable wall, Where he stood, the last survivor In his father's wasted hall : THE FINDING OF BURNT NJAL. 105 Whence he sang the song of vengeance That hath reached the startled foe — Dauntless in the hour of danger, Mighty in his overthrow ! Silent now that voice, soul-stirring, Often heard in strifeful song ; Stiffened now those giant sinews. Once so supple and so strong ; Motionless his hands, and meekly Crosswise laid above his breast, And thereon, in seams of fire, I.o, the sacred sign imprest ! Much they marvelled, that fierce warrior Peaceful thus in death to find, 'Mid those scorched and blackened ruins With the sacred symbol signed ; And his kinsmen gather round him — Him, the dreaded once of men — On those lifeless features gazing. For they seemed not fearful then. As they bear him forth to burial Each one to the other saith : ' Fearful was his living aspect. Yet we fear him not in death 1 ' io6 SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. KARFS REVENGE. (NjALA.) It was when the guest,s were gathered At Earl Sigurd's Yuletide feast : All around the board were ranged From the greatest to the least. There the youthful Erse king Sigtrygg, Surnamed of the Silken Beard, Sat ; and at his side Earl Gilli Whom the island chieftains fear'd. There, too, sat the warrior Flosi, Leader of the Burners' band, Who the fate of Njal, the guileless, Ruthless wrought with reeking hand. And they feasted and were merry — Making oft the hall resound. And the rooftree ring with laughter As they passed the wine cup round. Now men call for song and saga ; And King Sigtrygg fain would know Of the tidings of the Burning — How they wrought Njal's overthrow. And they chose, to tell the story, Gunnar, Lambi's stalwart son — He who was amid the foremost When the dastard deed was done. KARPS REVENGE. 107 And he tells the tale of terror Mixed with many a mocking joke — Tells the tale about the Burning, Till at length King Sigtrygg spoke : ' Say, how bore him brave Skarphedinn, When the bright flames o'er him leapt ? Then false-hearted Gunnar answered : ' Well ; but at the end he wept.' Thus he told the tale untruly, Mingled with derisive shout ; Little weened he who was waiting, Listening, as he lurked without. Kari, Njal's avenging kinsman, Standing by the outer wall, Listens eager to the story Of the speaker in the hall. Hears him tell the tale untruly, Mingled with derisive shout ; And his brave heart swells with anger As he listens there without. Heareth he King Sigtrygg's question — Heareth Gunnar's false reply — And a flush is on his forehead, And a light is in his eye. He hath listened to their laughter — He hath waited, all too long ! Now he draws his sword in vengeance — Lifts his voice in strifeful song, io8 SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. As he goeth from his station There beneath the outer wall ; And he strideth through the doorway, And he rusheth up the hall — Up to where, upon the dais, With the guests all listening, Gunnar sits to tell his story To the princes and the king. Not to right or left looked Kari, Not a single word he spoke ; But upon the son of Lambi Straight he dealt th' unerring stroke. Stoutly on the neck he smote him With his tried and trusty sword ', And the head of that false speaker Rolled upon the reeking board ! FLOSrS LAST CRUISE. 109 FZOSI'S LAST CRUISE. (NjALA.) O WHITHER fares the aged chief Across the ocean foam ? His bark is bound for Iceland's shore, For thither Hes his home. He came to seek for timber good From many a fir- clad fell, To build himself a lofty hall And like a prince to dwell. ' Thou farest late, and risk is great When autumn tempests rave : Thy bark is frail to stand the gale And tempt the treach'rous wave.' ' O seek not thus, with words of fear. To stay my purpose bold ! The bark is fitted for the freight — The death-doomed and the old ! ' Thus spake the aged chief, and fares Across the ocean foam : He steereth straight for Iceland's shore- He steereth for his home. SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. His ship is stored with timber good From many a fir-clad fell ; But never more in lofty hall Shall mighty Flosi dwell ! Men knew not where the bark went down- What tempest swept the main ; But of that chieftain and his crew Came tidings ne'er again. QUEEN GUNNHILLDA. QUEEN GUNNHILLDA. Whither so late O'er the hill-side ? With what precious freight, O chiefs, do ye ride ? Costly and rare Is the freight we bear : We bring home Gunnhillda, The Dane king's bride ! Dark is the night, Dreary and chill : In heaven no light, No track on the hill ; Fast thro' the dark lift The fleeting clouds drift — Moaneth the night wind Mournfully shrill. Draw rein — 'tis the brink Of a pathless morass : The horses' feet sink In the long dank grass. Here, queen, thy domain ! Here in peace shalt thou reign ! Fear not ! the dark moor Thou ne'er shall pass ! SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. O hapless bride ! Doom is thy dower : Past is thy pride, Past is thy pow'r ! Thy false escort gone, Thou weepest alone ! Dark is thy realm, O queen, Bleak, bride, thy bower. In silence afar Their faint footsteps die ; There beameth no star In all the dark sky : Only the wildfire bright, Flickering with fitful light ; Only the wailing wind Answers thy cry. Note. — This song relates the end of the famous and wicked Queen of Norway, Gunnhillda, surnamed ' Kings's mother,' whose history is given in the appendix to Sir G. Dasent's ' Burnt Njal ' (p. 377 et seq.). In her old age she received a message, purporting to be from the aged King of Denmark, that if she would come to visit him he would make her his wife. ' She set sail with three ships, and on landing in Jutland was met by the King's men, who were to lead her to the bridal feast. .... At nightfall, as they passed a dreary moor, her companions seized and plunged her into the morass, which was called afterwards " Gunnhillda's Moss.'" ILLUGI. I LLU G I. (Gretla.) ' Why should we spare him, Our steps to pursue Till in blood of the slayers His hand he embrue ? Hath he not sworn it — Shall he not keep true ? ' Leave him unfettered — Ye need not to bind ! Leave him uncovered — Ye need not to blind ! The course ye have chosen Is most to his mind. See ! his eye quaileth not — Groweth not dim ; He changeth not colour, He moveth not limb ; Ye rather might tremble And quail before him ! One bright glance upward At heaven's blue dome ; One — o'er the heaving Of Skagafjord's foam ; One — tow'rd the ruin So lately his home. 113 114 SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. One — at the faces So dark in their spite, So fierce in the joy Of o'er-mastering might — The gUttering weapons, The arm rais'd to smite. This — for his manhness ! This — for his faith ! Watching and weariness, Sorrow and scathe : A short hfe of hardship, A shameful death ! Faithful, he followed To exile and scorn, Faithful, he tended His brother forlorn : Bravely the brunt Of the battle hath borne. Now the long watch, The short struggle, are o'er : Deep shall his sleep be By Drangey's lone shore. Weapon of warrior Shall reach him no more. Look on the brave young form Stiffen'd and gory ! Sheathe ye the sword That hath finish'd his story ! Life ye could take from him — Never his glory ! VALKYRIA'S SONG. 115 VALKYRIA'S SONG. {For Music.) All up the rainbow arch, Slowly ascending, Warriors in solemn march Their steps are bending. Far in the stream of light Spearheads are gleaming, And on their helmets bright Sun-rays are beaming. Stalwart and strifeful, Hand joining hand — Yet they step wearily — Whence comes this band ? These, to Valhalla's hall Hitherward wending, These by their chief did fall, Bravely defending. Sharp hath the strife been. The day's march dreary ; Haste ye to enter in, War-worn and weary ! Rest 'mid the shining throng, All strife is o'er ; While your bright deeds in song Sound evermore ! H 2 Il6 SONGS FROM THE SAGAS. CHRISTMAS AT SKALHOLT A.D. 1 193. (Thorlakssaga.) Christmas-tide ! o'er the moorland wide the snow is spread as a stainless vest. Ways be foul, but from far to Skalholt* rides full many an honoured guest ; Fain of greeting though friends be meeting, grief sits heavy on each man's breast. Eyes are dim, though the Christmas hymn must sound in praise of a Saviour's Birth. Borne along to the house of song, what presence chastens the sacred mirth ? He who led them so long and fed them lies full lowly as earth to earth. Star of Iceland, her gem of price, her sun-ray quenched in a darksome night, Shepherd tender, a guide and friend, a fair example in all men's sight. Years fifteen hath his headship been their stay and guidance, their life and light. * The a in Skalholt is pronounced as ow in fowl. CHRISTMAS AT SKALHOLT. 117 Years fifteen ; and his eyes have seen the sixtieth winter increase and wane : Snows shall dwindle, and suns enkindle yet the summer on field and plain : Grass shall grow and the freed streams flow — but none shall look on his like again. Never more shall the land that bore him bear a truer, a nobler son ! Fair and bright though she spread to sight the muster-roll of her champions, none Shines in story with priestly glory passing Thorlak, her sainted one. Three nights long in the house of song his people bend 'neath the chastening rod : Now they lift on the bier of driftwood, bear him forth to the hallowed sod. Filled with dule are the days of Yule ; but he sleeps softly who sleeps in God. Christmas^ 1894. V. TRANSLATIONS FROM MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. To Dr. GRIMUR THOMSEN. One summer day we crost the moor, Unbidden guests from far away, Came to thy hospitable door One summer day : Drew rein, one golden hour to stay Amid thy treasures' varied store. Could I, unblamed, aspire to lay These sweet stray flowers of Northern lore Before thee, such might serve to say Whose heart remembers evermore One summer day ! October, 1895. TRANSLATORS NOTE. In presenting these few efforts at translation from the Icelandic, it is not attempted to give anything like an exhaustive or even fairly representative collection of the Icelandic poets of to-day. They are only stray blossoms culled according to opportunity or inclination, and some- what at random, from a garden teeming with a beauty and a luxuriance quite unimagined by the great majority of readers and lovers of poetry — in this country, at all events. The bulk of the translations it will be seen are from Steingrimr Thorsteinsson, a poet still living, whose works are widely known and appreciated amongst his countrymen. Hallgrimr Petursson, the contemporary of Milton, and Iceland's greatest religious poet (who belongs of right to a rather different category), is represented only by three short pieces ; and the venerable and learned Grimur Thom- sen by one, but that one, as I think, an exquisite and characteristic little song, ' Out of the Courtyard ' : the nearest rendering I could find to convey to English readers the sense of ' IJr hlaSi' — 'hlaS' being the Httle plot (often roughly paved) beside the farm, where the saddled ponies await their riders, and whence the hospitable Icelander speeds the parting guest who has shared the best he has to give with a patriarchal warmth of blessing that must be heard to be appreciated. Jonas Hallgrimsson, from whose writings I have only attempted to give a fragmentary speci- men, is considered by his countrymen to occupy a foremost place in the roll of Skalds, and to be fitly represented would need a volume to himself. His poetic diction is perhaps the most difficult of all to render adequately, and the greater proportion of his poems follow the old classical form of MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. verse, with alliteration and assonance, an additional obstacle to translators. The specimen given is from a well-known and extremely beautiful poem called ' Gunnarsholmi,' on an episode of the Njala. None can be more sensible than the translator of the inadequacy, in many respects, of the renderings here given. Closely as the Icelandic and the true Saxon English are connected, so closely that in some cases the actual rhymes translate literally, there are forms and turns of phrase quite untranslatable in their native force and conciseness ; while the poetic imagery is not seldom unfamiliar to southern readers. In conclusion, I can hardly express myself better than by quoting the words of Dr. Gri'mur Thomsen himself, applied to his own translations from the Greek poets — sub- stituting only the word ' Icelandic ' for Greek. ' Enginn getur fundi'6 ];a5 betur enn sjalfur eg, hversu langt er fra \>\i, a6 fySingarnar nai frumkvseSunum, en |o ]'£er seu friar, hef eg \i. von, a8 hinn (gn'ski) fegurSarandi hafi nokkurnveginn halSiS ser, og a5 lesendurnir fai nokkra hugmynd um atial eg einkenni bins forna (griska) skaldskapar.' ' No one can feel better than I myself how far the translations are from reaching the original poems ; but though they are free, I have nevertheless the hope that the (Greek) spirit of beauty has been somewhat retained, and that the readers may receive some impression of the noble and the distinctive in the (old Greek) poetry.' If these attempts, however humble, should be the means of awakening appreciation of the works of these later Skalds, or stimulating research in their direction, they will not have been made in vain. I have again to acknowledge the kind assistance of Mr. Helgi Pjetursson in revising some of my renderings. TRANSLATIONS FROM MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. BjARNI ThORARINSSON. 'ELDGAMLA IS A FOLD: (The National Anthem of Iceland. It is sung to the same air as the English ' God save the Queen.') FiRE-OLDEN Iceland strand, Heart's dearest foster-land, Hill-maiden rare ! Of thee shall souls be fain While land is girt of main, And wooeth maiden swain, Or sun shines fair. 'Mid Haven's* murky night Crave we home's wonted sight, For thee we yearn ; Weary town's din must be, Joyless its revelry ; Though idlers mock to see. To thee we turn. Health, heart and spirit fail Oft in this hill-less vale Where smoke-cloud lies ; So seems the drear expanse As some weird countenance Lacking, through dire mischance, Both nose and eyes ! * Copenhagen. 124 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. Far otherwise is seen Thy white veil's snowy sheen 'Gainst heaven's clear height. Or those pure crystal streams On which the sunlight gleams, While blue heaven's bright smile beams On Jokulls white. Fire-olden Iceland strand, Heart's dearest foster-land, Hill-maiden pure ! Best gifts be thine alway. From heart and soul we pray, While this world's night and day Steadfast endure. ^SWAN-WINGED SOUL: 125 Steingrimr Thorsteinsson. 'SWAN-WINGED SOUL.r Swan-winged soul ! Wafted to heaven from temporal strife, Sun-pure with angels in luminous life, Say where thou shinest, departed sweet soul, Could I but see ! Though silent the night with its thousandfold fires, Thou leadest my sight to the heavenly quires ; Where may I seek for thee, blessed and holy. Where are the wings that may bear me, the lowly. To thee ? 126 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. THE EAR OF CORN AND THE ROSE. The corn-ear spoke to the rose-bud so : ' I am profit and thou art show.' Answered the rose in blushing red : ' I am beauty and thou art bread.' Then spake the mother of both, the sun : ' Wrangle not, children, for honours won. ' To each of ye twain is praise assigned, Even as the Author of life designed. ' Thou useful ! let thou the fair one be ! Thou beauteous ! love hath a use for thee. 'I LOVE YE, ICELAND'S MOUNTAIN TRACTS.' 127 'I LOVE YE, ICELAND'S MOUNTAIN TRACTS: I LOVE ye, Iceland's mountain tracts, Bright brows above blue heather soaring. Ye dales and lithes and cataracts, And reefs 'mid billows hoarsely roaring. I love the land all clad in summer-green, I love it in its snowy winter sheen, When bright at even The vault of heaven With twinkling northern lights is flashing. And thee I love, mine own dear race, With lineaments of olden splendour ; Thy youths are bred in freedom's grace, Thy blooming maids like flowerets tender. I love thee for thy far- spread fame of old. The best of gifts are in thy garment's fold. Be as of yore Who honour bore And rightly use the truest freedom. And thee I love, my people's tongue. With force and fire in words resounding : As soft as flowers, as steel-blade strong. In strength and eloquence abounding. I love thee, and my heart is knit with thine, Our love shall bid for thee new summer shine. On rocks a-cold Bloom, as of old. In ancient seat of song and story. 128 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. Thus Iceland holds me in truest bands, No truer bindeth son to niother ; And though I sailed to fairest lands, And there men welcomed me as brother, My joy should be but halved, until I see My native land, the most enjoyed by me. That love I best : Content I rest With land and folk and fathers' tongue. REMEMBRANCE. 129 REMEMBRANCE. Broken the lily — 'neath the darksome mould And fretting worm The guileless breast, nought ill that might enfold ; The swan-fair form. Angel of peace to me, 'mid earth's rude noises, As fair and bright As quiet star that o'er the torrent's voices Sheds smiles of light. Thy grave, sweet maid, as flow the passing years. Shall fair be seen. The holy dew of love's most sacred tears Shall keep it green. O shine thou, sun, upon her leafy tomb Of smiling flowers ; And watch thou, night, that never winter's gloom Defile those bowers. But let the swift-winged winds a seed-corn bear, That some high tree ]\Iay droop, with tears on every leaflet, there To mourn for thee. At turn of night, when wanes the starry host. As zephyr light On moon-beam borne, a gentle white winged ghost Return to sight. I I30 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. On misty circles that the night-dew weaves Thou floatest down 'Mid interlacing fragrant lime-tree leaves, A shining crown. Thine angel footfall no frail misj-web breaketh, So soft its tread \ No sleeping bird with folded wing awaketh Nor lifts its head. So mayest thou come, in happy dream enshrin'd, To bless our eyes. And melt away on gentle morning wind When darkness dies. The outward beauty is but born to fade, This fadeth ne'er. Shines ever round thee, sleeping, sackless maid, A sunset fair. BLUE EYES— BLACK EYES. BLUE EYES. Of all blue colours, maiden dear, The best laughs in thine eyes so clear ; So blue not heaven itself, I wot : So blue is no forget-me-not. What gave thee this fair colour, then, That bindeth and bewitcheth men ? A soul most pure to guard love's smile, And eke a heart that knows no guile. BLACK EYES. When with sheltering arm I would embrace thee, Loveliest maid, like southlands' daughters browed, Darkling glances meet me, as I face thee. Like to night, the realm of dream and cloud. Blissful shadow, light of love-star golden, High heav'ns sheen, and earthly gladsome ray — So much light and shade at once beholden Chains my heart in glorious fetters aye. 132 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. MAIDEN'S ADORNMENT. Maid, whose gentle brow doth charm, Gold adorns thy snow-white arm, Rose against thy bosom warm Thou dost fold. What may gold, and what may rose ? Beauty pure ! beside thee shows E'en, methinks, the rose no rose. The gold no gold. From ''ASTA-V'ISUR' {Love-songs). On cheek and lip she weareth roses blooming, And in her eyes of blue twin stars shine clear ; How short a step from rose to starlight looming In maiden's face ! — the twain so close appear. Thus shows she in how small a space may live The sweetest things that earth and heaven can give GREETING. 133 GREETING. The sweetest of roses sharp thorn-prick underUes, The crafty serpent hideth in fairest paradise, The golden sky of rainclouds grey full soon is overcast, And the joyance of our dreams turns to waking tears at last. That wist I well aforetime, but first I feel it now, Thou fairest, falsest maiden, guile's lovelight on thy brow ! I greet thee, faring onward with soul bowed down and drear, But wiser for the wounding, though wisdom cost me dear. The roof that falls in ruins not soon anew is built ; Now dwell where'er it please thee, and wander where thou wilt. Thy path is toward the noisy crowd : mine lieth me before ; Our steps henceforth are sundered, so meet we nevermore. I do not glory in the thought — my heart is sore to know What fate must overtake thee in this world's noisy show ; Thy gold shall turn to ashes, thy gifts to dust of earth, For thee, forsworn, be changed Ic tears thy former mirth. I cannot learn to hate thee on whom my heart was set. Yet have I wished full often that never we had met. I cannot longer love thee, false heart my love that stole, But evermore thy shadow shall rest upon my soul. 134 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. WHERE ARE THE BIRDS THAT SANG SO S WEET IN SUMMER ? Where are the birds that sang so sweet in summer ? They all have southward flown across the wave. Where are the summer flowers, each happy comer ? Beneath the snow they rest in wintry grave. What song is now ? the wind howls ever higher, With thunder-voice, around each white abode. The silent sea-fowl crowd the strand a-nigher, The lusty ocean sings a harsher ode. What flowers are now ? The frozen blooms are hiding, As rime-white clothing decks their sad remains, And ray-flowers, from the moon-beam gently gliding On glassy slopes beyond the wintry plains. Nay, song-life, flower-life only bloom within us. There the glad spirit dwells till summer sweet Whose song and story, love and friendship win us In winter-tide, by glowing fireside heat. ' So, though no bird of song remain to cheer it, And mounds are hiding every flovrer laid low. We own an inner summer of the spirit. Though hardens frost without and heapeth snow. SWAN-SONG O'ER THE HEATHER. 135 SWAN-SONG O'ER THE HEATHER. I RODE upon a summer eve Across the barren heather : Short seemed my way, so rough and long, For hstening to the swan's sweet song, Yea, swan-song o'er the heather. Fair glows the fell in ruddy sheen : Far, near, and everywhither Floats on mine ear like angel's strain, From out some high and holy fane. That swan-song o'er the heather. So wondrous sweet a music hath Entranced my senses never : In waking dream my path I rode. Nor knew how fast the moments flowed For swan-song o'er the heather. 136 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS S UMMER-NIGHT. Now day's orb is hidden Deep in ocean's breast, Sweet on all things lieth Sacred evening rest. Sky with shining raiment All the west hath dight ; Glitters gold and rosy Sea with gleams of light. Calm round all the sea-strand Ruleth wave and sound : Peace is on the mountain, Peace is on the ground ; Hushed the last bird-twitter, Calm on dale and height ; Calm my inmost spirit. Heavenly summer-night ! SEAMEN'S SONG. 137 SEAMEN'S SONG. Hear the morning song from sea- ward, see 'neath favouring gale How the swift ship glides from islet and from strand away ! Sunlight gilds the vessel's sides, and shines each tan-brown sail. While from every deck resounds the gladsome seamen's lay. Thou, our fosterland who foldest to thy bosom fast, Clasping aye the dear cold shores around with silver arm ; Thou, blue sea ! that art to Snowland's sons Fame's image vast, Hail ! O blast thou not our hopes, be thou our sheltering charm. Sing we gladly as we spread the spray-wet sail to sea ! Hardy seamen's hearts beat higher for the sea-wind's play: So of yore the land's brave fathers swam their steeds of tree, And their spirit, who took Iceland first, whets ours to-day. Through the hoarser song of ocean oft their call goes forth : ' Forward, children ! trace our track to sea with sail un- furled ! Fearing naught, hard-handed people of the wave-swept north, Sail till creaks thy straining cordage round the wat'ry world.' 138 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. Far, far out o'er ocean's highway, we our goal must seek, And the breath of morning cheers us as we onward glide Out to sea in His Almighty Name, Who shields the weak ; In the heart and at the prow, God will in safety guide. Yet, of them who roam with sail and oar the stormy wave Many a one 'neath billows high entombed doth claim our tear. Yea, the deep hath dues, the sea holds many a hero brave, Now forgotten ? nay, God keeps their names, no ill they fear. 'Neath our prow the grey waves thicken in tumultuous mirth. Fair against the horizon shines our snow-crowned mother- strand ; Seems it e'en as Iceland beckoned us, o'er creek and firth : Lives of seamen so committing to their Father's Hand. THE NAME. 139 THE NAME. My name upon the white sea-sand Thou wrotest on a day, But a false billow bore to land And washed it straight away. Thou wrotest it on isle of ice : It perished in the sun : On purest snow, but in a trice By thaw it was undone. Thou carvedst it on birchen bark, So full of change thy mind ; But vanish'd, with thy truth, the mark Beneath the growing rind. Now weep I sore that this is void : My mind is full of woe That only to be thus destroyed My name were written so, In every place save heart of thine ; But thy name will I bear With faithful love in heart of mine And nowhere else but there ! I40 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. SONG OF PRAISE. Heavenly heights ! Glorious with sunray and star Wondrous to mortals afar, Heavenly heights ! Broad fields of earth ! Mother of all that is living, Fruit, flower and nourishment giving, Broad fields of earth ! All-shifting sea ! Diverse in storm-driven throes Or in a tranquil repose, All -shifting sea ! The Maker's praise Sing all things living, in chorus With heaven, earth and ocean sonorous, The Maker's praise ! AS A NEW YEAR'S PSALM. 141 Hallgrimr Petursson. I6I4-I674. AS A NEW YEAR'S PSALM, O BE welcomed, New Year ! Blessings manifold bring us here — From God in Heaven To us art given ; Be welcomed, New Year ! O be welcome, Little Child ! Circumcised, pure and mild ; A Maiden was a Mother, A Maiden's Son our Brother ; Be welcomed. New Year ! O Jesu, fairest freedom's Name, None ever here Thine equal came ; New gifts of grace Given to our race. Be welcomed. New Year. 142 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. O New Year's self, O New Year's gift ! New gladness doth my soul uplift ; Peace fills the heart, Doth light impart ; Be welcomed, New Year. O be thou welcome, Nature's Light ! In land of darkness make us bright ; O light Divine In all hearts shine : Be welcomed, New Year ! O how men joy in thee, as they Rejoice who shall divide the prey ! Or reapers fain Of harvest gain ; Be welcomed, New Year ! O Child ! Who took'st away our yoke, The stern avenger's staff Who broke. The oppressor's scourge Which us did urge : Be welcomed. New Year ! O thou the blessed Gideon's day ! Thy light, thy trump- blast quenched the fray ; The swords are brent, The bale-time spent. Be welcomed, New Year ! To us is born a little Child, To us is given a Son so mild ; The rule He bears in might On His shoulder bright. Be welcomed, New Year ! .4S A NEW YEAR'S PSALM. 143 The Wonderful, His Name is sealed, Strength, Counsel, God and Man revealed ; The Father Eternal, The Lord of peace, supernal. Be welcomed. New Year ! Father, to Thee all praise be done, As New Year's Gift who gav'st Thy Son ; Give with Him then Good year to men ; Be welcomed. New Year ! 144 MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. MORNING VERSE. My Light, my Lord, the day shall wake, O hear me, Lord, for Jesu's sake ! Thy glory hath no ending ; Thou endless Day, Eternal One Lord God, through Him, Thine only Son Hear Thou my prayer ascending ! The daily cross, O lighten. Lord : O Lord, be Thou my life's reward. My daily faults amending. O Lord, support me all the day, O sweet Lord Jesu, be my stay. My feet from falls defending. Amen EVENING VERSE. Now Jesus spreads night over me, O Lord, all praise I give to Thee For day's past mercies owing. Jesu, be weary not I pray Of granting me Thy help alway. Thy Spirit's warmth bestowing : Remember not my sins confest. Grant me a peaceful hour of rest ; Let nought of ill be showing. Myself, my soul I give in prayer, O mildest Jesu, to Thy care, So sleep, of fear unknowing. Amen. From ' Psalms and Son^s.^ OUT OF THE COURTYARD.' 145 Grimur Thomsen. ' OUT OF THE courtyard: God's Right Hand aye be held Sheltering over thee ! His might where'er thou fare Guide thee and stay ; Ne'er may thy trusty steed Stumble or footsore be, Never the murky night Bring thee dismay. Far down the stream of years Angel-hosts guide and hold, All ill and dire mischance Their host withstand ; God of His mercy great Send thee joys manifold. Soul, life, and honour be In the Lord's Hand ! 146 MODERN ICELANDIC FOETS. Hannes Hafstein. A SPURT. I MY gallant steed am riding Fast and free, Toward the mountain-uplands gliding Gallop we ; And the breezes kiss my cheek, And with hardy, hardy hoof-beats Bounds he on, the goal to seek. Seem the hills towards me driven As I speed ; Like a bolt that cleaves the heaven Leaps my steed ; And my spirit is so gay, Seems a life's delight is gushing In each bounding stride away. Through the veins how fire is fleeting As we ride ! How the heart is lighter beating, Laughs with pride Soul as filled with life's new wine. Thou art fleetest of thy fellows, Trusty Lightfoot, pony mine. A SPURT. 147 How he lifts his crest unswerving, Sets his face, As his sturdy neck is curving Tracks to trace ! See his mane that floats outspread. And the ground makes merry music Under Lightfoot's bounding tread. Yet, O slack thy gallop, Lightfoot, Take thou heed, For to scale the rugged height, foot Care doth need. Now the heart with boding swells 'Ere our song and merry hoof-beat Break the silence of the fells. MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. Thorsteinn Gislason. JARPUR. Forward in a lengthy line the baggage ponies creep All along the mountain-path so stony and steep ; While steady sounds the whip-lash urging hard behind, As fiercely in the front beats winter storm and wind. Anigh is heard a rumbling, a sound like ocean's song, There sounds the river's rushing, the river wide and strong. Old Jarpur pricks his ears up, and turns the voice to hear. And sudden falls a-tremble, as if in mortal fear. He had been erst a brave one, a tough and hardy hack. And jogged along for twenty years with burdens on his back. Now limbs have lost the roundness and suppleness of youth, And little flesh he carries — lean of flank and long of tooth. He fell behind the baggage-train, his pace became more slow. The whip-lash curled around his flanks, no mercy must he know ; Full many a heavy burden in by-past years he bore. And thus he groaned beneath them distressfully and sore. They fling beside the ferry the packloads on the shore — They drive the reeking ponies to swim and scramble o'er ; And Jarpur, floundering on the bank upon the further side, Now shivers like a windblown straw, the bitter storm to bide. JAR PUR. M9 Once more the baggage-burden is piled upon his back. * Now haste along,' anon they cry, ' thou'lt warm thee with thy pack.' One parting stroke — he stumbles some yards upon the road, And then exhausted to the earth he falls beneath his load. ' Ha ! poor old Jarpur 's down at last, and left me but his skin ! ' So, careless, speaks his master, ' I've little loss therein.' He only thinks of damages, and heaves a passing sigh. Nor asks if it is justice for Jarpur so to die. He murmured not, poor Jarpur ! he never said a word ; He charged them not with murder his dying groan who heard. To avenge the wrongs he suffered ne'er crossed his patient soul ; But the avenging angel wrote his story on his scroll. Note This poem and the spirited song which precedes it are placed together as graphic pictures of the brighter and sadder sides of Icelandic pony Hfe. Though 'Jarpur' seems to meet with hard measure, the Icelanders as a rule are remarkable for their kind treat- ment of their hardy and patient little steeds. ISO MODERN ICELANDIC POETS. Jonas Hallgrimsson. 1S07-1845. From ' GUNNARSHOLMI: Now fares forth conquering might with mournful cheer From high Lithend, since Gunnar thence doth ride Boun for the bitter parting. Him anear A goodly chief, girt with bright sword at side, His blood-red steed doth urge with joyous bound — Thus might all men know Kolskegg far and wide. So fare both brothers forward for a stound : The willing horses press towards the strand : Kolskegg doth gaze afar o'er Eyja-sound ; But Gunnar turns his face towards the land ; No fear the righteous hero's soul dismays, Though fierce the threatenings of the hostile band. ' Ne'er saw I yet the earth's increase so fair ! The cattle spread them o'er the field to graze, Against pale cornfields roses redden there. Here will I spend the number of my days. Yea, all that God shall send me. Fare thou well, Brother and friend ! ' Thus Gunnar's saga says. FROM ' GUNNARSHOLMi: Thus Gunnar rather chose with death to dwell Than turn him from his home and foster-lands. His cruel foes with craft and vengeance fell Fettered the good chief in death's fateful bands. Now glad of soul, I Gunnar's story tell, What time I marvel, while o'er chilly sands The fearsome waters roll, for aye doth smile Evergreen glory over Gunnar's isle ; The while by other fields and valleys still The foaming Thvera welters fierce and loud ; The sunlight tints alone the olden hill. The autumn flood the fairer dale has cowed ; Fled are the dwarfs, the rock-troll's hammer still, Drear is the plain, the folk by need are bowed ; But never sheltering warmth and grace may lack That grassy holm, whence Gunnar turned him back. Note. — Gunnar of Lithend, a brave and good chief, had, after many misfortunes, been outlawed by the malice of his enemies, on pain of death. He rides to the shore with his brother, intending to take ship, but on turning for a farewell look is so drawn by the beauty of his beloved Lithe (Hli(S), that he then and there decides to remain at home. He is eventually slain by his foes. {See ' Story of Burnt Njal,' Dasent. ) London: J. Masters & Co., 78 New Bond Street, W.