The broom into St. Mary's Lake
Hangs down her golden blossom;
Like maiden fair-to lave her hair,
Bright streaming from her bosom !
And many a bonny May there dwells
Old Scotland's vallies thorough;
But can they with the "Flower"* compare
Upon the banks of Yarrow!
Fair Lake! I ne'er again may see
Thy sunny bosom glowing;
Nor e'er beneath her hills of heath,
Behold the Yarrow flowing;
But when my spirit freed shall be,
If I on earth must tarry-
I'll seek the lofty hills that crown
Thy lovely shores-St. Mary!
* MARY SCOTT, the "Flower of Yarrow," famed in Ancient Song for her beauty, and for what, alas! too many beautiful women have been famous for-her sorrows.
FROM AN UNFINISHED SCANDINAVIAN TALE.
"The eagle-hearts of all the North
Have left their stormy strand;
The warriors of the world are forth
To choose another land."
Where a tall ocean cavern, vast and hoar,
Pierces the cliffs of Scandinavia's shore,
The warriors of the North are feasting high-
The sand their couch—the rock their canopy:
A thousand torches cast a lurid glare
O'er each stern champion's cheek and bosom bare,
And shew the seams of gashes deep and grim,
Which plough the surface of each brawny limb.
The scatter'd arms of steel, that burnish'd bright,
Are strew'd around, reflect the ruddy light;
While high above the curling smoke ascends,
And o'er the savage scene in sable columns bends.
The mirth was loud, the red wine circling fast,
And fierce delight each bosom's only guest;
When up rose Eric, man of blood and crime,
Who many a life had spilt, in many a clime.
Threescore revolving years had left his frame
Untouch'd, and fail'd his tiger soul to tame;
For o'er that soul the Gods had pour'd along
The sacred spirit of Immortal Song!
Now, while his followers all were hush'd around,
Red Eric rais'd his wild harp from the ground;
And, lost in thought awhile, thus burst away,
In not untuneful strain, though rude and savage lay :
The north-east breeze is piping loud-a storm is near at hand—
And the keels of all our gallant barks are chafing on the strand:
They seem to mock our base idlesse, and struggle to be free,
To sweep across the wave that bears us on to victory!
Then quit the wine-cup, Norsemen bold! and leave the wassail rout,
For the music of the tempest's breath-the battle's stirring shout!
Shall valiant men e'er want the joys that love and gold bestow,
When wealth and beauty beckon them to many a foreign foe?
Fling far abroad your blood-red flag upon the buxom breeze,
The magic flag that still has swept triumphant o'er the seas;
And grasp each dark-brown battle-axe, and shake each shield on high,
Wassaile! wassaile! for wine and mirth-the glance of beauty's eye-
The thundering charge-the conflict fierce-the hard-won victory!
The Saxon churls have gold and beeves-the Saxon dames are fair,
Rich float their locks of woven gold down bosoms white and bare'
And stately are the girls of Gaul, with step and glance of pride-
Fit prize for warriors!-worthy each to be a hero's bride.
But not to these, ye valiant Norse! we now shall wend our way,
The Saxon and the Gaul too oft have fled before the fray:
There yet are fair and foreign lands that ne'er have felt our steel;
There yet are strands whereon our barks have never press'd their keel,
The dark-eyed dames of Spain, who shoot love's lightnings thro' the breast,
Are there by dusky Moors or native slaves alone caress'd;
And there the blushing grape a flood of rapture pours along
The blood that teems with those fierce loves to sunny climes belong,
And music charms the ear of night with sweet seraphic song!
Death to the dastard slave that whines to leave his native strand :
A brave man's country is the globe-the world, his father-land!
Wherever wealth and beauty dwells, where foes are to be found,
That is the Norseman's home on earth-his grave, the battle ground!
His bosom's joy is in the bristling ranks of Death to form-
His life-breath is the battle dust-his element, the storm!
His sceptre, that which Thor* has given the strongest still to wield—
His charter, his broad battle axe-his sure defence, his shield!
'Gainst rights and arms like these, what can the wretched Southern shew?
A nerveless frame-a puny arm, scarce fit to strike a blow!
Then forward! forward! valiant Norse! across the shouting sea;
The north-east breeze right soon will place old Spain beneath our lee,
With love, and gold, and wine, and mirth, to crown our victory!
With clashing arms the cavern'd rocks resound,
As Eric dash'd his wild harp to the ground:
Out rush'd the warlike host in fierce array,
With wild acclaim emerging into day;
Forth flew the blood-red flag, with border'd gold,
And barbarous mottoes wrought on every fold;
Up rose each mast-loose flutter'd every sail,
Th' impatient cordage rustled in the gale.
Nor had the echoes of Red Eric's song
Yet died away the hollow cliffs among,
Ere that dark band were tossing on the sea,
Wild with the hopes of wealth, wassaile, and victory!
*The Scandinavian God of War.
Written for and Sung at the first Meeting of the
Tynemouth Amateur Musical Society.
When first this bright and beauteous Earth
From the dark womb of Chaos sprang,
The spirit, Melody, had birth,
And Nature's hymn primeval sang.
She spake, and wide from sea to sky
The seraph strain aloft was hurl'd;
Till listening angels heard with joy,
The Anthem of the infant World!
Wake! then, a measure, glad and free,
And strike the harp to Melody!
And still she doth the notes prolong,
Still flows, as flow'd the strain of yore;
Smooth rolls the Music, deep and strong,
And echoes round from shore to shore.
In rushing streams and cavern'd seas,
In rustling groves by Zephyrs stirr'd,
In winds and woodland minstrelsies,
That wild and varied Hymn is heard.
Wake! then, &c.
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