But we have wandered somewhat aside from our purpose, which was simply to
introduce the following poem, which, in the boldness of its tone and
vigor of language, reminds us of the Sword Chant, the Wooing Song, and
other rhymed sagas of Motherwell.
THE NORSEMAN'S RIDE.
BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
The frosty fires of northern starlight
Gleamed on the glittering snow,
And through the forest's frozen branches
The shrieking winds did blow;
A floor of blue and icy marble
Kept Ocean's pulses still,
When, in the depths of dreary midnight,
Opened the burial hill.
Then, while the low and creeping shudder
Thrilled upward through the ground,
The Norseman came, as armed for battle,
In silence from his mound,--
He who was mourned in solemn sorrow
By many a swordsman bold,
And harps that wailed along the ocean,
Struck by the scalds of old.
Sudden a swift and silver shadow
Came up from out the gloom,--
A charger that, with hoof impatient,
Stamped noiseless by the tomb.
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