Nor keener from their castled rock rush eagles on their prey,
Than, panting for the battle-shock, young Harald leads the way."
It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty,
Pours forth his big soul to the joyance of heroes.

"The ship-borne warriors of the North, the sons of Woden's

race,

To battle as to feast go forth, with stern and changeless face;
And I, the last of a great line, the Self-devoted, long

To lift on high the Runic sign which gives my name to song.
In battle-field young Harald falls amid a slaughtered foe,
But backward never bears this flag, while streams to ocean
flow;-

On, on above the crowded dead this Runic scroll shall flare, And round it shall the lightnings spread, from swords that never spare."

So rush the hero-words from the Death-doomed one, While Scalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers. "Green lie those thickly-timbered shores fair sloping to the

sea;

They're cumbered with the harvest-stores that wave but for the free:

Our sickle is the gleaming sword, our garner the broad shield, Let peasants sow, but still he's lord who's master of the field; Let them come on, the bastard-born, each soil-stain'd churl!alack!

What gain they but a splitten skull, a sod for their base back? They sow for us these goodly lands, we reap them in our might, Scorning all title but the brands that triumph in the fight!"

It was thus the land-winners of old gained their glory, And grey stones voiced their praise in the bays of far isles. "The rivers of yon island low glance redly in the sun, But ruddier still they're doomed to glow, and deeper shall they run;

The torrent of proud life shall swell each river to the brim, And in that spate of blood, how well the headless corpse will swim!

The smoke of many a shepherd's cot curls from each peopled glen;

And, hark! the song of maidens mild, the shout of joyous men!
But one may hew the oaken tree, the other shape the shroud;
As the LANDEYDA o'er the sea sweeps like a tempest cloud."-
So shouteth fierce Harald- -so echo the Northmen,
As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering.

"Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread abroad to the blue sky, And spectral visions of the dead are trooping grimly by; The spirit-heralds rush before Harald's destroying brand, They hover o'er yon fated shore and death-devoted band. Marshal, stout Jarls, your battle fast! and fire each beacon height;

Our galleys anchor in the sound, our banner heaves in sight! And through the surge and arrowy shower that rain on this broad shield,

Harald uplifts the sign of power which rules the battle-field !”
So cries the Death-doomed on the red strand of slaughter
While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing..
On rolled the Northmen's war-above the Raven Standard flew;
Nor tide nor tempest ever strove with vengeance half so true.
"Tis Harald-'tis the Sire-bereaved-who goads the dread career,
And high amid the flashing storm the flag of Doom doth rear.
On, on!" the tall Death-seeker cries, "these earth-worms
soil our heel,

Their spear-points crash like crisping ice on ribs of stubborn steel!"

Hurrah! hurrah! their whirlwinds sweep, and Harald's fate is sped;

Bear on the flag-he goes to sleep with the life-scorning dead.
Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell his sires,
And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spirit.

LXI. THE CLOUD.-Shelley.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;

And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white.

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls by fits:

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea:

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;-

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor-eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead.

As on the jag of a mountain-crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above;

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear.

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof.
The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof—
The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams the blue dome of air,

Build up

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph;

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and unbuild it again.

LXII.--THE ARAB MAID'S SONG.-Thomas Moore.

FLY to the desert! fly with me!
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough-but, smiling there,
The acacia waves her yellow hair
Lonely and sweet; nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare-but, down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gaily springs,

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then, come!-thy Arab maid will be

The loved and lone acacia-tree,

The antelope, whose feet shall bless,
With their light sound, thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones, that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart;
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure, it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled, and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone;
New-as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome-as if loved for years!
Then fly with me!—if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hast sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn:

Come!-if the love thou hast for me

Is
pure and fresh, as mine for thee—
Fresh, as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found-
But if, for me, thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshiped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place;
Then, fare thee well!-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!

LXIII. THE CHRISTIAN'S HOPE.-Furlong
On! if the atheist's words were true,
If those we seek to save
Sink-and in sinking from our view
Are lost beyond the grave!

If life thus closed, how dark and drear
Would this bewildered earth appear-
Scarce worth the dust it
gave:
A tract of black sepulchral gloom,
One yawning, ever-opening tomb!