Poems

Front matter

POEMS,

BY

F. SAYERS, M. D.

Dramatic Sketches of Northern Mythology

DRAMATIC SKETCHES

OF

NORTHERN MYTHOLOGY.

Fallor? an et radios hinc quoque Phœbus habet? >>MILTON.

PREFACE.

Among the variety of mythological systems which have contributed at different periods to decorate the poetry of England, it is much to be lamented, that we should discover only the faintest traces of the splendid and sublime religion of our Northern Ancestors. Mr. Gray is the only one among our more celebrated Poets who has deigned to notice the sacred fables of the Goths; he has touched them indeed with a masterly though sparing hand; yet, even the little which he has chosen to introduce, has repaid his attention, by adding to some of his more popular performances both grandeur and novelty. It is certain, however, that the most magnificent features of Scadinavian superstition have hitherto been chiefly concealed in the Sagas of Iceland, or have appeared only in the tragedies of Klopstock and a few other pieces, little known except among the Germans and Danes, to whom they owe their existence. This being the case, I am tempted to publish the following Sketches, with a view of giving some slight idea of the neglected beauties of the Gothic religion, and of recommending a freer introduction of its imagery into the Poetry of the English nation.

To these Pieces a dissertation on the Northern Mythology might have been prefixed with advantage, but I soon found that such a dissertation would swell to a considerable length, and would require more time and labour to effect than I could conveniently bestow: I have, therefore, contented myself with subjoining notes; and trust, that none have been omitted which were any way necessary for the illustration of the subject before us.

The Descent of Frea

THE

DESCENT of FREA.

A

MASQUE.

——Miscet preces & supplice cantu Novas vires poscit. >>CLAUDIAN.

INTRODUCTION.

The Gods of the Northern nations were not, like those of the Greeks, imagined to be immortal; they were exempted neither from pain nor death, and those even who escaped both during a series of ages, were at length to be destroyed at the last day, or as it is stiled in the Sagas, "The Twilight of the Gods:" till that time should arrive, they were supposed to dwell in Asgard, and to enjoy, in a supreme degree, those luxuries and pleasures which their uncivilized worshippers considered as the most desirable.

Balder, the Son of Odin, was highly celebrated among the Gods for his exquisite beauty and consummate eloquence; his office, as a Deity, was to guide the horse of day, called Skinfax, in his diurnal course, and he is therefore properly to be considered as the God of the Sun. The death of Balder was effected by the artifice of Lok, the most malicious and baneful of the Gothic Deities: Lok, however, dared not openly to destroy him with his own hand, but for this purpose he presented a spear of peculiar power to another of the Sons of Odin, Hoder, who, with this enchanted weapon, unintentionally pierced his brother to the heart. As Balder fell not in battle, his shade, in conformity to the tenets of the Gothic religion, was supposed to descend to the dwelling of Hela, the Goddess of the infernal realms. Great was the grief in Heaven on account of his death, and Frea, the Goddess of Beauty, peculiarly afflicted by the loss of her lover, resolved to undertake a journey to his gloomy habitation, in hopes of obtaining his release. This descent of Frea, and the success which attended it, are the subjects of the following Masque.

PERSONS of the MASQUE.

Odin, God of War, and King of the other Deities. Thor, God of the Air. Surtur, God of Fire. Niord, God of the Sea. Lok, God of the Infernal Regions. Balder, God of the Sun.

Hertha, Goddess of Fertility, and wife of Odin. Frea, Goddess of Beauty. Hela, Goddess of Death.

THE

DESCENT OF FREA.

<>ACT I.

<>SCENE. The Infernal Regions.

<>BALDER. Thou land of horror! where unyielding frost Piles high the mountain-ice, and dims the air With ever-hissing fleet, where piercing blasts

Sweep on storm-laden wing o'er solid seas, Must Balder here for ever moan unheard? Or pour his sighs the scoff of shivering ghosts Shrill-shrieking from their caves? Must Balder's soul For ever shudder at the howl of wolves, And shrink from scaly snakes that round him twine Their clammy folds and point their quivering stings? Bright scenes of bliss! farewell!—ye glittering domes, For ever echoing with the gladsome noise Of revelry and song harmonious, feats

Of happy gods, where from the gold-tipt horn They quaff the scented nectar of the bee, And thrill with rapture, while the strains of mirth Rush on sonorous wings their halls among— No more shall Balder in your spacious courts Catch with transported soul the social joy, And mix exulting with celestial bands— Groves of Valhalla! haunts of kindred gods! Oft have I wander'd in your flowery paths, Cool'd by the stream of Mimer, oft I've sought Your thickest shade, and catch'd with eager ear The notes which softly stole from Braga's harp Attun'd to love; and there the beauteous form

Of Frea blooming as the orient day Would blushing meet her Balder's steps retir'd, Enamour'd gaze upon my graceful limbs, And drink the honied accents of my lips— Then from her melting eyes the glance of love Quick shot—dear scenes of fleeting joy, farewell! What now avails the form that Frea lov'd? What now avail the winning words that charm'd Encircling gods?—amid the giant-brood, Amid the yelling ghosts of murderers Forlorn I dwell—no silver-sounding voice Melodious warbles to my sorrowing soul, The sooty raven sails around my head, And harshly chants her hoarsest descant here; Ah wretch! no more the chearful light of heaven Shall meet thy wandering eyes, for here no ray Of morning plays with softest lustre round,

Nor here ambrosial eve with fragrant hand Scatters her sweets— Thou flaming seed of day! whose golden mane Waves in the air and pours the flood of light; Oft have I sprung upon thy glossy back To trace the radiant path, then mounted high The blue expanse of heaven, and girt with beams Of dazzling glory wing'd my course rejoicing— Alas! how chang'd! in midnight gloom enwrapt The lord of splendour groans in Hela's halls, Hurl'd, hurl'd for ever from the blazing sky— And hurl'd by whom?—a much-lov'd brother's hand Blasted my bliss, and dash'd me from the height Of joy to misery—amid my pangs A sigh shall rise for him—what poison'd darts Of anguish rankle in his guiltless soul, While slowly wandering from the thronged courts

He seeks the lonely vale, and loudly weeps His hateful bloody deed.—Ye cruel maids, When first ye 'gan to weave my woof of fate, Ye dy'd it with the roseate hues of spring— At length the raven croak'd—with joy ye snatch'd The cords of woe, and dipp'd th' unfinish'd web Deep in the pitchy water of despair.— O thou! who fitt'st upon thy shining throne Array'd in splendour! Odin, Odin! hear The sorrows of a son, and turn thine eye, Moist with paternal grief, from scenes of glory, Pierce through the thickest horrors which surround me, Extend thy daring arm, and drag thy child From caves of darkness to thy beamy hall— Father, I ask in vain—it is not thine To break the harsh decrees of Fate unchanging,

But Balder, wretched Balder here must mourn For endless years—What flickering ray of light Shoots from on high? What wafted perfume scents The dusky air? Some pitying god descends To visit these sad scenes—'Tis she! 'tis she!—

<>FREA. (Entering.) Where is the lovely god that Hoder tore From Frea's fond embrace?—Again I'm near him, Again my tear-worn eyes behold my Balder, Yes, son of Odin, from the starry realm Above, I come to seek thy black abode, The mourning gods stalk silent in their groves— Without thee heaven itself is misery— The fiery horse of Odin bore me hither, Nine days his rapid feet unceasing scour'd

A measureless extent of vallies dark; At length the foaming tide of Giall stopp'd him, High o'er its waves a lofty bridge arose On golden pedestals, a steel-clad warrior For ever guards its entrance.—Who art thou, He cried aloud, thus hastening to the halls Of gloomy death? No livid paleness stains The roses of thy cheeks, no deadly dimness Damps the keen lustre of those eyes that flash With living fire, thou art no child of Hela— Away, I answer'd, 'tis a goddess hastes To Hela's halls—I lash'd my snorting steed— With thundering hoof he spurn'd the rocking pile, Nor stopp'd till Hela's iron gates forbade His eager steps; then, like a flaming star, He shot aloft in air and bore me swift Above the towering walls.—I tremble still.

<>BALDER. Ah! fear not Frea—

<>FREA. Had this arm the power To force thee upward from the cave of death, Then would eternal joy reward my toil— But Hela's iron chains no hand can break Againſt her pleasure, and her haughty soul Joys in the anguish of the tortur'd ghost.

<>BALDER. And can that winning form entreat in vain? Can Hela hear unmov'd thy suppliant voice? No, Frea, no, upon thy rosy lips Persuasion sits resistless—haste, accost her.

<>FREA. Come from thy murky cells, Where midnight darkness dwells, Thou dreadful maid; Come from thy chilly halls.— The weeping Frea calls, And seeks thy saving aid.

<>HELA. (From within.) Hence, hence, away; No soothing charms From Hela's arms Shall snatch her prey.

<>FREA. By Allfather's sacred head, Which bowing shakes the lofty sky, And regions of the dead,

By the holy Ash which rears Its waving honours high, I charge thee, awful pow'r, To quit thy gloomy bow'r And yield to Frea's tears.

<>HELA. (Entering.) Hence to the fields of air— Hence, goddess, quick depart, Nor think the lover's prayer Will bend my iron heart.

<>FREA. Deep in thy misty caves my Balder lies; Alas! how wither'd by the touch of woe! Dim is the lustre of his fading eyes, And sullen sadness marks his manly brow.

Quick through his frame divine chill langours shoot, The boasted roses of his cheeks are pale, The soothing tongue of eloquence is mute, O let his tears, his frequent sighs avail.

Come, gentle Pity, come unwonted guest, And speed thy hasty flight to Hela's cave, Then smiling hover o'er her melting breast, And teach her yielding heart to feel and save.

And can't thou, Hela, see with ruthless look The fairest form that wails along thy shore?— Tear the black leaf from Fate's unerring book, The grief-worn Balder to my arms restore.

Together let us climb the burning arch, Which darts aloft its many-colour'd light, Together let us speed the rapid march, And quit, for ever quit the land of night.

Yield, Hela, yield; Valhalla's mournful courts No longer echo with the jocund sound, The joyless gods disdain their wonted sports And sorrow casts her darkest shadows round.

Since Balder sunk untimely to the tomb, Dim are the lingering beams of rising day, The pale moon steeps her silver orb in gloom, And sickly nature doffs her bright array—

<>HELA. Frea, no more, When all the gods of nature lave With briny tears thy Balder's grave, Then Balder I restore; Yes, by Allfather's sacred head, If all the gods of nature lave With briny tears thy Balder's grave, Again the courts of heaven shall echo to his tread. Hence, away.

<>FREA. Enough, enough, I mount with speed, And lash my winged steed To realms of day.

<>END OF ACT I.

<>ACT II.

<>SCENE. Valhalla.

<>The Gods assembled in Odin's hall.

<>ODIN. Welcome, fair Queen of Love, to Odin's hall. Say, hast thou mov'd the stubborn soul of Hela, By soft persuasion and resistless sighs, To yield the much-lov'd Balder back to light?

<>FREA. Great king of gods and men, the only boon That Hela granted to my sorrowing soul Was this; when all the gods of nature-weep The briny tear on hapless Balder's grave,

Then from the dreary clime of ghosts he comes To grace Valhalla's halls; but golden hope Has not yet fled the woe-worn Frea's bosom; Still may the words of grief entice the tear From pitying gods, and snatch from Hela's arms Her splendid prey.—

<>(Continues addressing Odin.) God of carnage, king of might, Clinging to thy sable steed, And dashing thro' the sight, Thou smil'st when thousands bleed:

Coucher of the ponderous spear, Thou shout'st amid the battle's stound— The armed Sisters hear, Viewless hurrying o'er the ground They strike the destin'd chiefs and call them to the skies.

Lo! from Schulda's misty towers On jetty wing the raven flies And bears the deeds of future hours; To thee he hastes—in solemn state Thou read'st the dread commands of fate To listening deities; Say, is it doom'd no parents tear Shall wet thy Balder's sable bier? Wilt thou not weep thy child forlorn, Thy blooming child by Hela torn From halls of bliss To caves of dark despair? Yes, Odin, yes, I mark the gushing drops which stain A father's cheek,

Those gushing drops thy anguish speak, Balder shall live again And cleave the realms of air.

<>ODIN. Odin drops the tear, To wet thy Balder's bier.

<>FREA. (Addressing Hertha.) Queen of the fertile earth, Whose all-creative hand First gave the sons of man their birth;

And scatter'd o'er the desert land The painted flower, the budding tree, The billowy crops of yellow grain Peopled every teeming plain, And fill'd with life the restless sea; Whene'er thy stately form appears On mortal shore, No war nor battle's din, Is heard thy realms within;

No more the armed soldier rears The tined lance, And spurs the steed no more.— Before thy veiled car the rosy Pleasures dance, Balmy odours round thee play Richer verdure dyes thy way, Double glory gilds the day. Say, Hertha, wilt thou drop the tear On youthful Balder's sable bier?

<>HERTHA. Hertha drops the tear, To wet thy Balder's bier.

<>FREA. (Addressing Thor.) God of the wandering air, Whose forked flashes tear

The pine high-towering on the mountain-side; Who joy'st o'er shaking rocks to guide The thunder's fiery course; Who bidst thy dark clouds pour The vast and whelming shower And swell the torrent's force. God of storms, when levelling hail, When hollow-roaring whirlwinds sail, Sweeping o'er the valley's pride, Rolling high the weltering tide, Thou speak'st—thy potent voice disarms The tempest's rage:—thy genial calms, Thy sultry gales, and fostering dew Cloath the wasted earth anew.

God of the iron-mace, Which tames the giant-race, Say, wilt thou drop the pitying tear On youthful Balder's sable bier?

<>THOR. Thor shall drop the pitying tear, And wet thy Balder's sable bier.

<>FREA. (Addressing Surtur.) King of resistless fire, Who bidst the nightly meteors ride Along the snow-wrapt Hecla's side— Who wieldst aloft with mighty hand The burning, starry-pointed brand, And dazzled hosts retire;

Where'er thy furious course is sped, Nature bows her wither'd head: Thy fatal car outstrips the wind, Thy coursers scorching nostrils breathe A wide consuming steam beneath— Destruction flies behind; She rears her red right hand And with her flaming besom sweeps the blasted land.— Say, Surtur, wilt thou drop the tear On youthful Balder's fable bier?

<>SURTUR. Surtur drops the tear, To wet thy Balder's bier?

<>FREA. (Addressing Niord.) Lord of the boundless deep, Whose murmuring waters gently swell And kiss the craggy steep;

When thunders burst around, And tempests yell, Thy heaving plain repeats th' appaling sound, Thy frothy surges rise And lash the darken'd skies, Thy rapid eddies wheel with fleeter motion; Then by the lightning's livid glare, Thou stalk'st serene thro' murky air, Which shrouds the raging ocean; But soon the smouldering thunders cease, Soon the winged Tempests flee, Thor in breezes whispers peace, Sun-beams gild the sinking sea.— O'er its white brim on calming wing The heitre play'd— And stillness hover'd on the gales of spring— When Braga touch'd the quivering string, And slowly stray'd To Niord's shore;

On its shining surface stood The father of the flood, He bade the bard celestial pour His softest notes— The melting music floats Upon the charmed wave— Come from thy dewy cave, My father cries, Arise, arise, Let the azure waters lave Thy snowy limbs and golden hair— He spake, and Frea rose to realms of air.— Then Niord clasp'd me to his breast And all the parent's pride confest; Now will my father's heart disdain To ease his daughter's piercing pain? Or wilt thou drop the pitying tear, On youthful Balder's sable bier?

<>NIORD. Niord drops the tear, To wet thy Balder's bier.

<>FREA. (Addressing Lok.) God of the nether world, Whose deadly arrow hurl'd The youthful Balder to the caves of night, O, let not Shulda write His everlasting doom; O, let not Balder's tomb For ever stand, But snatch with pitying hand From Hela's curs'd abode The fallen god; Revive, revive his wither'd charms, And give him back to Frea's arms. Drop, O Lok, the pitying the tear On youthful Balder's sable bier.

<>LOK. Away, away, Lok ne'er will weep— Let Hela keep Her splendid prey.

<>FREA. By the raven's song of death, By the night-mair's baneful breath, By the glutted vulture's scream, By the tomb-fire's lurid gleam,

By the mighty serpent's blood, By the roar of Giall's flood, By the war-hounds' fatal yell, By all the horrors of thy hell, I charge thee weep the briny tear On youthful Balder's sable bier.

<>LOK. No—tho' Valhalla's towering wall Around these sinewy limbs should fall, Tho' Skinfax plunge his flaming head Amid the caverns of the dead, Tho' Surtur aim his fiery dart And heap his flames around my heart, Tho' Niord's foaming main should roar,

And dash me lifeless on the shore; Tho' Thor should hurl his iron mace And stain with gore this hated face; Tho Odin's self in wrath should rear His golden spear And shining shield, This stubborn heart shall never yield, Hela shall hold her splendid prey While countless ages roll away.

THE END.

Moina, a Tragedy

MOINA.

A

TRAGEDY.

Ολοβος 4νυν δε τῃ θ' ῾ημερα Στεναγμος, 'ατη, θανατος—— >>SOPHOCLES.

INTRODUCTION.

The story of the following Tragedy is fictitious; the event may, without impropriety, be supposed to have happened on the coast of Ireland, which the Northern nations were accustomed to plunder before its conversion to Christianity. The Greek form of dramatic writing has been adopted, as affording in its chorus the most favourable opportunity for the display of mythological imagery. Rime has not been used in the odes, both because it was less conformable to the model imitated, and because it appeared unnecessary, if not prejudicial in this species of poetry.

PERSONS OF THE PLAY.

| Moina, | Celts.

|Carril,

|Chorus of Bards.

|Messengers

SCENE. A Castle in the possession of Harold.

MOINA.

<>MOINA. Full fifty nights have cast their gloom around me Since first the hated Saxon tore me trembling From parents, kindred, and a much lov'd land— Yet loss of parents, kindred, and my country Scarce move a soul opprest with keener grief; In the loud strife of arms, in fields of blood, My Carril fiercely fighting for his Moina Fell—fell by Harold's arm, and smiling hope For ever fled my breast—here, here he lives,

And while my eyes behold this hated light He still shall live, and still with sullen pleasure I'll dwell on other times, when all was hope, When all was love and joy—accursed beauty! Would that the god of Fura's sacred wood Had wither'd this fair form—the Saxon then Had seen and hated me.—Wife?—Harold's wife?— Yes—'tis a murderer's arm embraces me, A murderer calls me his, the murderer Of Carril!—Would this hand—— But hark! the sound of song, the daily greeting Of aged bards.—

<>MOINA, CHORUS.

<>CHORUS.

Hail to her whom Frea loves, Moina, hail: When first thy infant eyes beheld The blushing beam of orient day Frea from Valhalla's groves Mark'd thy birth in silent joy; From Valhalla's groves she sent

The swift-wing'd messenger of love, Bearing in her rosy hand The gold-tipt horn of gods; From this thy lips imbib'd The draught of mead divine, Thro' thy tender frame distilling, It form'd thy snowy limbs to grace, It gloss'd thy raven hair, Illum'd thy sparkling eyes, And flush'd thy cheek with crimson hues Unfading. Hail to her whom Frea loves, Moina, hail.

<>MOINA.

Ye venerable men, my grief-worn soul

Scarce heeds your salutation: child of sorrow The soothing voice of flattery passes by me, Like feeble gales which fan a warring host, Unnotic'd.—Is your chief return'd?

<>CHORUS.

As yet No messenger of victory has reach'd us.

<>MOINA.

To slay, to conquer, these are Harold's pleasures, To stain his dark blue steel with human gore; Cannot the glad repast, the song of bards, The vigor-giving chace, the solemn council, Withdraw the savage hero from the battle? No—these are vain.—To shed the blood of thousands, To strew the reeking plain with sons and brothers,

To cleave the father's and the lover's breast, These are the only joys a Saxon feels.— God of my fathers, strike the fell destroyers, Blunt, blunt their steel, benumb their hardy sinews, Pour out their tide of life, that peace again May bless my country.

<>CHORUS.

E'en the gods themselves, Who dwell above in happiness and glory, Delight in shining arms and fierce encounter; From fair Valhalla's courts they rush with joy To meet each other with their brandish'd blades, And mix in sportive fight; when battle tires, Again they seek the feast, and quaff again From gold-encircled horn the amber mead. Such is their happy life; and can'st thou wonder That man should imitate the gods? that man

Should laugh at fear, and boldly die to claim A seat of joy?

<>ΜΟΙΝΑ.

So may Valhalla's halls Be quickly fill'd with souls of fallen Saxons!— Thou unseen power, who in my country's woods In awful silence dwell'st, whom trembling Druids With hallow'd rites invoke, arise, arise, And wing the well-aim'd dart to Harold's bosom—

<>CHORUS.

Beware, nor call the vengeance of thy gods Upon a husband's head; should Harold fall, With pain I see what follows.—

<>ΜΟΙΝΑ.

What can follow? What keener woes than those I know already? A breathless lover and an aged parent In sorrow sinking to the narrow house? The breast of Moina fears no greater anguish.

<>CHORUS.

No more—our words distress thee.

<>MOINA.

Fare ye well.

<>CHORUS.

King of gods on shining throne, Thou, who with a single glance Piercest Nature's wide extent, Thou, who from the spring of Mimer Quaffest liquid lore divine, Odin, hear.

King of gods, whom Hydrasil With sacred shadow veils, Whilst around thee sit cœlestials, Whilst beneath thee Fates attend, Odin, hear.

King of men, who dealest triumph Brave in battle, brave in death,

Gash'd with gory wounds, In agony thou smil'st; King of men, whose dark blue steel No foe unconquer'd saw, Soon his heart's blood smok'd around, Soon his daunted spirit fled, Odin, hear.

In Harold's breast thy spirit pour, String his nerves, his eyes inflame, Direct his brawny arm to fling The darts of death around, In the tempest of the battle Throw thy shield of safety o'er him, Protect him with thy mighty hand, And send him back with victory.

But should the Fatal Sisters mark Our chieftain's soul to grace thy halls, Should the keen arrow pierce his side And Harold perish in the fight, When death shall numb his sinewy limbs, When his bent knees shall tottering fail, When shades of night shall gloom his eyes And sinking nature yield, Then may no groan of woe escape Our hardy chieftain's fainting lips, Then may no writhing pang distort The dying hero's face; Joyful to fall in fields of blood To him may death's cold steel be welcome, And may he laughing die.

<>CHORUS,

<>CARRIL, in the Habit of a Bard.

<>CARRIL. Aside.

Under the cover of these sacred garments, A sure protection from the hand of insult, I yet may hope to find my much-lov'd Moina; Since first my wounded limbs would bear me on I've vainly wander'd; many a stately castle Has hospitably cheer'd my fainting body, But on my mind forlorn no gleam of joy Hath yet arisen—perhaps within these walls— Ah no—my tortures must not finish yet— Would that the pious hands which found me bleeding 'Midst heaps of slain, had left me there to perish, Then had the long calm sleep of death opprest me, Nor had I wak'd to anguish—

<>CARRIL, turning to the Chorus.

Aged Bards Have pity on me, take me to your halls, Weary and faint I ask some slight relief, Shut not your doors against a helpless man.—

<>CHORUS.

Accurst be he who 'gainst the suppliant stranger Shall bolt his massy iron gates, unmindful Of misery's voice.—These halls have ever offer'd Food and repose to way-worn travellers.

<>CARRIL.

I thank ye venerable men—but say, What warlike chieftain calls this castle his?

<>CHORUS.

'Tis Harold's castle, urg'd by restless valour He quits his home and seeks the clash of arms.

<>CARRIL.

And his fair wife laments her absent lord?

<>CHORUS.

His fair wife weeps, but not for his return; Another cause of woe has shrunk her form,— She weeps her home.

<>CARRIL.

Her name?

<>CHORUS.

Her name is Moina.

Why does the red-blood hasten from thy cheek, The cold dew damp thy face? thy shaking knees Can scarce support thee.—

<>CARRIL. (After a pause.)

'Tis a sudden fainting, With tedious steps oppress'd this weakly frame Sinks under me.

<>CHORUS.

Retire and take refreshment.

<>SEMI-CHORUS.

'Tis not he whose arched halls Refound with revelry and song That tastes the purest joy, But he who from his ample store Feeds the hungry, cheers the faint,

On languid features sheds the smile And lights up radiance in the eye; Him the traveller shall bless, Him the gods will love.― When shrivell'd by the summer-ray The drooping plants imbibe The falling rain, Again they bud, and pour around Their sweeter scents.

<>CHORUS, CARRIL.

<>CARRIL.

My strength is now renew'd, I fain would meet The lady of these halls.

<>CHORUS.

She comes, accost her.

<>CHORUS, CARRIL, MOINA.

<>CARRIL.

Lady a stranger whom your domes receiv'd Offers his thanks: and if 'tis your good pleasure The wandering bard will raise the sound of song, The pleasing sound of praise.

<>MOINA.

Thou holy man, The flattering song is hateful to my ear, But if thou know'st to tune the mournful lay, And softly breathe the melancholy tale, My sickly soul could listen with delight.

<>CARRIL.

Please you to sit, fair lady, while I raise The melting strains of grief.—

Peace, storms of night, ye roaring whirlwinds, peace; Soft glide, ye torrents, from the echoing hills; Rise from the murky vale, ye blood-red fires, And dimly shoot your beams; ye famish'd wolves Cease your wild howls—let all be silent, dark— Ghosts of my fathers, bend your shadowy forms To hear the tale of woe— The tale of woe which Mornac thus began. Swift was my daughter's step on Fura's hills, Health flush'd her cheek, and down her snowy neck The dark locks clustering fell—why starts the tear? Why heaves the sigh in Mornac's aged bosom? No more my Lora meets me on the heath, No more she cheers my soul with grateful voice, My lofty halls are silent— The blue mist rises from the lakes, and fills The bending flowers with dew, the sun bursts forth,

The mist is gone—no beam of joy dispels The mist of Mornac's soul, but lasting sorrow Cleaves to my aged heart—my child, where art thou? Dark is thy bed, O Lora, grief has crush'd Thy tender form, far from a parent's bosom The hand of rapine snatch'd thee, and thy sleep Ere this is deep—accursed be the chief Who fought on Fura's plains, my feeble arm Benumb'd with age's winter struck in vain, In vain did Carril fight, the much-lov'd Carril, Fierce was his look, full rose his sinewy limbs, As a dark cloud he mov'd, and shook his glittering spear— The steel deep pierc'd his side, death lover'd round him O'erwhelm'd amid the slain—fear seiz'd our soldiers, They fled the strife of spears; the conquering Saxons

Enter'd our halls defenceless, thence they bore My Lora, but the blue-ey'd chief disdain'd To smear with frozen blood his dark-blue steel; Cruel he spar'd me to lament my woes And sink in anguish to the narrow house. When the huge mass of snow from beetling hills Descends impetuous on the cottage roof, And buries in its fall the father, mother, And infant offspring, then no sound of woe Is heard, no parent weeping for a child, No child deep-fobbing for a tender parent, All find a common grave and sleep in peace— But when the roaring torrent rushes down The dark-brown rocks, and from the mountain-deer Snatches her sportive fawn, the hapless mother Forgets her food, forgets the wonted spring, And quits the playful herd; old Mornac thus Rejects the joys of life to weep in secret. And now the conquering enemy retir'd,

The hoary druids from their sacred woods Come forth, they haste to close our fallen friends In the cold earth—when Carril they espy Yet breathing—

<>CHORUS.

Venerable man, thy tale Has deeply touch'd our lady—she retires— Finish thy song.

<>CARRIL.

In Carril's wounds they pour The healing balm, recall his fainting soul And raise him up to misery—and now O'er Fura's plains the lover wanders mourning, In Fura's mossy towers the father weeps.— Rise, storms of night, ye raging whirlwinds, rise; Roar loud, ye torrents, from the towering hills; Howl, howl, ye wolves; ye fiery meteors, blaze

With redder beams—away to hovering clouds, Ghosts of the dead—the solemn song is sung.

<>A MESSENGER.

Moina, old man, commands you to attend her. Follow.—

<>CHORUS

What found cœleftial floats Upon the liquid air?— Is it the rustling breeze From Glasor's golden boughs? Is it the dark-green deep Soft echoing to the notes Of Niord's swans?