Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the ocean,
The widows wring their hands on the beach;
Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the land,
The husbandman folds his arms in despair;
Cease thou the waving of thy pinions,
Let the ocean repose in her dark strength;
Cease thou the flashing of thine eye,
Let the thunderbolt sleep in the armoury of Odin;
Be thou still at my bidding, viewless racer of the north-
western heaven,—
Sleep thou at the voice of Norna the Reim-kennar.
Eagle of the far north-western waters,
Thou hast heard the voice of the Reim-kennar,
Thou hast closed thy wide sails at her bidding,
And folded them in peace by thy side.
My blessing be on thy retiring path;
When thou stoopest from thy place on high,
Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of the unknown
Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee; Eagle of the north-west, thou hast heard the voice o the Reim-kennar.
(2.)-CLAUD HALCRO'S SONG.
FAREWELL to Northmaven, Grey Hillswicke, farewell!
The thought of the aged is ever on gear,-
On his fishing, his furrow, his flock, and his steer;
But thrive may his fishing, flock, furrow, and herd,
While the aged for anguish shall tear his grey beard.
The ship, well-laden as bark need be,
Lies deep in the furrow of the Iceland sea ;-
The breeze for Zetland blows fair and soft,
And gaily the garland is fluttering aloft:
Seven good fishes have spouted their last,
And their jaw-bones are hanging to yard and mast;
Two are for Lerwick, and two for Kirkwall,—
Three for Burgh Westra, the choicest of all.
The infant loves the rattle's noise;
Age, double childhood, hath its toys;
But different far the descant rings,
As strikes a different hand the strings.
The eagle mounts the polar sky—
The Imber-goose, unskill'd to fly,
Must be content to glide along,
Where seal and sea-dog list his song.
Be mine the Imber-goose to play,
And haunt lone cave and silent bay;
The archer's aim so shall I shun-
So shall I 'scape the levell'd gun—
Content my verses' tuneless jingle,
With Thule's sounding tides to mingle,
While, to the ear of wondering wight,
Upon the distant headland's height,
Soften'd by murmur of the sea,
The rude sounds seem like harmony!
Mother doubtful, Mother dread,
Dweller of the Fitful-head,
A gallant bark from far abroad,
Saint Magnus hath her in his road,
With guns and firelocks not a few—
A silken and a scarlet crew,
Deep stored with precious merchandise,
Of gold, and goods of rare device-
What interest hath our comrade bold
In bark and crew, in goods and gold?
Gold is ruddy, fair, and free,
Blood is crimson, and dark to see ;
I look'd out on Saint Magnus Bay,
And I saw a falcon that struck her prey,-
A gobbet of flesh in her beak she bore,
And talons and singles are dripping with gore;-
Let he that asks after them look on his hand,
And if there is blood on't, he's one of their band.
CLAUD HALCRO. Mother doubtful, Mother dread, Dweller of the Fitful-head, Well thou know'st it is thy task To tell what Beauty will not ask ;—
(9.)-CLAUD HALCRO'S VERSES.
AND you shall deal the funeral dole;
Ay, deal it, mother mine,
To weary body, and to heavy soul,
The white bread and the wine.
And you shall deal my horses of pride; Ay, deal them, mother mine;
And you shall deal my lands so wide, And deal my castles nine.
But deal not vengeance for the deed,
And deal not for the crime;
The body to its place, and the soul to Heaven's
And the rest in God's own time.
Saint Magnus control thee, that martyr of treason; Saint Ronan rebuke thee, with rhyme and with
By the mass of Saint Martin, the might of Saint Mary,
Be thou gone, or thy weird shall be worse if thou tarry!
If of good, go hence and hallow thee;
If of ill, let the earth swallow thee;
If thou'rt of air, let the grey mist fold thee;-
If of earth, let the swart mine hold thee;-
If a Pixie, seek thy ring;
If a Nixie, seek thy spring;-
If on middle earth thou'st been
Slave of sorrow, shame, and sin,
Hast eat the bread of toil and strife,
And dree'd the lot which men call life;
Begone to thy stone! for thy coffin is scant of thee,
The worm, thy play-fellow, wails for the want of thee:
Hence, houseless ghost! let the earth hide thee, Till Michael shall blow the blast, see that there thou bide thee !
Phantom, fly hence! take the Cross for a token, Hence pass till Hallowmass!--my spell is spoken.
(10.)-NORNA'S INCANTATIONS.
CHAMPION, famed for warlike toil,
Art thou silent, Ribolt Troil?
Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones,
Are leaving bare thy giant bones.
Who dared touch the wild bear's skin
Ye slumber'd on, while life was in ?-
A woman now, or babe, may come
And cast the covering from thy tomb.
Yet be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight
Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight!
I come not, with unhallow'd tread,
To wake the slumbers of the dead,
Or lay thy giant reliques bare;
But what I seek thou well canst spare.
Be it to my hand allow'd
To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud; Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough
To shield thy bones from weather rough.
See, I draw my magic knife-
Never, while thou wert in life,
Laidst thou still for sloth or fear,
When point and edge were glittering near;
See, the cerements now I sever-
Waken now, or sleep for ever!
Thou wilt not wake-the deed is done!-
The prize I sought is fairly won.
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks,-for this the sea
Shall smooth its ruffled crest for thee-
And while afar its billows foam,
Subside to peace near Ribolt's tomb.
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks for this the might
Of wild winds raging at their height,
When to thy place of slumber nigh,
Shall soften to a lullaby.
She, the dame of doubt and dread,
Norna of the Fitful-head,
Mighty in her own despite,-
Miserable in her might;
In despair and frenzy great,
In her greatness desolate;
Wisest, wickedest who lives,-
Well can keep the word she gives.
[AT INTERVIEW WITH MINNA.] Thou, so needful, yet so dread, With cloudy crest, and wing of red; Thou, without whose genial breath The North would sleep the sleep of death Who deign'st to warm the cottage hearth, Yet hurls proud palaces to earth,— Brightest, keenest of the Powers, Which form and rule this world of ours,
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