HAROLD THE VALIANT1

I MID the hills was born,
Where the skilled bowmen
Send with unerring shaft

Death to the foemen.
But I love to steer my bark
To fear a stranger ·
Over the Maelstrom's edge,
Daring the danger;
And where the mariner
Paleth affrighted,

Over the sunken rocks

I dash on delighted. The far waters know my keel, No tide restrains me; But ah! a Russian maid

Coldly disdains me.

Once round Sicilia's isle

Sailed I, unfearing:
Conflict was on my prow,
Glory was steering.
Where fled the stranger ship
Wildly before me,

Down, like the hungry hawk,
My vessel bore me;

We carved on the craven's deck
The red runes of slaughter:
When my bird whets her beak

I give no quarter.

The far waters know my keel,
No tide restrains me;
But ah! a Russian maid
Coldly disdains me.

Countless as spears of grain

Stood the warriors of Drontheim, When like the hurricane

I swept down upon them! Like chaff beneath the flail They fell in their numbers: Their king with the golden hair I sent to his slumbers.

I love the combat fierce,

No fear restrains me; But ah! a Russian maid Coldly disdains me.

Once o'er the Baltic Sea Swift we were dashing;

Bright on our twenty spears
Sunlight was flashing;
When through the Skager Rack
The storm-wind was driven,
And from our bending mast

The broad sail was riven:
Then, while the angry brine
Foamed like a flagon,
Brimful the yesty rime

Filled our brown dragon; But I, with sinewy hand

Strengthened in slaughter,
Forth from the straining ship
Bailed the dun water.

The wild waters know my keel,
No storm restrains me;
But ah! a Russian maid
Coldly disdains me.

Firmly I curb my steed,

As e'er Thracian horseman;

My hand throws the javelin true,
Pride of the Norseman;

And the bold skater marks,
While his lips quiver,

Where o'er the bending ice

I skim the river:

Forth to my rapid oar

The boat swiftly springeth

Springs like the mettled steed
When the spur stingeth.
Valiant I am in fight,

No fear restrains me;
But ah! a Russian maid
Coldly disdains me.

Saith she, the maiden fair,
The Norsemen are cravens?
I in the Southland gave

A feast to the ravens !
Green lay the sward outspread,
The bright sun was o'er us
When the strong fighting men
Rushed down before us.
Midway to meet the shock
My courser bore me,

And like Thor's hammer crashed
My strong hand before me;
Left we their maids in tears,
Their city in embers:

The sound of the Viking's spears

The Southland remembers!

I love the combat fierce,

No fear restrains me; But ah! a Russian maid Coldly disdains me.

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,

For they have passed away.

ISAAC MCLELLAN

WASHINGTON'S STATUE

THE quarry whence thy form majestic sprung

Has peopled earth with grace, Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,

A bright and peerless race;

But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before

A shape of loftier name

Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore,

The noblest son of Fame. Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained;

His gaze around is cast,

As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained, Before his vision passed;

As if a nation's shout of love and pride

With music filled the air,

And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
Of deep and grateful prayer;

As if the crystal mirror of his life
To fancy sweetly came,

With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,
Undimmed by doubt or shame;

As if the lofty purpose of his soul

Expression would betray, -
The high resolve Ambition to control,
And thrust her crown away!

O, it was well in marble firm and white

To carve our hero's form,

Whose angel guidance was our strength in

fight,

Our star amid the storm!

Whose matchless truth has made his name

divine,

And human freedom sure,

His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine,

While man and time endure !
And it is well to place his image there
Upon the soil he blest:

Let meaner spirits, who its councils share,
Revere that silent guest!

Let us go up with high and sacred love To look on his pure brow,

And as, with solemn grace, he points above,

Renew the patriot's vow!

HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN

THE STAR OF CALVARY

It is the same infrequent star,
The all-mysterious light,
That like a watcher, gazing on
The changes of the night,

Toward the hill of Bethlehem took
Its solitary flight.

It is the same infrequent star;
Its sameness startleth me,
Although the disk is red as blood,
And downward silently
It looketh on another hill, —
The hill of Calvary!

Nor noon, nor night; for to the west
The heavy sun doth glow;

And, like a ship, the lazy mist
Is sailing on below,

Between the broad sun and the earth
It tacketh to and fro.

There is no living wind astir;

The bat's unholy wing

Threads through the noiseless olive trees,
Like some unquiet thing
Which playeth in the darkness, when
The leaves are whispering.

Mount Calvary! Mount Calvary!
All sorrowfully still,

That mournful tread, it rends the heart
With an unwelcome thrill,

The mournful tread of them that crowd Thy melancholy hill!

There is a cross, not one alone: 'Tis even three I count,

II

Like columns on the mossy marge
Of some old Grecian fount,—
So pale they stand, so drearily,
On that mysterious Mount.

Behold, O Israel! behold,
It is no human One
That ye

have dared to crucify.
What evil hath he done?

It is your King, O Israel!
The God-begotten Son!

A wreath of thorns, a wreath of thorns!
Why have ye crowned him so?
That brow is bathed in agony,

'Tis veiled in every woe:
Ye saw not the immortal trace
Of Deity below.

It is the foremost of the Three !
Resignedly they fall,
Those deathlike drooping features,
Unbending, blighted all:
The Man of Sorrows, -
The agonizing thrall!

how he bears

"Tis fixed on thee, O Israel!

His gaze! how strange to brook; But that there's mercy blended deep In each reproachful look,

"I would search thee, till the very heart Its withered home forsook.

To God! to God! how eloquent
The cry, as if it grew,
By those cold lips unuttered, yet
All heartfelt rising through,
"Father in heaven! forgive them, for
They know not what they do!"

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNEL