FRAGMENT, IN IMITATION OF WALTER SCOTT.

Where are the kings of ancient sway?

Where are the terrors of their day,

The chiefs that with glory bled?

Soon, soon their little sun was o'er;

And, hurried to oblivion's shore,

Their very names are fled!

Yet can the Muse from fate redeem

Her favourites here below;

Can check Time's all-devouring stream

In its eternal flow;

Can catch the quickly-passing beam,

And bid it for ever glow!

The darkly-gathering clouds of night

Had quench'd the red remains of light;

O'er the hill and o'er the plain

She held her dim and shadowy reign,

And the distant billows of the main

In boundless darkness roll'd.

O'er land and sea, it was silence all,

No breezes waved the pine-wood tall,

Or swept the lonely wold:

The murmurs of the lake had died,

The reeds upon its plashy side

No rustling motion felt;

But o'er the world, as life were fled,

As Nature thro’ her world were dead,

Portentous stillness dwelt.

On a rock of the sea young Carthon stood,

And his lamp shone faint on the ocean-flood,

As with both his hands he toiled to raise

The seaward beacon's ruddy blaze:

And aye the warrior, far and near,

Explored the dark profound,

And aye the warrior's cautious ear

Was watching every sound;

But the air of night was mirk and dread,

And all was silent around his head.

At length, uncertain murmurs rose

Athwart the billows grey,

Breaking the night-air's still repose,

And deepening on their way:

He beard the dashing of the oar,

And the long surge whitening to the shore;

And now the broad-sailed bark appear'd,

And now to the silvery beach it steer'd,

And anchored in the bay.

“What news, what news of Lochlin's king?”

The Chief of Lona cried:

“Tidings of war and death I bring,”

The ocean-scout replied.

“A dreadful vow has King Haquin vow'd,

To spread in Albin his banners proud,

Disperse o'er forest, field, and fold,

His hundred troops of warriors bold,

‘ Till every rock with gore shall smoke,

And every castle own the yoke.

The keen remains of recent hate

Yet burn thro’ all the Northern state,

And many an age's gather'd ire

With added fury fans the fire.

“‘ Twas under the shade of dark midnight

They met at his hall, in armour dight,

The king and his chieftains proud;

Their lances at their sides were hung,

And the oak-tree, blazing‘ midst the throng,

Across the hall, with flashes long,

A broad uncertain lustre flung,

Like a red and shifting cloud.

‘ Twas here, to all before concealed,

The Monarch his design revealed.

“Their answering clamours shook the ground,

And Gormul's mountain far around

From all his rocks flung back the sound.

Pierced by the monarch, with struggling yell

A bull at Odin's altar fell;

The priest in a bowl received the gore,

And round the troop the chalice bore.

Eager, as he the wine-cup quaffed,

Each chief caroused the sable draught,—

The pledge of martial faith;

And not a word the stillness broke,

As thus, in turn, each chieftain spoke,

With slow and solemn breath:

“‘ When the fiery-mantled Sun

Sees the glorious fight began,

He shall see its stubborn course

Burn with unabated force!

Swords shall clatter, javelins sing,

Arrows whistle from the string,

Not a step be turned to flight,

Not a warrior wish for night,

‘ Till the burning star of day

Quenches his declining ray

In the darkness of the main,

And throughout the purple plain,

Heaped with slaughter, piled with death,

Not a foeman draws his breath.

He who well performs his vow,

Monarch Odin, shield him thou!

He who shrinks from hostile blow,

Hela! scourge the wretch below

In thy ninefold house of woe!’”

“O'er hill and field the war-drum peal'd,

High flamed the beacon-flame,

And each noble peer, from far and near,

To Haquin's standard came.

I saw ten thousand lances gleam

Beneath the winter's swart sun-beam!

They hide old Gormul's snow-capt height,

They hide the craggy dell;

And I hastened thro’ the waves of night,

The tidings of war to tell.”