| |
| 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,— | 5 |
| To fear a stranger,— | |
| Over the Maelstrom’s edge, | |
| Daring the danger; | |
| And where the mariner | |
| Paleth affrighted, | 10 |
| Over the sunken rocks | |
| I dash on delighted. | |
| The far waters know my keel, | |
| No tide restrains me; | |
| But ah! a Russian maid | 15 |
| Coldly disdains me. | |
| |
| Once round Sicilia’s isle | |
| Sailed I, unfearing: | |
| Conflict was on my prow, | |
| Glory was steering. | 20 |
| Where fled the stranger ship | |
| Wildly before me, | |
| Down, like the hungry hawk, | |
| My vessel bore me; | |
| We carved on the craven’s deck | 25 |
| 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; | 30 |
| But ah! a Russian maid | |
| Coldly disdains me. | |
| |
| Countless as spears of grain | |
| Stood the warriors of Drontheim, | |
| When like the hurricane | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| I love the combat fierce, | |
| No fear restrains me; | |
| But ah! a Russian maid | |
| Coldly disdains me. | |
| |
| Once o’er the Baltic Sea | 45 |
| Swift we were dashing; | |
| Bright on our twenty spears | |
| Sunlight was flashing; | |
| When through the Skager Rack | |
| The storm-wind was driven, | 50 |
| And from our bending mast | |
| The broad sail was riven: | |
| Then, while the angry brine | |
| Foamed like a flagon, | |
| Brimful the yesty rime | 55 |
| Filled our brown dragon; | |
| But I, with sinewy hand | |
| Strengthened in slaughter, | |
| Forth from the straining ship | |
| Bailed the dun water. | 60 |
| The wild waters know my keel, | |
| No storm restrains me; | |
| But ah! a Russian maid | |
| Coldly disdains me. | |
| |
| Firmly I curb my steed, | 65 |
| As e’er Thracian horseman; | |
| My hand throws the javelin true, | |
| Pride of the Norseman; | |
| And the bold skater marks, | |
| While his lips quiver, | 70 |
| Where o’er the bending ice | |
| I skim the river: | |
| Forth to my rapid oar | |
| The boat swiftly springeth— | |
| Springs like the mettled steed | 75 |
| When the spur stingeth. | |
| Valiant I am in fight, | |
| No fear restrains me; | |
| But ah! a Russian maid | |
| Coldly disdains me. | 80 |
| |
| Saith she, the maiden fair, | |
| The Norsemen are cravens? | |
| I in the Southland gave | |
| A feast to the ravens! | |
| Green lay the sward outspread, | 85 |
| 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, | 90 |
| 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 | 95 |
| The Southland remembers! | |
| I love the combat fierce, | |
| No fear restrains me; | |
| But ah! a Russian maid | |
| Coldly disdains me. | 100 |
| |
