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Has raised up his head;

As awaked from the dead,
And amazed, he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies arise;

See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain;
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy;

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

VII.

Thus long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,

While organs yet were mute,

Timotheus, to his breathing flute

And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,

With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies:
She drew an angel down.

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IS not the gray hawk's flight
O'er mountain and mere;
"Tis not the fleet hound's course
Tracking the deer;

"T is not the light hoof-print

Of black steed or gray,
Though sweltering it gallop
A long summer's day;
Which mete forth the lordships
I challenge as mine;
Ha ha! 't is the good brand
I clutch in my strong hand,
That can their broad marches

And numbers define.
LAND-GIVER! I kiss thee.

Dull builders of houses,

Base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships
I owned at my birth;

But the pale fools wax mute
When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,
Shouting, "There am I lord!"
Wold and waste, town and tower,
Hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway

In the fierce battle-fray,
When the star that rules Fate is
This falchion's red gleam.
MIGHT-GIVER! I kiss thee.

I've heard great harps sounding,
In brave bower and hall,
I've drunk the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,
I've hunted in greenwood,
And heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle

And cold jargoning;

The music I love is

The shout of the brave,

The yell of the dying,

The scream of the flying,

When this arm wields death's sickle,

And garners the grave. JOY-GIVER! I kiss thee.

Far isles of the ocean

Thy lightning have known, And wide o'er the mainland

Thy horrors have shone.

THE SWORD-CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 153

Great sword of my father,

Stern joy of his hand,

Thou hast carved his name deep on

The stranger's red strand,

And won him the glory

Of undying song,

Keen cleaver of gay crests,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes,

And scourge of the strong.
FAME-GIVER! I kiss thee.

In a love more abiding

Than that the heart knows

For maiden more lovely

Than summer's first rose,
My heart's knit to thine,
And lives but for thee;
In dreamings of gladness,
Thou 'rt dancing with me
Brave measures of madness
In some battle-field,
Where armor is ringing,
And noble blood springing,
And cloven, yawn helmet,
Stout hauberk, and shield.
DEATH-GIVER! I kiss thee.

The smile of a maiden's eye
Soon may depart;
And light is the faith of

Fair woman's heart;

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