And Balder moved no limb, And no sound escaped his lip;And he look'd, yet scarcely saw The destruction of his ship: Nor the fleet sparks mounting high, Nor the glare upon the sky;Scarcely heard the billows dash, Nor the burning timber crash; Scarcely felt the scorching heat. That was gathering at his feet, Nor the fierce flames mounting o'er him Greedily. But the life was in him yet, And the courage to forget All his pain, in his triumph Once alone a cry arose, On the sea. Half of anguish, half of pride, With the flames on every side. 'I am coming!' said the king, 'Where the swords and bucklers ring Where the warrior lives again With the souls of mighty men Where the weary find repose, And the red wine ever flows; I am coming, great All-father, Unto Odin, unto Thor, Unto Thee! And the strong true hearts of yore — I am coming to Valhalla, O'er the sea.' Red and fierce upon the sky Until midnight shone the glare, Like a meteor of the air. Naught remain'd at break of morn, And still the vessel drifted Heavily. With a pale and hazy light Until far into the night, When the storm had spent its rage, On the sea. Then the ocean ceased her strife With the wild winds, lull'd to rest, And a full, round, placid moon And the burning ship still lay From her ribs of solid oak, Pouring forth the flame and smoke;— Until burnt through all her bulk, To the water's edge, the hulk Down a thousand fathoms sank Suddenly, With a low and sullen sound;- Rather such sand as, when the loud winds wake, Each ocean-wave knoweth. Like a Wrath with pinions burning Travels the red sand of the desert abroad; While the soft sea-sand glisteneth smooth and untrod, As eve is returning. Here is no caravan or camel; Here the weary mariner alone finds a grave, Nightly mourned by the moon, that now on yon wave Sheds a silver enamel. From the German of F. FReiligrath. SEA-WEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges In some far off, bright Azore; Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries, The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas: Ever drifting, drifting, drifting, Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Of the poet's soul, ere long, From each cave and rocky fastness, Floats some fragment of a song; From the far-off isles enchanted With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate : : Ever drifting, drifting, drifting, On the shifting |