His fathers, with their stainless glories, sleep, On their good swords! Think'st thou I feel no pangs? That I, the son of warriors Thou darest not ask men who died To fix it on that proud supremacy Should tear the sign of our victorious faith Elm. Scorn me not, In mine extreme of misery! - Thou art strong Thy heart is not as mine. I know not what I ask! My brain grows And yet, 't were but Anticipating fate - since it must fall, wild; That cross must fall, at last! There is no power, To keep its place on high. Her sultry air But who shall cope with famine and disease, When leagued with arméd foes? Where now the aid, Where the long-promised lances of Castile ? We are forsaken in our utmost need By Heaven and earth forsaken! Have chosen their part; and bound themselves to death, Through high conviction that their suffering land, By the free blood of martyrdom alone, Shall call deliverance down. Elm. O! I have stood Beside thee through the beating storms of life, Gon. Urge me not, Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears, Elm. All, all thy gentle race, The beautiful beings that around thee grew, Hangs o'er her beauty, and the face which made Gon. I see a change Far nobler on her brow! She is as one, Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down Burns quenchless, being of heaven! She hath put on Even as a breastplate. — Ay, men look on her, As she goes forth, serenely, to her tasks, Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh, Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair, Elm. And seest thou not, In that high faith and strong collectedness, Into the laughing sunshine. — Kneel with me; That which a deeper, more prevailing voice Xim. Alas! this may not be. Mother! I cannot. Gon. My heroic child! A terrible sacrifice thou claim'st, oh God! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 1797-1835. Motherwell was born in Glasgow, and was several years the editor of a paper in that city. He had a great fondness for the old ballads and other poetry of Scotland and England, and published a selection entitled Minstrelsy, both Ancient and Modern. In 1832, he published a volume of his own poems, which contains some that are exceedingly beautiful. This poet was very popular among his townsmen and friends, but unfortunately, from embarrassed circumstances, he was led to seek relief from stimulants. He died suddenly, of apoplexy, at an early age. It is a Vikingir Who kisses thy hand; It is a Vikingir That bends his proud knee, And swears, by great Freya, His bride thou must be! So Jarl Egill swore when his great heart was fullest. Thy white arms are locked in Thy girdle-stead's gleaming For girdle, his great arm For palace, gives he, While mad waves and winds shall Thy true subjects be. So richly Jarl Egill endowed his bright bride. Nay, frown not, nor shrink thus, Nor toss so thy head; 'T is a Vikingir asks thee, Land-maiden, to wed! He skills not to woo thee, Though lords of the land may The cradle he rocked in Hath framed him a heart And a hand that are strong; |