Norna Sings or Recites

Champion, famed for warlike toil,
Art thou silent, Ribolt Troil ?
Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones,
Are leaving bare thy giant bones.
Who dared touch the wild bear's skin
Ye slumber'd on, while life was in ?
A woman now, or babe, may come
And cast the covering from thy tomb.

Yet be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight
Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight !
I come not, with unhallow'd tread,
To wake the slumbers of the dead,
Or lay thy giant reliques bare ;
But what I seek thou well canst spare.
Be it to my hand allow'd
To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud ;
Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough
To shield thy bones from weather rough.
See, I draw my magic knife :
Never, while thou wert in life,
Lay'st thou still for sloth or fear,
When point and edge were glittering near ;

See, the cerements now I sever--
Waken now, or sleep for ever !
Thou wilt not wake--the deed is done !
The prize I sought is fairly won.

Thanks, Ribolt, thanks ; for this the sea
Shall smooth its ruffled crest for thee,
And while afar its billows foam,
Subside to peace near Ribolt's tomb.
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks ; for this the might
Of wild winds raging at their height,
When to thy place of slumber nigh,
Shall soften to a lullaby.

She, the dame of doubt and dread,
Norna of the Fitful-head,
Mighty in her own despite,
Miserable in her might,
In despair and frenzy great,
In her greatness desolate,
Wisest, wickedest who lives,--
Well can keep the word she gives.

Thou, so needful, yet so dread,
With cloudy crest, and wing of red ;
Thou, without whose genial breath
The North would sleep the sleep of death ;
Who deign'st to warm the cottage hearth,
Yet hurls proud palaces to earth,--
Brightest, keenest of the Powers,
Which form and rule this world of ours,
With my rhyme of Runic, I
Thank thee for thy agency.

Old Reimkennar, to thy art
Mother Hertha sends her part ;
She, whose gracious bounty gives
Needful food for all that lives.
From the deep mine of the North
Came the mystic metal forth,
Doom'd amidst disjointed stones,
Long to cere a champion's bones,
Disinhumed my charms to aid--
Mother Earth, my thanks are paid.

Girdle of our islands dear,
Element of Water, hear !
Thou whose power can overwhelm
Broken mounds and ruin'd realm
On the lowly Belgian strand ;
All thy fiercest rage can never
Of our soil a furlong sever
From our rock-defended land ;
Play then gently thou thy part,
To assist old Norna's art.

Elements, each other greeting,
Gifts and power attend your meeting.

Thou, that over billows dark
Safely send'st the fisher's bark,
Giving him a path and motion
Through the wilderness of ocean ;
Thou, that when the billows brave ye,
O'er the shelves canst drive the navy,--
Didst thou chafe as one neglected,
While thy brethren were respected ?
To appease thee, see, I tear
This full grasp of grizzled hair ;
Oft thy breath hath through it sung,
Softening to my magic tongue ;
Now, 'tis thine to bid it fly
Through the wide expanse of sky,
'Mid the countless swarms to sail
Of wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale ;
Take thy portion and rejoice,--
Spirit, thou hast heard my voice !

She who sits by haunted well,
Is subject to the Nixie's spell ;
She who walks on lonely beach,
To the Mermaid's charmed speech ;
She who walks round ring of green,
Offends the peevish Fairy Queen ;
And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's cave,
A weary weird of woe shall have.

By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore,
Minna Troil has braved all this and more ;
And yet hath the root of her sorrow and ill,
A source that 's more deep and more mystical still.

Thou art within a demon's hold,
More wise than Haims, more strong than Trolld ;
No siren sings so sweet as he,
No fay springs lighter on the lea ;
No elfin power hath half the art
To soothe, to move, to wring the heart,--
Life-blood from the cheek to drain,
Drench the eye, and dry the vein.
Maiden, ere we farther go,
Dost thou note me, ay or no ?

MINNA.

I mark thee, my mother, both word, look, and sign ;
Speak on with thy riddle--to read it be mine.

NORNA.

Mark me ! for the word I speak
Shall bring the colour to thy cheek.
This leaden heart, so light of cost,
The symbol of a treasure lost,
Thou shalt wear in hope and in peace,
That the cause of thy sickness and sorrow may cease,
When crimson foot meets crimson hand
In the Martyr's Aisle, and in Orkney land.
Be patient, be patient ; for Patience hath power
To ward us in danger, like mantle in shower ;
A fairy gift you best may hold
In a chain of fairy gold ;
The chain and the gift are each a true token,
That not without warrant old Norna hath spoken ;
But thy nearest and dearest must never behold them,
Till time shall accomplish the truths I have told them.