The Lay of the Last Minstrel

From Canto Sixth, XXI.

Then from his seat, with lofty air,

Rose Harold, bard of brave St. Clair;

St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home,

Had with that lord to battle come.

Harold was born where restless seas

Howl round the storm-swept Orcades;

Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway

O'er isle and islet, strait and bay;—

Still nods their palace to its fall,

Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall!

Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave,

As if grim Odin rode her wave:

And watch'd the while, with visage pale,

And throbbing heart, the struggling sail;

For all of wonderful and wild

Had rapture for the lonely child.

And much of wild and wonderful

In these rude isles might fancy cull;

For thither came. in times afar,

Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war.

The Norsemen, train'd to spoil and blood,

Skill'd to prepare the raven's food;

Kings of the main their leaders brave,

Their barks the dragons of the wave.

And there in many a stormy vale,

The Scald had told his wondrous tale;

And many a Runic column high

Had witness'd grim idolatry.

And thus had Harold in his youth

Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth—

Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous curl'd,

Whose monstrous circle girds the world;

Of those dread Maids, whose hideous yell

Maddens the battle's bloody swell;

Of Chief, who, guided through the gloom

By the pale death-lights of the tomb,

Ransack'd the graves of warriors old,

Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' hold,

Wak'd the deaf tomb with war's alarms,

And bade the dead arise to arms!

continued