Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver;
Jesu rest his soul for ever;
Angles all from thrall deliver;
      Miserere Domine.

Eversley, 1851.

A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE

I heard an Eagle crying all alone
Above the vineyards through the summer night,
Among the skeletons of robber towers: 
Because the ancient eyrie of his race
Was trenched and walled by busy-handed men;
And all his forest-chace and woodland wild,
Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe,
Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to hour,
And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun
For joy at their own riches:—­So, I thought,
The great devourers of the earth shall sit,
Idle and impotent, they know not why,
Down-staring from their barren height of state
On nations grown too wise to slay and slave,
The puppets of the few; while peaceful lore
And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth,
With wonders which they fear and hate, as he,
The Eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below.

On the Rhine, 1851.

THE LONGBEARDS’ SAGA.  A.D. 400

Over the camp-fires
Drank I with heroes,
Under the Donau bank,
Warm in the snow trench: 
Sagamen heard I there,
Men of the Longbeards,
Cunning and ancient,
Honey-sweet-voiced. 
Scaring the wolf cub,
Scaring the horn-owl,
Shaking the snow-wreaths
Down from the pine-boughs,
Up to the star roof
Rang out their song. 
Singing how Winil men,
Over the ice-floes
Sledging from Scanland
Came unto Scoring;
Singing of Gambara,
Freya’s beloved,
Mother of Ayo,
Mother of Ibor. 
Singing of Wendel men,
Ambri and Assi;
How to the Winilfolk
Went they with war-words,—­
’Few are ye, strangers,
And many are we: 
Pay us now toll and fee,
Cloth-yarn, and rings, and beeves: 
Else at the raven’s meal
Bide the sharp bill’s doom.’ 
Clutching the dwarfs work then,
Clutching the bullock’s shell,
Girding gray iron on,
Forth fared the Winils all,
Fared the Alruna’s sons,
Ayo and Ibor. 
Mad at heart stalked they: 
Loud wept the women all,
Loud the Alruna wife;
Sore was their need. 
Out of the morning land,
Over the snow-drifts,
Beautiful Freya came,
Tripping to Scoring. 
White were the moorlands,
And frozen before her: 
Green were the moorlands,
And blooming behind her. 
Out of her gold locks
Shaking the spring flowers,
Out of her garments
Shaking the south wind,
Around in the birches
Awaking the throstles,
And making chaste housewives all
Long for their heroes home,
Loving and love-giving,
Came she to Scoring. 
Came unto Gambara,
Wisest of Valas,—­
’Vala, why weepest thou? 
Far in the wide-blue,
High up in the Elfin-home,