sions and stanzas, the "Madman's Love," -which may perhaps remind the reader of Crabbe's "Sir Eustace Grey;" though it cannot pretend to approach the wild and melancholy solemnity of that impressive poem. But every reader of Motherwell's volume will acknowledge that the theme which he has made peculiarly his own is the wild life and warfare of the Norsemen. The three noble odes on this subject, which stand first in the collection, are fairly worth the rest of the book. Deep-rolling as thunder, fiery and rapid as the lightning flash, they rush over the page and bear the reader along with them, like one of the fierce warships of the Sea-king themselves-ploughing with strained sail and wild battle-shriek, their grim and bloody way through the ocean! Since the enthusiastic labors of the Brothers Grimm and of Von der Hagen, the Northern Mythology has been a favorite German study; the accomplished Swedish Poet, Tegner, who has lately left the world amid the tears of his countrymen, has set it off with every advantage in his version of the Frithioff's Saga, and other poems, derived from the same source; and Mr. Weber, Dr. Percy's translation of Mallet, and more lately, Dr. Sayers, Mr. Herbert, and others, have done something to popularize it among ourselves. None of our greater poets, except Gray, and Scott occasionally, appear, however, to have adequately felt the eminently poetical character of the subject. Gray's odes, "The Fatal Sisters," and the "Descent of Odin," are paraphrastic translations of originals preserved in Bartholinus, executed with harmony and vigor; but as translations (the second very nearly coinciding with the original), hardly deserving the high rank they have been considered to hold among the few but precious works of that exquisite writer.* Scott, in his "Harold the Dauntless," has some passages thoroughly pervaded with the genuine Norse savageness. This wild tone It is curious enough that so very accurate a scholar as Gray has committed the error of confounding the Valkyrtur, or Choosers of the Slain, with the Fatal Sisters-a totally distinct class of personages in the Scandinavian mythology. + This fine poem was hardly ever done justice to. At first universally considered a clever imitation of Scott's style (he had in fact purposely disguised it), the critics treated it without ceremony, and thought themselves at liberty sneeringly to slight, or condescendingly to encourage the young author. Such was the way in which Scott amused himself, trifling with the fame so many peril body and soul to grasp. comes out, perhaps, with greater effect in "Whet the bright Steel, The steel glimmers not for the carving of the that spread through central Europe for hunAmid scenes of savage wildness-forests dreds of miles, when Germany had the cli We allude in the text to such passages as that spirited burst near the beginning:— "Woe to the realms which he coasted! for there * * Was shedding of blood and tearing of hair, &c. "From thy Pomeranian throne, Hewn in rock of living stone," &c. with many similar passages, which show his perfect appreciation of the poetical elements of this grand and gloomy superstition. astical wealth, and to litter their horses in the chapels of palaces. "When they had wasted with fire and sword some canton of the Christian territory-We have sung the mass of lances,' they would say in derision; it began at dawn of morning, and has lasted till night.'" The mate and wore the aspect of the wildest As the religion of the South advanced parts of Canada, and armies could cross northwards, and one by one involved the the ice of her Rhine and Danube in winter; Teutonic nations, the grim Pagans of the amid a faith, the growth of such scenes, and Baltic were more and more straitened in gloomy as they, were formed the terrible their fastnesses; and a deep hatred of the tribes whose descendants, gathering around renegade tribes of their own blood took the Baltic coasts, maintained the last strong-possession of their hearts. Robbery and holds of Paganism in modern Europe. Like religion, pillage and piety, grew inseparably the Arab warriors, they had their anticipat- associated in their thoughts; and the love ed Paradise; the reward of merciless valor; of Christian wealth was unspeakably heightbut the genius of the North and South was ened by the rapture of shedding Christian characteristically contrasted in each. The blood. Accordingly, the dearest luxury of soft Mahometan heaven was not their's. the Danish devastators (as we so perpetually The Valkyriur, who were to receive and re-read in the story of their English incurward the imparadised warrior of Norway sions) was the pollution and destruction of and Denmark, of Iceland and the Orkneys, Monastery and Church. Their delight was themselves sought him amid the storm of to plunder the rich repositories of ecclesibattle; terrifically beautiful they themselves went forth, dim and dreadful Presences, in the thick of fight, and awaited the foredoomed fall of their chosen. This belongs to the singular difference in the estimate of woman among these opposite races of mankind; with the southern, the toy of languid leisure; with the northern, from time immemorial, the serious companion and even guide of life, endowed with powers mysterious and prophetic ;t and everywhere occupying that position of respect and eminence which afterwards assisted, if it did not wholly produce, that remarkable and still unexplained phenomenon-the chivalrous devotion of the middle ages. The religion of these fierce warriors, a tremendous accumulation of intricately but (as its profounder investigators maintain) consistently connected legends; all overcast with the deepest gloom, and yet now and again, a gleam of strange unearthly beauty and gentleness crossing the stormy page; the character, for instance, of Baldur, the death-doomed son of Odin (whom the first converts are said to have identified with Our Lord) is singularly generous, gentle, and affecting. But, for the most part, it deals in death and despair, recounting the fall of heroes and demigods victims of a fate more relentless than even that which Greece brought from her old Thracian homes; the intrusion, and often the unmitigated triumph of evil; the whole dark throng of phantoms ending in that dread consummation, the awful twilight of the gods," when the whole universe perishes, and gods and men, Odin himself and all his subject thrones, shall fade and wither into nothingness. * See Gibbon, ch. ix., for the comparison. The sea was their favorite element; but the land alone afforded pillage. same chief still commanded," says the picturesque historian from whom we have just quoted, "when the pirates had disembarked, and were marching in battalions, whether on foot or on horseback. He was saluted by the Germanic title of King; but he was a king only at sea, and in combats; for in the hour of repast the warriors sat in a circle, and the beer-horn passed from hand to hand, without distinction of first or last. The Sea-King was everywhere followed, and always zealously obeyed; for he was always renowned as the bravest of the brave, as he who had never slept beneath a raftered roof, nor ever drained the bowl by a sheltered hearth. He could govern the vessel as the good horseman manages his horse; when on a voyage, he could run across the oars when they were in motion; he could throw three javelins to the mast head, and catch them alternately in his hand, and repeat this trial of skill without once missing. Equal under such a chief, supporting lightly their voluntary submission, and the weight of their coat of mail, which they promised themselves would soon be changed for an equal weight in gold, the Danish Pirates held on their course gaily, as their old national songs express it, in the track of the swans. Sometimes they cruised near the coasts, watching for their enemy in the straits, the bays, and roadsteads; from which custom they were called Vi-Kings, or children of the creeks; and at other times they would give chase, and steer across the ocean. Often were their fragile barks wrecked, and dispersed by the violent storms of the northern seas, and often did the rallying sign remain unanswered; but this neither increased the cares nor diminished the confidence of the survivors, who laughed at the winds and the waves from which they had "The force of the escaped unhurt. storm," they would sing," is a help to the arm of our rowers; the hurricane is in our service; it carries us the way we would go. "We smote with our swords"—such was the death-song of Regnar Lodbrog, when taken, imprisoned, and about, amid tortures unspeakable, to be slain by his captor, Ella of Northumberland : "We smote with our swords in the days of my youth, when I went towards the east to prepare the repast of carnage for wolves, and in that mighty battle in which I sent to the halls of Odin the people of Helsinghia. Thence our barks carried us to the mouth of the Vistula, where our lances transpierced cuirasses, and our swords cut bucklers in two. "We smote with our swords on that day when I saw hundreds of enemies stretched on the sands beneath an English headland; dew-drops of blood fell off our swords; an arrow swung in the wind when they sought the helmets; and it gave me delight equal to that of the company of a beautiful maiden. "We smote with our swords, on the day when I struck down the youth, so proud of his flowing hair, who from early morning pursued after tender virgins, and sought the society of the widows. What fate so fit for the brave as to be the first to fall in the field? He who ne'er receives a wound leads a dull life; it is necessary for a man to make an attack upon an opponent, and to resist him in the play of combats. "We smote with our swords; but now I find that men are the slaves of Fate, and must be obedient to the orders of fairies that presided over their birth. Never did I think to meet death from the brand of Ella, when I sped in my prows of plank across the wide foam of waters, and gave feasts to the flesh-devouring beasts. Yet I laugh with delight in contemplating that a place is reserved for me in the halls of Odin, and that therein, soon seated at a splendid banquet, we shall quaff beer in our overflowing cups of horn. From my boyhood I have shed blood, and have longed for such a death as this. Goddesses sent towards me by Odin, call and invite me; I am going to quaff with the gods ale in the highest seats. The hours of my life are fast ebbing; I am smiling under the hand of death !"* Eric, the son of Harold, was similarly *See Thierry, Book II. Mallet, Hist. du Danemarck, Tom. ii., 293. Olaus Wormius (Literat. Runica, p. 198). "And why does his coming give thee more C Because delight than that of another King" many are the places in which he has stained his sword with blood, many are the places where his blood-stained sword has been drawn.' "Hail to thee, Eric! Brave warrior, enter; thou art welcome in this abode. Tell me what Kings accompany thee. How many came with thee from the combat?" "Five Kings come,' answers Eric; and I am the sixth.'"* The Saxon foe too could sing his warsong. It was thus, when Olaf, son of Sitric, with the Danes of the Orkneys and the Gaels of the Hebrides, were defeated by the English at the great battle of Brunenburgh, that the conquerors hymned their triumph. "Olaf," they cried, " has fled, followed by few, The stranger, and has wept upon the waves. when seated at his fireside, surrounded by his family, will not relate this battle; for in it his kinsmen have fallen, from it his friends have not returned. The Kings of the North will lament in their councils that their warriors desired to play at the game of carnage with the sons of Edward. King Ethelstan and his brother Edmund return to the land of the West-Saxons. They leave behind them the raven feeding on the carcases of their foes; the black raven with his pointed beak, and the croaking toad, and the eagle hungering after flesh, and the greedy kite, and the wild wolf of the woods !" * Such were the tribes and manners in which our poet (for we must not forget him) deWith lighted to find the subject of song. what force and spirit he has executed the task our readers will be enabled amply to judge from the specimen we subjoin:— * Torfæi Hist. Rerum Norweg. II., Cap. 4. See Thierry's Hist. Norm. Conq., B. II. "The eagle hearts of all the north Have left their stormy strand; The warriors of the world are forth To choose another land! Again their long keels shear the wave, Ride lords of weltering seas. So proudly the Skalds raise their voices of triumph, billow. II. "Aloft Sigurdi's battle-flag Streams onward to the land: Well may the taint of slaughter lag The waters of the mighty deep, Hear it like vengeance shoreward sweep, The waves wax wroth beneath our keel, They know the battle sign, and feel Who now uprears Sigurdi's flag, Nor shuns an early tomb? Who shoreward through the swelling surge Shall bear the scroll of doom? So shouted the Skalds as the long ships were nearing The low-lying shores of a beautiful land. III. "Silent the self-devoted stood Beside the massive tree, His image mirrored in the flood As leaning on his gleaming axe, His fearless soul was churning up And thundering through that martial crew It is Harold the dauntless that lifteth his great voice, As the Northmen roll on with the doom-written banner. IV. "I bear Sigurdi's battle-flag Through sunshine or through gloom, Through swelling surge on bloody strand On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste, The shadowy Three like meteors passed, } And bade young Harold die. They sang the war-deeds of his sires, They told him that this glory-flag Was his by right of doom. Since then where hath young Harold been, 'Mid war and waves, the combat keen, So sings the fierce Harold, the thirster for glory, As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden ban ner. V. "Mine own death's in this clenched hand, I know the noble trust; These limbs must rot on yonder strand, Or shall this heart its purpose fail— ¡ 1 trample down such idle doubt; Then panting for the battle-shock, It is that tall Harold, in terrible beauty, Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce of heroes. VI. "The ship-borne warriors of the north, The sons of Woden's race, To battle as to feast go forth, To lift on high the Rubric sign But backward never bears this flag, On, on above the crowded dead This Runic scroll shall flare, And round it shall the lightning spread, From swords that never spare. So rush the hero words from the death-doomed one While Skalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers. VII. "Flag! from your folds, and fiercely wake War-music on the wind; Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair! I hear thy wailings on the air, In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung The wave that bears me from thy bower Who, death foredoomed from above, Thus mourned young Harold as he thought on Brynhilda, While his eyes filled with tears which glittered but fell not. "Green lie those thickly-timbered shores, Fair sloping to the sea; They're cumbered with the harvest stores, That triumph in the fight! It was thus the land-winners of old gained their glory, And grey stones voiced their praise in the bays of far isles. X. "The rivers of your island low Glance redly in the sun; But ruddier still they're doomed to glow, The current of proud life shall swell And in that spate of blood how well The headless corpse will swim! But one may hew the oaken tree, Sweep like a tempest cloud.' So shouteth fierce Harold, so echo the Northmen, As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering. Marshal, stout Jarls, your battle fast, And through the surge and arrowy shower Which rules the battle field.' So cries the death-doomed on the red strand of slaughter, While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing. XII. "On rolled the Northmen's war, above Nor tide nor tempest ever strove Their spear points crash like creeping ice Hurra, hurra! their whirlwind sweep, Bear on the flag-he goes to sleep With the life-scorning dead. Thus fell the young Harold, as of old fell his sires, And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spirit." The fire and vividness of this fine ode will not be denied. Our poet's biographer ventures timidly to prefer it to either of Gray's Scandinavian versions. He need entertain no scruples on the subject. From our high judgment seat we hereby solemnly absolve him of all crime or misdemeanor in the criticism aforesaid; and authorize him to repeat it without let or hinderance on all suitable occasions; all literary coteries, quarterly, monthly, and weekly Reviews, blue-stocking oracles, and other standard authorities, notwithstanding. But we must close; nor linger upon a theme which might lead us further than every reader would care to follow. We part with William Motherwell and his wild Northmen. The swift barques, hung with glittering shields, and the fierce landing, and the despairing flight, and the burning abbey, and the battle-horn of " thunder,"* and the magic raven ensign,† and the shout of onslaught, and the shriek of defeat,— all vanish slowly into empty space, die off into their own irrecoverable Past, and leave us to soberer-though it may be safer "Tuba illi erat eburnea tonitruum nuncupata;" Dudo de S. Quintin. + King's Sweyn's, woven with magic incantations by three of his sisters, and borne before the Danes in their terrible invasions of England at the dawn of the eleventh century. See the Heimskringla. |