All arm'd, behold her vengeful father rise, And loud," Forbear, dishonour'd bride!" he cries. With starting sinews from her grasp has sprung The cold wan form, round which her arms were Again in panoply of warlike steel [flung; They wake those echoes to which Leyra rung; Fierce and more fierce each blow they seem to deal, And smite with ruthless blade the limbs that nothing feel.

Darkling she stands beside the silent grave, And sees them wield the visionary glaive. What charm has life for her that can compare With the deep thrill of that renew'd despair? To raise the fatal ban, and gaze unseen, As once in hope, on all her fondest care! In death's own field life's trembling joys to glean, And draw love's keen delight from that abhorr'd scene!

The paths of bliss are joyous, and the breast Of thoughtless youth is easy to be blest. There is a charm in the loved maiden's sigh; There is sweet pleasure in the calm blue sky. When nature smiles around; the mild control Of buoyant fancy bids the pulse throb high; But when strong passion has engross'd the soul, All other joys are dead; that passion is its whole. The beaming sun may wake the dewy spring, The flowers may smile, and the blithe greenwood ring;

Soft music's touch may pour its sweetest lay,
And young hearts kindle in their hour of May;
But not for Hilda shall life's visions glow;
One dark deep thought must on her bosom prey.
Her joys lie buried in the tomb below, [flow.
And from night's phantoms pale her deadly bliss must

There still each eve, as northern stories tell,
By that lone mound her spirit wakes the spell;
Whereat those warriors, charmed by the lay,
Renew, as if in sport, the deadly fray:

Till when, as paler grows the gloom of night,
And faint begins to peer the morning's ray,
The spectre pageant fadeth from the sight,
And vanisheth each form before the eye of light.

THE DESCENT TO HELA.

HARD by the eastern gate of hell In ancient time great Vala fell; And there she lies in massive tomb Shrouded by night's eternal gloom, Fairer than gods, and wiser, she Held the strange keys of destiny; And not one dark mysterious hour Was veil'd from her all-searching power. She knew what chanced, ere time began, Ere world there was, or gods, or man; And, had she list, she might have told Of things that would appal the bold. No mortal tongue has ever said What hand unknown laid Vala dead;

But yet, if rumour rightly tells,
In her cold bones the spirit dwells;
And, if intruder bold presume,
Her voice unfolds his hidden doom:
And oft the rugged ear of death
Is soothed by her melodious breath,
Slow-rising from the hollow stone
In witching notes and solemn tone;
Immortal strains, that tell of things,
When the young down was on the wings
Of hoary Time, and sometimes swell
With such a wild enchanting spell,
As heard above would fix the eye
Of nature in sweet ecstasy,
Steal every sense from mortal clay,
And drag the willing soul away.

Dark is the path, and wild the road,
That leads unto that dread abode;
By shelving steeps, through brier and wood,
Through yawning cliff and cavern'd flood,
Where thousand treacherous spirits dwell,
Loose the huge stones, bid waters swell,
And guard the dire approach of hell.
And none, since that high Lord of heaven,
To whom the sword of death is given,
Stern Odin, for young Balder's sake,
Has dared the slumbering Vala wake.
But love can pass o'er brier and stone
Unharm'd, through floods and forests lone;
Love can defy the treacherous arm
Of spirits leagued to work its harm,
Pierce the dread silence of the tomb,
And smooth the way, and light the gloom.
Whence art thou? essence of delight!
Pure as the heavens, or dark as night!
Feeding the soul with fitful dreams,
And ever blending the extremes
Of joys so fearful, cares so sweet,
That wo and bliss together meet!
Thy touch can make the lion mild,
And the sweet ringdove fierce and wild.
Thy breath can rouse the gentlest maid
That e'er on couch of down was laid,
Brace her soft limbs to meet the cold,
And make her in the danger bold;
The breast, that heaves so lily-white,
Defy the storms and brave the night,
While the rude gales that toss her hair,
Seem whispers of the tremulous air,
And heaviest toils seem passing light,
And every peril new delight.

Oh, whose is that love-lighted eye! What form is that, slow gliding by? Sweet Helga, risen from the bed Where sleepless lay thy virgin head, Thou darest explore that dread abyss, To learn what tides thee, wo or bliss! Whether it stand by fate decreed That stern Angantyr's breast shall bleed, Or he to whom in secret turn'd Thy heart with gentle passion burn'd, He whom thy soul had learn'd to cherish, For thy dear sake untimely perish.

The night was calm; a pallid glow Stream'd o'er the wide extended snow,

Which like a silvery mantle spread
O'er copse, and dale, and mountain's head.
Oh, who has witness'd near the pole
The full-orb'd moon in glory roll!
More splendid shines her lustrous robe,
And larger seems the radiant globe;
And that serene unnumber'd choir,

That pave the heaven's blue arch with fire,
Shoot through the night with brighter gleam,
Like distant suns, their twinkling beam.
While in the north its streamers play,
Like mimic shafts of orient day;
The wondrous splendour, fiery red,
Round half the welkin seems to spread,
And flashes on the summits bleak
Of snowy crag or ice-clad peak,
Lending a feeble blush, to cheer
The twilight of the waning year.
The thoughtful eye undazzled there
May pierce the liquid realms of air,
And the rapt soul delighted gaze

On countless worlds that round it blaze.
No floating vapour dims the sight

That dives through the blue vault of night,
While distance yields to fancy's power,
And rapture rules the silent hour.

A calm so holy seem'd to brood
O'er white-robed hill and frozen flood,
A charm so solemn and so still,
That sure, if e'er the sprites of ill
Shrink from the face of nature, this
Must be the hallow'd hour of bliss,
When no dark elves or goblins rude
Dare on the walks of man intrude.

Pure as the night, at that calm hour,
Young Helga left her virgin bower;
And trod unseen the lonely road
To gloomy Hela's dire abode.
The broken path and toilsome way
Adown a sloping valley lay,
Where solid rocks on either side
Might have the hand of time defied;
But some convulsion of old earth
Had given the narrow passage birth.
Onward with labouring steps and slow
The virgin pass'd, nor fear'd a foe.
The moon threw gloriously bright
On the gray stones her streaming light;
Till now the valley wider grew,
And the scene scowl'd with dreariest hue.
From the steep crag a torrent pouring
Dash'd headlong down, with fury roaring,
Through frozen heaps that midway hung;
And, where the beams their radiance flung,
Columns of ice and massive stone
Blending and undistinguish'd shone ;
While each dark shade their forms between
Lent deeper horror to the scene;
And gloomy pines, that far above
Lean'd from the high and rocky cove,
With frozen spray their heads besprent
Under the hoary burden bent.
Before her spread a forest drear
Of antique trees with foliage sere;
Wreath'd and fantastic were their roots,

And one way stretch'd their stunted shoots:
Each hollow trunk some beast might hide,
Or fiends more wily there abide.
She seem'd in that strange wilderness
A spirit sent to cheer and bless,
A beauteous form of radiant light
Charming the fearful brow of night.
The wind, with a low whisper'd sigh,
Came rushing through the branches dry;
Heavy and mournful was the sound,
And seem'd to sweep along the ground.
The virgin's heart throbb'd high; the blood
Beat at its doors with hastier flood:/
But firm of purpose, on she pass'd,
Nor heeded the low rustling blast.
A mist hung o'er the barren ground,
And soon she was all mantled round
In a thick gloom, so dark and dread,
That hardly wist she where to tread.
Mute horror brooded o'er the heath,
And all was dark and still as death:
When sudden a loud gust of wind,
Shaking the forest, roar'd behind,
And wolves seem'd howling in the brake,
And in her path the hissing snake.
Then all was hush'd; till swift and sheen
A meteor flash'd upon the scene;
A hoarse laugh burst upon her ear,
And then a hideous shriek of fear.
Dire phantoms, in the gloom conceal'd,
Were instant by that light reveal'd;
For, lurking sly, behind each tree
Strange faces peep'd with spiteful glee,
And ghastly forms and shapes obscene
Glided the hoary rocks between.
Oh, who shall save thee, Helga! mark
The ambush'd spirits of the dark!
Those are the powers accurs'd, that ride
The blasting whirlwind, and preside
O'er nature's wrecks; whose hands delight
To weave the tempest of the night,
Spread the red pestilence, and throw
A deeper gloom o'er human wo!
Those are the fiends, that prompt the mind
To deeds of darkness, and behind
Send their fell crew with sickening breath,
Despair, and infamy, and death!

Nor yet unmoved the virgin gazed;
She trembled as that meteor blazed;
But high she spread her white arms sheen,
And thus she pray'd to beauty's queen.

"Immortal Freya! if e'er my mind
Has to thy gentle rites inclined;
If e'er my hand fresh garlands wove
Of flowers, the symbols of chaste love,
And cull'd from all its blooming hoards
The sweets which opening spring affords ;
If I have knit the silken twine

To deck thy pure and honour'd shrine;
Immortal Freya, attend my prayer!
To a lone virgin succour bear!
Give me to reach great Vala's grave,
And from the powers of darkness save!"
Fair Helga spoke; and as she pray'd,
A charm descended on the maid,

Like the sweet fall of measured sound,
Or dew distill'd on holy ground;
And vanish'd seem'd the powers of ill,
And nature smiled serene and still.
The darksome mist was roll'd away,
And tranquil, as the fall of day,
A milder gloom imbrown'd the way;
While through that wild and barren scene
The lofty gates of hell were seen.
A strain delightful pouring slowly
Breathed in soft cadence pure and holy :
And the strange voice she long'd to hear
Stole gently on her wondering ear.
Hark! the wild notes are sweetly swelling,
Now upon things unearthly dwelling,
And now of time's old secrets telling.

To rapture charm'd, fair Helga long
Stood listening that immortal song;
But onward now she sprang with haste,
And through hell's portals quickly paced.
Then, starting from his gory bed,
The whelp of Hela raised his head,
And, as he view'd the daring maid,
Gnash'd his keen fangs, and fiercely bay'd.
His glowing eyes with fury scowl'd,
And long and loud the monster howl'd:
For well he mark'd athwart the gloom
A living form by Vala's tomb.
But unappall'd the virgin stood,
And thus, in calm unalter'd mood:

By the force of Runic song,
By the might of Odin strong,
By the lance and glittering shield
Which the maids of slaughter wield,
By the gems whose wondrous light
Beams in Freya's necklace bright,
By the tomb of Balder bold,
I adjure thine ashes cold.

Vala, list a virgin's prayer!

Speak! Hialmar's doom declare!"

She ceased; when breathing sad and slow, Like some unwilling sound of wo,

A sweetly solemn voice was sent

Forth from that gloomy monument.

Deep-bosom'd in the northern fells

A pigmy race immortal dwells,
Whose hands can forge the falchion well
With many a wondrous mutter'd spell.
If bold Hialmar's might can gain
A weapon from their lone domain,
Nor stone nor iron shall withstand
The dint of such a gifted brand;
Its edge shall drink Angantyr's blood,
And life's tide issue with the flood.
Victorious, at night's silent hour,
The chief shall reach fair Helga's bower.
But thou, who darest with living tread
Invade these realms, where rest the dead;
Breaking the slumbers of the tomb
With charms that rend hell's awful gloom;
Who seek'st to scan, with prescience bold,
What gods from mortal man withhold,
Soon shall thine heart despairing rue
The hour that gave these shades to view,
And Odin's wrath thy steps pursue."

It ceased; and straight a lurid flash
Burst through the gloom with thunder crash.
It lighted all death's dreary caves,
It glared on thousand thousand graves.
Hell's iron chambers rang withal,
And pale ghosts started at the call;
While, as the gather'd tempest spreads,
Rush'd the red terror o'er their heads.
And well I deem, those realms might show
Unnumber'd shapes of various wo;
Lamenting forms, a ghastly crew,

By the strange gleam were given to view;
And writhing agony was there,
And sullen motionless despair:

Sights, that might freeze life's swelling tide,
Blanch the warm cheek of throbbing pride,
And shake fair reason's frail defence,
Though strongly nerved by innocence.
Nor dared the breathless virgin gaze
On hell's dread cells and devious ways;
Back rush'd unto her heart the blood,
And horror stay'd its curdling flood;
As fainting nigh the gates of hell
In speechless trance young Helga fell.
Her glowing lips are pale and cold;
Her dainty limbs of heavenly mould,
Fashion'd for bliss and form'd to rest
On couch of down by love carest,
Lie by yon damp and mouldering tomb,
Faded, and stript of mortal bloom;
Like flowers on broken hawthorn bough,
Or snow-wreaths on the mountain's brow.
Shall e'er that bosom move again,
To know love's subtle bliss or pain?
Shall e'er those languid beauties stir?
Shall heaven's pure light revisit her?
Or is she thus enveloped quite
By curtain of eternal night?
And ye, who in life's varied scene
Still its frail joys and sorrows glean,
Say, does her fate for pity cry,
Or were it best to sink and die,
While innocence is chaste and pure,
And flattering fancies yet allure
To leave the hopes of youth half-tasted,
To fly, before its dreams are blasted,
Its charms foredone, its treasures wasted;
Ere guilty bliss with secret smart
Has touch'd the yet untainted heart,
To shun the pleasure and the crime,

Nor trust the wintry storms of time?

True to the charge, some guardian power
Watch'd over Helga's deathlike hour;
Whether by pity moved and love
Bright Freya glided from above,

Spread round her limbs a viewless spell,
And snatch'd her from the jaws of hell;

Or Odin's self reserved the fair
For other woes and worse despair;
For at the earliest dawn of day
In her still bower young Helga lay,
And waked, as from a feverish dream,
To hail the morning's orient beam.

SOLITUDE.

'T WERE Sweet to lie on desert land, Or where some lone and barren strand Hears the Pacific waters roll,

And views the stars of Southern pole!
"T were best to live where forests spread
Beyond fell man's deceitful tread,
Where hills on hills proud rising tower,
And native groves each wild embower,
Whose rocks but echo to the howl
Of wandering beast or clang of fowl!
The eagle there may strike and slay;
The tiger spring upon his prey;
The cayman watch in sedgy pool

The tribes that glide through waters cool;
The tender nestlings of the brake
May feed the slily coiling snake:
And the small worm or insect weak
May quiver in the warbler's beak:
All there at least their foes discern,
And each his prey may seize in turn.
But man, when passions fire the soul,
And reason stoops to love's control,
Deceitful deals the murderous blow
Alike on trustiest friend or foe:
And oft the venom'd hand of hate
Points not the bitterest shaft of fate:
But faithless friendship's secret fang
Tears the fond heart with keener pang,
And love demented weaves a spell
More dreadful than the pains of hell.

That fond remembrance still shall cling
In heaven to life's immortal spring!

And thou, whose bright and cherish'd form,
Clasp'd to his heart with rapture warm,
Oft wakes the humble poet's eye
To more than mortal ecstasy,
Whose blooming cherubs, fresh as May,
In harmless sport around him play,
Say, does he dream! shall joy like this
Pass as a shadowy scene of bliss?
Or, when that beauteous shape shall fade,
And his cold tongue in dust be laid,
Shall the fond spirits ever glow
With love together link'd as now?

It is not false! Love's subtle fire
Shall live, though mortal limbs expire:
E'en now from heaven's ethereal height
Hialmar turns his wistful sight,

To Sigtune's towers, where, bathed in tears,
Mid anxious hopes and throbbing fears,
He sees the lovely mourner lie
With pallid cheek and languid eye.
Ne'er shall her bold victorious lord
Return to breathe the blissful word;
By Samsoe's rocks his body lies,
To love a bleeding sacrifice :
And pensive there, though aid is vain.
And past the poignant throb of pain,
Friendship bends sadly to survey

The unconscious form and lifeless clay.

FUTURITY.

SAY, when the spirit fleets away
From its frail house of mortal clay,
When the cold limbs to earth return,
Or rest in proudly sculptur'd urn,
Does still oblivion quench the fire

That warm'd the heart with chaste desire?
Do all our fond affections lie
Buried in dark eternity?

Or may the souls of those we love
In darkness oft around us move,
Drawn back by faithful thoughts to earth,
Haunt the dear scenes that gave them birth,
And still of former ties aware,
Float on the gently sighing air!
It may not be, a flame so bright
Should ever sink in endless night;
And if, when fails the transient breath,
The soul can spurn the bonds of death,
Love's gentle spirit ne'er shall die,
But dove-like with it mount the sky!
Oh, 'tis not sure the poet's dream,
Sweet fancy's visionary theme.
Where'er the fleeting soul shall go,
Still will our pure affections glow,

Though life's frail thoughts are past and vain,
The sense of good must still remain,
And death, that conquers all, shall ne'er
From the delighted spirit tear

The memory of a mother's care!

JEALOUSY.

FOUR things the wise man knew not to declare, The eagle's path athwart the fields of air; The ship's deep furrow thro' the ocean's spray; The serpent's winding on the rock; the way Of man with woman. Into water clear The jealous Indian rudely thrust his spear, And, quick withdrawing, pointed how the wave Subsided into stillness. The dark grave, Which knows all secrets, can alone reclaim The fatal doubt once cast on woman's fame. Night's shade fell thick; the evening was far spent Ere proud Montalban to her chamber went. Slowly he enter'd, and with cautious glance Cast his eye round, before he did advance; Then placed a bowl of liquor by her side, And thus severe address'd his sorrowing bride: "The night advances, Julia: hast thou pray'd To Him whose eye can pierce the thickest shade. Who, robed in truth, is never slow to mark The hidden guilty secrets of the dark?"

Is thy soul chasten'd, and resign'd to go
This night to everlasting bliss or wo?"

His accents falter'd; but unmoved he stood,
And, firm of heart, his beauteous victim view'd.
He wore the ghastly aspect of the dead,
But his lip quiver'd, and his eye was red;
And such dark feelings character'd his gaze,
That Julia shrunk with terror and amaze.
She paused; her eye fell doubtful on that bowl;
O'er all her frame a shuddering horror stole. [raise
Then thus with downcast look; (she dared not
Her eye to meet again that fearful gaze:)

"Yes, Albert, I have made my peace with Heaven, At whose pure shrine my secret thoughts are shriven.

Whene'er fate calls, this humble soul obeys;
The tear of sorrow asks no fond delays.
With tremulous hope the lingering heart may cling
To life's blest walks, illumed by pleasure's spring.
Cold duty's path is not so blithely trod,
Which leads the mournful spirit to its God."

She spoke, half-timid, and presaging ill
From his knit brow and look severely still.
The thought of death came o'er her; and the mind
Disown'd her words, more fearful than resign'd.
Love's secret influence heaved the conscious breast
With fluttering pulse, that would not be at rest.
Stern Albert mark'd the tremor of her brow,
And the cheek's fitful colour come and go.
His eye was big with anguish, as it stray'd
O'er all the charms, which her thin robe betray'd;
The perfect loveliness of that dear form

In its full spring of beauty ripe and warm;
And never had she look'd so wondrous fair,
So precious, so surpassing all compare,
In blither hours, when innocent delight
Flush'd her young cheek and sparkled in her sight,
As languid, in that careless garb array'd,
Half-lit by the pale lamp, half-hid in shade.
He would have given health, life, eternity,
The joys that fleet, the hopes that never die,
Once more in tenderest rapture to have press'd
That shape angelic to his troubled breast;
But pride forbade, and from each living charm
Drew fiercer hate, which love could not disarm.
Upon that form of beauty, now his bane,
Pollution seem'd to have impress'd a stain.
Awhile he paced the floor with heavy stride,
Then gazed once more upon his sorrowing bride;
And, parting with his hands the glossy hair
On the white forehead of the silent fair,
Look'd wistfully; then, bending sad and slow,
Fix'd one long kiss upon that brow of snow,
It seem'd as if love's spirit in his soul
Was battling with his passion's fierce control.
He sat before her; on one hand reclined
His face, which told the struggle of his mind;
The other held the bowl: she raised her head,
As, slow his hand extending, thus he said:

"Drink, Julia; pledge me in this cup of peace; Drink deep, and let thy tears of sorrow cease."

Her eye was fix'd and motionless; her cheek Had lost its changeful hue; she did not speak. Her nerves seem'd numb'd, and icy horror press'd, Like a cold weight of lead, upon her breast.

"Drink, Julia," spoke again that dreadful voice: "Drink, Julia, deep; for thou hast now no choice." A fatal shiver seem'd to reach her soul, And her hand trembled, as it touch'd the bowl; But duty's call prevail'd o'er shapeless dread; She look'd with silent terror, and obey'd.

I know not, whether it was fancy's power [hour,
Which smote each conscious sense in that dread
Or whether, doom'd at mortal guilt to grieve,
Thus his good angel sadly took his leave;
But he half-started, and in truth believed
That a deep lengthen'd sob was faintly heaved,
And some dark shuddering form behind him pass'd,
Which o'er her shape its fearful shadow cast.
Breathless he listen'd by his thoughts appall'd;
(The hour of mercy could not be recall'd,)
Then to his lips in turn the draught applied,
Which should in death unite him with his bride.

THE MOTHER'S PLEA.

"I STAND not here in judgment, haughty priest;
Nature forbids. Against a mother's love,
Against a wife's firm faith, there is no law,
Not e'en to fellest nations gorged with flesh
Of mangled captives. Whence should we adore
Thy deity, who mew'd like one infirm,

In that low fane, sends forth his ministers
To deeds of pitiless rape? Our God bestows
Harvest and summer fruits, chaining the winds
Which never lash our groves. Ye bend the knee
To the carved crucifix in temples wrought
By human hands; ye lift the hymn of praise
By torches' glare at noon day but the God
We serve, best honour'd by the glorious ray
Of his great luminary, dwells not here
Prison'd midst walls, frail work of mortal skill.
We worship him abroad, under the vault
Of his own heaven; yon star-paved firmament,
The wilderness, the flood, the wreathed clouds
That float from those far mountains robed in mist,
The summits unapproach'd, untouch'd by time,
Snow-clad, are his; too vast to be confined
He fills his works. Bow ye the trembling knee
To your own idols and that murd'rous law
Which bids you scize a mother's callow brood
In hour of peace! The Carib doth not this,
The man-devouring Cabre! Are ye slaves
Unto the spirit of ill who wars with God,
Jolokiamo, the worst foe to man?
That, riving thus the hallow'd ties of life,`
Ye work his evil will, and mar the scheme
Of Him beneficent, whose fostering care
Amid these wilds is over all his works.
If there be one great Being, who hears our prayer,
When that sonorous trump, which but to view
Were death to woman, through each leafy glade
Ten leagues aloof sends forth the voice of praise,
Oh, tremble at his wrath! My little ones,
If e'er, restored, ye reach your father's hut,
Tell him I live but while the fervent hope
Of freedom and reunion with my own
Leaves life its worth. That lost I welcome death."