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Read Ebook: The Expedition to Birting's Land and Other Ballads by Wise Thomas James Editor Borrow George Translator
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Ebook has 91 lines and 6240 words, and 2 pages
And forth stepped Vidrik Verlandson, And round began to hew; Heads and arms were smitten off As round and round he flew.
In came King Ifald's mother grey, With an eldritch scream she came; I tell to ye in verity There ensued a wondrous game.
Vitting struck her with his sword, A very fearful stroke; But she kissed asunder the good sword, Into pieces three it broke.
With a single kiss of the witch's mouth Was shivered the trusty sword; Vitting the hag by the weazand seized, Without a single word.
The beldame changed herself to a crane, And flew to the clouds on high; But Vitting donned a feather robe, And pursued her through the sky.
They flew for a day, they flew for three, Bold Vitting and the crane; Then Vitting seized the crane by the legs, And her body rent in twain.
Homeward now, with sword in hand, The valiant comrades wended: All the Birting kemps are dead, And the adventure ended.
Who will ever have again, On the land or on the main, Such a chance as happen'd to Count Arnaldos long ago.
With his falcon in his hand, Forth he went along the strand; There he saw a galley gay, Briskly bearing for the bay.
Ask me not her name and trade,-- All the sails of silk were made; He who steer'd the ship along Raised his voice, and sang a song.
Sang a song whose magic force Calm'd the breaker in its course; While the fishes, sore amazed, Left their holes and upward gazed.
And the fowl came flocking fast, Round the summit of the mast; Still he sang to wind and wave: "God preserve my vessel brave!
"Guard her from the rocks that grow 'Mid the sullen deep below; From the gust, and from the breeze, Sweeping through Gibtarek's seas.
"From the gulf of Venice too, With its shoals and waters blue; Where the mermaid chants her hymn, Borne upon the billow's brim."
Forward stept Arnaldos bold, Thus he spake, as I am told: "Teach me, sailor, I entreat, Yonder song that sounds so sweet."
But the sailor shook his head, Shook it thrice, and briefly said: "Never will I teach the strain But to him who ploughs the main."
YOUTH'S SONG IN SPRING
O, scarcely is Spring a time of pure bliss, He is wrong who full trust thereon layeth; From many it may Take sorrow away, But to many it trouble conveyeth.
O, when every thing is as joyous in Spring, As in heaven, that never is dreary; 'Tis a grievous case If one mournful must pace, And cannot be also merry!
LINES
Say from what mine took Love the yellow gold To form those tresses? from what thorn-bush tore Those roses sleek? and from what summit bore That stainless snow which seems no longer cold?
From Eastern quarters now The sun's up-wandering, His rays on the rock's brow And hill's side squandering. Be glad, my soul! and sing amidst thy pleasure, Fly from the house of dust, Up with thy thanks, and trust To heaven's azure!
O, countless as the grains Of sand so tiny, Measureless as the main's Deep waters briny, God's mercy is, which He upon me showereth. Each morning in my shell, A grace immeasurable To me down-poureth.
Thou best dost understand, Lord God! my needing; And placed is in Thy hand My fortune's speeding, And Thou foresee'st what is for me most fitting. Be still, then, O my soul! To manage in the whole Thy God permitting.
May fruit the land array, And corn for eating! May truth e'er make its way, With justice meeting! Give thou to me my share with every other, 'Till down my staff I lay, And from this world away Wend to another!
FROM THE FRENCH
This world by fools is occupied, And whom the sight of a fool displeases, Within his chamber himself should hide, And break his looking-glass to pieces.
THE MORNING WALK
To the beech grove with so sweet an air It beckon'd me. O, Earth! that never the cruel plough-share Had furrow'd thee! In their dark shelter the flowerets grew, Bright to the eye, And smil'd by my foot on the cloudlets blue, Which deck'd the sky.
To the wood through a field I took my way; There I could see On the field an uppil'd stone-heap lay, 'Twixt hillocks three; So anciently grayly white it stood, An oblong ring: Here doubtless was held in the old time good A royal Ting.
The royal stone, which there doth stand, The Stol-king press'd, With crown on head, and sceptre in hand, In sables drest. And every warrior solemnly pac'd Peaceful in thought, And down on his stone himself calmly plac'd-- No sword he brought.
The king's house stood on yonder height, With walls of power; On yon had his daughter, the damsel bright, Her maiden bower. Upon the third the temple stood, Through the North famed wide, Where to Thor was offered the he-goat's blood, In reeking tide.
O, lovely field! and forest fair, And meads grass-clad; Her bride-bed Freya every where Enamelled had. The corn-flowers rose in azure band From earthly cell; Nought else could I do but stop and stand, And greet them well.
Welcome on earth's green breast again, Ye flowerets dear! In spring how charming 'mid the grain Your heads ye rear. Like stars 'midst lightning's yellow ray Ye shine red, blue: O, how your summer aspect gay Delights my view.
O poet! poet! silence keep, God help thy case: Our owner holds us sadly cheap, And scorns our race. Each time he sees, he calls us scum, Or worthless tares; Hell-weeds that but to vex him come 'Midst his corn-ears.
The greatest grace done for our sake In all his life, Is from his pocket deep to take His huge clasp knife; And heavy handful then to cut, 'Midst grumbling much-- Us with tobacco leaves to put In seal-skin pouch.
He says, he says, that smoked this way, We dross of the field, To the world by chance, by poor chance, may Some benefit yield; But as for our beauty, our blue and red hues, 'Tis folly indeed-- The mouth is his only test of use, And that's his creed.
O wretched mortals!--O wretched man! O wretched crowd!-- No pleasures ye pluck--no pleasures ye plan In life's lone road:-- Whose eyes are blind to the glories great Of the works of God; And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate To joy's abode.
Come flowers! for we to each other belong, Come graceful elf, And around my lute in sympathy strong Now wind thyself; And quake as if mov'd by zephyr's wing, 'Neath the clang of the chord, And a morning song with glee we'll sing To our Maker and Lord!
LONDON:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
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