Classic Poem

Why hasten to the shining sands
The warriors of the north?
Why, with white head uncovered, stands
The blind old monarch forth?
Hark! o'er his staff low-bending,
Loud shouts the anguished king
Till, o'er the straits extending,
The isle's loud echoes ring.

" Give, pirate! from thy rock-retreat
My gentle daughter back!
Her sounding harp, her song so sweet
Were all mine age did lack;
Here once she danced in gladness,
Thou stol'st my child away;
My head thou'st bowed with sadness,
Thyself art shamed for aye! "

Then issues from his rocky cave
The giant fierce and proud;
His giant sword behold him wave,
His heavy shield clangs loud.
" Sure thou hadst guards unnumbered,
But none would dare to stir;
With warriors thou art cumbered,
Will no one fight for her?

There steps no champion from the ring,
But all are mute as stone;
Round turns in grief the aged king:
" Why mourn I here alone? "
A hand his own is pressing,
His son claims leave to fight;
" O father, grant thy blessing,
I feel mine arm hath might. "

" O son, a giant's strength hath he,
Before him none may stand;
And yet — true courage reigns in thee,
So firm thou hold'st my hand.
Here, take my sword, for slaughter
Renowned in minstrels' tale,
And let this surging water
Receive me, shouldst thou fail. "

And hark! with keen and rushing prow
The skiff skims o'er the deep;
The blind old king stands listening now,
A silence spreads like sleep;
Soon o'er the straits the rattle
Of sword and shield is sent,
And mingled cries of battle
With echoes strangely blent.

With anxious glee the old man spoke,
" Oh say, what have ye seen?
My sword — I know its griding stroke,
It sounds so sharp and keen! "
The pirate's blood, out-welling,
Is now his crime's reward.
" Hail thou! in strength excelling,
Brave prince, heroic lord! "

Once more o'er all doth silence reign,
The king bends down to hark;
" What hear I come across the main,
A rush of oars — a bark? "
" They come to thy caresses —
Thy son with sword and shield,
And, crowned with sunbright tresses,
Thy darling child Gunild! "

Blithe welcome from the cliff on high
The blind old monarch gave:
" Now bliss shall crown me ere I die,
And honour deck my grave.
My sword, renowned for slaughter,
O son, beside me lay;
Gunild, my ransomed daughter,
My dirge shall softly play! "