Runic Ode

THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR .

Son of Angrym, warrior bold,
Stay thy travel o'er the wold;
Stop, Havardur, stop thy steed;
Thy death, thy bloody death's decreed.
She, Coronzon's lovely maid,
Whom thy wizzard wiles betray'd;
Glides along the darken'd coast,
A frantic, pale, unshrouded ghost.
Where the fisher dries his net,
Rebelling waves her body beat;
Seduc'd by thee, she toss'd her form
To the wild fury of the storm.
Know, thou feeble child of dust,
Odin's brave, and Odin's just;
From the Golden Hall I come
To pronounce thy fatal doom;
Never shalt thou pass the scull
Of rich metheglin deep and full:
Late I left the giant throng,
Yelling loud thy funeral song;
Imprecating deep and dread,
Curses on thy guilty head.
Soon, with Lok, thy tortur'd soul,
Must in boiling billows roll;
Till the God's eternal light,
Bursts athwart thy gloom of night;
Till Surtur gallops from afar,
To burn this breathing world of war.
Bold to brave the spear of death,
Heroes hurry o'er the heath:
Hasten to the smoking feast —
Welcome every helmet guest,
Listen hymns of sweet renown,
Battles by thy fathers won;
Frame thy face in wreathed smiles,
Mirth the moodiest mind beguiles. —
Yet I hover always nigh,
Bid thee think, — and bid thee sigh;
Yet I goad thy rankled breast; —
Never, never, shalt thou rest.
What avails thy bossy shield?
What the guard thy gauntlets yield?
What the morion on thy brow?
Or the hauberk's rings below?
If to live in aguish fear,
Danger always threatening near:
Lift on high thy biting mace,
See him glaring in thy face;
Turn — yet meet him, madd'ning, fly,
Curse thy coward soul, and die.
Not upon the field of fight,
Hela seals thy lips in night;
A brother of infernal brood,
Bathes him in thy heart's hot blood;
Twice two hundred vassals bend,
Hail him as their guardian friend;
Mock thee, writhing with the wound,
Bid thee bite the dusty ground;
Leave thee suffering, scorn'd, alone,
To die unpitied and unknown.
Be thy naked carcase strew'd,
To give the famish'd eagles food;
Sea-mews screaming on the shore,
Dip their beaks, and drink thy gore.
Be thy fiend-fir'd spirit borne,
Where the slaves of sorrow mourn;
Wreck'd upon the fiery tide,
An age of agony abide.
But soft, the morning-bell beats one,
The glow-worm fades; and, see, the sun
Flashes his torch behind yon hill.
At night, when wearied nature's still,
And horror stalks along the plain,
Remember — we must meet again.
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