Classic Poem

Why waits that Northern soldier-band
On yonder sea-board high?
Why doth the old blind monarch stand?
His gray hairs wildly fly?
Hear him in bitter anguish call,
As o'er his staff he bends;
Across the bay the island's wall
Its answering echo sends.

" Give, robber! from thy strong retreat,
My daughter back to me;
Her sounding harp and song so sweet
My age's joy should be.
From dancing on the green sea-strands
Thou stealedst her away;
To thine eternal shame it stands!
It bows this head so gray. "

Now on his rocky ledges there,
The wild marauder springs;
He waves his giant sword in air,
Then on his shield it rings:
" Full many a guard hast thou at call,
Why suffered they the raid?
So many serving-men! yet all
To fight for her afraid? "

From all that host there comes no sound,
From out the ranks move none:
The blind king turns himself around;
" And am I all alone? "
His father's hand, his younger son
Then grasps with pressure warm;
" Now let the fight by me be won,
Full strong I feel my arm. "

" A giant's strength, my son, he owns,
Before him none may stand;
And yet there's marrow in thy bones,
I feel it in thy hand.
This old true blade I'd have thee bear,
'Twas once a skald's famed pride;
But, if thou fail, my old gray hair
Shall rest beneath the tide. "

Now hark! with foaming, rushing prow
A skiff speeds o'er the sound;
The blind king stands and listens now
And all is still around;
Till rises on that far-off shore
The clang of sword and shield,
And battle-cry and deafening roar
That hollow echoes yield.

He cries, with mingled joy and fear,
" What mark you there? say on!
'Tis my good sword whose sound I hear,
I know its sharp, clear tone:
Now surely doth the robber fall,
His bloody meed hath won:
Now hail! thou hero over all,
Thou strong and brave king's son. "

Now once again 'tis still around,
Still stands and listens he;
" A rowing and a rushing sound
I hear upon the sea. "
" 'Tis they, 'tis they are coming near,
Thy son with sword and shield;
And, with him, in her golden hair,
Thy daughter dear, Gunild. "

From yon high rock above the sea
The old man " welcome " gave;
" Now shall my old age blissful be
And honorable my grave.
Thou by my side shalt lay, my son,
My sword so good and strong,
And thou, Gunild, the rescued one!
Shalt sing my funeral song. "