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To the chamber of shields, where the beautiful maid
By the spell of the mighty defenceless is laid?
Is it Sigurd the valiant, the slayer of kings,

With the spoils of the Dragon, his gold and his rings?
Or is it bold Gunnar, who vainly assays

On the horse of good Sigurd to rush thro' the blaze?
The steed knows his rider in field and in stall:
No other hands rein him, no other spurs gall.

He brooks not the warrior that pricks his dark side,
Be he prince, be he chieftain of might and of pride.
How he neighs! how he plunges, and tosses his mane!
How he foams! how he lashes his flank with disdain !
O crest-fallen Gunnar, thou liest on the plain!
Through the furnace no warrior, save Sigurd, may ride.
Let his valor for thee win the spell-guarded bride!
He has mounted his war-horse, the beauteous and bold;
His buckler and harness are studded with gold.
A dragon all writhing in gore is his crest;
A dragon is burnish'd in gold on his breast.

The furnace glows redder, the flames crackle round,
But the horse and the rider plunge thro' at one bound.
He has reach'd the dark canopy's shield-cover'd shade,
Where spell-bound the beautiful damsel is laid;

He has kiss'd her closed eyelids, and call'd her his bride;
He has stretch'd his bold limbs in the gloom by her side.

"My name is bold Gunnar, and Grana my steed;
"Through bickering furnace I prick'd him with speed."

The maiden all languidly lifts up her head,
She seems in her trance half awaked from the dead;
Like a swan on the salt-lake she mournfully cries,
"Does the bravest of warriors claim me as his prize?"

"O know'st thou, young Sigurd, who lies by thy side?
O kenn'st thou, Brynhilda, who calls thee his bride?
On the gay hills of France dwells thy proud foster-sire,
And there thy chaste bower was guarded by fire.
It was mantled with ivy and luscious woodbine,
It was shrowded with jasmine and sweet eglantine.
O mind'st thou, when darkling thou sat'st in thy bower,
What courser came fleet by thy charm-circled tower?
Whose hawk on thy casement perch'd saucy and free?
What warrior pursued it? Whose crest did'st thou see?
Did the gold-burnish'd dragon gleam bright to thy view?
Did thy spells hold him back, or did Sigurd break through?
For whom the bright mead did thy snowy hands pour,
Which never for man crown'd the goblet before?

On

On the wonders of nature the stories of eld,
On the secrets of magic high converse ye held:
He sat by thy side, and he gazed on thy face,
He hail'd thee most worthy of Sigurd's embrace;
The wisest of women, the lovelist maid,
The bravest that ever in battle outrade:
And there, in the gloom of that mystic alcove,
Ye pledg'd to each other the firm oath of love.
Now spell-bound thou canst not his features descry,
Thy charms in the gloom do not meet his keen eye.

For Sigurd had hied to defend Giuka's crown,
He dwelt there with glory, he fought with renown;
At the court of good Giuka his warriors among
None bore him so gallant, so brave, and so strong.
Gudruna beheld him with eyes of desire,

The noblest of knights at the court of her sire.
She mix'd the love-potion with charm and with spell,
And all his frail oaths from his memory fell.
She conquer'd his faith by the treacherous snare;
He led to the altar Gudruna the fair :

And now with her brother unconscious he came,
Who dar'd the chaste hand of Brynhilda to claim.
But Gunnar the bold could not break through the spell;
The flame bicker'd high, on the ground as he fell:

And Sigurd the glorious, the mighty, must lend
His valor to gain the fair prize for his friend.

All night there he tarried, but ever between

The maid and the knight lay his sword bright and sheen.
The morrow he rode to the battle afar,

And changed the maid's couch for the turmoil of war.
His friend reaps the harvest his valor has won,
And claims the fair guerdon ere fall of the sun.
With pomp to the altar he leads the young bride,
She deems him the knight who had lain by her side;
Forgotten the vows she had made in gay France,
Ere Odin cast o'er her the magical trance.
With gorgeous carousal, with dance and with song,
With wassail his liegemen the nuptials prolong;
He revels in rapture and bliss through the night,
And the swift hours are pass'd in the arms of delight:
But when the bright morning first dawn'd on their bed,
The bride rais'd with anguish her grief-stricken head;
For the thoughts of the past rose with force, and too late
She remember'd young Sigurd, and curs'd her sad fate.
Three days and three nights there in silence she lay,
To sullen despair and dark horror a prey.

She

She tasted no food, and to none she replied,

But spurn'd the sad bridegroom with hate from her side. Shall the words of young Sigurd now bid her rejoice? Does she hear his known accents, and start at his voice?

"Awake, fair Brynhilda, behold the bright ray! "The flowers in the forest are laughing and gay. "Full long hast thou slept on the bosom of woe; Awake, fair Brynhilda, and see the sun glow!"

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She heard him with anguish, and raising her head She gaz'd on his features, then proudly she said:

"I chuse not two husbands, and marvel that thou "Shouldst dare thus intrude in my chamber of woe. "Heaven witness, proud Sigurd, how firmly I loved! My fancy adored thee, my reason approved.

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"Thou saw'st me in bloom of my glory and youth, "And our hearts interchang'd the chaste promise of truth. "Mid the damsels of Hlyndale no maid was so fair, "So courted in bower, so dreaded in war. "Like a Virgin of slaughter I rov'd o'er the sea, 66 My arm was victorious, my valor was free. "By prowess, by Runic enchantment and song, "I raised up the weak, and I beat down the strong. "I held the young prince mid the hurly of war,

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My arm wav'd around him the charm'd scimitar
I saved him in battle, I crown'd him in hall,
Though Odin and fate had foredoom'd him to fall.
"Hence Odin's dread curses were pour'd on my head;

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He doom'd the undaunted Brynhilda to wed.

"But I vow'd the high vow which gods dare not gainsay,
"That the bravest in warfare should bear me away:
"And full well I knew, that thou, Sigurd, alone

"Of mortals the boldest in battle hast shone.
"I knew that none other the furnace could stem,
"(So wrought was the spell, and so fierce was the flame)
"Save Sigurd the glorious, the slayer of kings,
"With the spoils of the Dragon, his gold and his rings.
"Now thy treason has marr'd me, to Gunnar resign'd

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By the force of the spell, when my reason was blind. "At my nuptials I loathed the embrace of his lust, "But I smother'd my hate, and conceal'd my disgust; "And sooner than forfeit the faith which I "At the altar to him, I will sink in my grave. "Like a brother thou slept'st in the gloom by my side, "And pure as the day-star was Gunnar's young bride. "Yet hence did Gudruna revile me, and say "In the arms of proud Sigurd despoiled I lay.

Now

"Now, Prince, shalt thou perish, if vengeance be due "To love disappointed, though faithful and true!

Though gallant thou ridest to the battle afar,

"Though foremost thy steed in the red fields of war,
"Like the death-breathing blast of the pestilent night
"My hate shall o'ertake thee, my fury shall smite!"

He left her desponding; then sadly she rose,
Like a lily all pale, from the couch of her woes :
Stream'd loosely the ringlets of jet o'er her breast,
And her eyes' ray was languid, with sorrow opprest;
Yet lovely she moved, like the silvery beam

Of the moon-light that kisses the slow-gliding stream.
She sought Gunner's chamber, awhile by his side
Stood mournfully pensive, then sternly she cried:

"To thee have I pledg'd my firm oath as thy bride, "And, Gunnar, I hate thee! yet be it not said, "That Budela's proud daughter her faith has betray'd. "To thee (woe the hour!) by the vengeance of heaven "The flower of my youth and my fealty was given. "Nor mortal shall dare with the breath of frail love "The heart of ill-fated Brynhilda to move.

"But never again shall I rest on thy bed,

"And ne'er on my breast shalt thou pillow thy head,
"Till slain by thy steel in the night's silent hour
"The treacherous Sigurd lies stiff in his gore:
"Till by treason he falls, who by treason has left
Brynhilda of joy and of honour bereft."

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Sad Gunnar, what strife thy fond bosom must rend!
First gaze on her beauty, then think of thy friend!
The slumber of midnight has sealed his bold eyes,
In the arms of Gudruna defenceless he lies.
"Tis done; in his blood the cold warrior is found,
But breathless his murderer lies on the ground.
Though gored aud expiring, ere lifeless he fell,
Stout Sigurd's arm sent his assassin to hell.

Mid the night's baneful gloom, see the torches that glare! The mourners that give their wild locks to the air!

She has mounted the funeral pile with the slain,

With her slaves, with her women, a loud shrieking train.
The fairest, the noblest for honour and truth,
In the prime of her glory, the bloom of her youth.
The fire shall consume them, the living and dead,
And in one lofty mound their cold ashes be laid.

VERSES TO THE BROOK OF BORROWDALE,
IN CUMBERLAND.

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Adieu! ye rocks, and thou sweet vale,
Where winds the brook of Borrowdale:
With ling'ring steps and sorrowing heart,
From your sequester'd scenes I part.
Adieu! sweet brook; with crystal tide,
Still o'er thy pebbled channel glide,
And slowly pour thy stream serene,
Through woody dells, and vallies green.

Let other waters rudely sweep
The cliffs abrupt of yonder steep:
From useless noise acquire a name,
And rise by violence to fame.
These to survey, with ideot stare,
Let Fashion's wond'ring sons repair;
Admire the torrents of Lodore,
So steep the fall,—so loud the roar ;
And ring the nauseating chime,
Of cliffs and cataracts sublime.

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Or, if so undeserved a fate

Should e'er my lovely Brook await,

With gentle hands its current lead,
Along the flow'ry fav'ring mead,

Characterised by Dr. Drennan, who has inserted this and the next piece in his poons, as one "who would have taken his place among the very first poets of the age, had he not rather chosen to become its first philosopher."

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