Hialmar, though vexed and angry, yields to his friend's rebuke. They spread the sail, and reach Samsoe's isle. When within the bay, they espy a Danish bark at her moorings, and climbing the height to view her.

"I ween they had not paced a rood,
When close beside Hialmar stood,
On steeds that seem'd as fleet as light,
Six maids in complete armour dight.
Their chargers of ethereal birth
Paw'd with impatient hoof the earth,
And snorting fiercely, 'gan to neigh,
And burn'd to join the bloody fray.
These are the fatal sisters.

But they unmoved and silent sate,
With pensive brow and look sedate;
Proudly each couch'd her glittering spear,
And seem'd to know nor hope, nor fear:
So mildly firm their placid air,
So resolute, yet heavenly fair.
But not one ray of pity's beam
From their dark eyelids seem'd to gleam."

"a glorious ray

From their dark lashes, as they pass'd,
Full on Hialmar's face they cast,
Then wheeling round in gorgeous pride
They paused, and thus the foremost
cried."

They sing the song that foredooms the fate of Hialmar.

"Praise to the slain on battle plain!

Glory to Odin's deathless train !"

To Hialmar they alone are visible. Orvarod heard only the sighing of the wind, and saw nothing but the bounding of the deer. Hialmar mournfully informs his friend of his coming fate,-that he is doomed to fall, and must never again reach his native shores, nor enjoy his proud bride. "Yet not Angantyr's force I fear, But Gondula's immortal spear. I see the stern Valkyriur nigh, All arm'd, and pointing to the sky: Virgins of fate, that choose the slain, They bid me hence to Odin's train,"

Orvarod, thinking him unmanned by the softness of love, rebuked him in some good soldier-like strains; but, while he is speaking, the Danish champions arrive, wielding their huge clubs and roaring.

Hialmar and his giant foe begin their deadly fight, Hialmar's sword cutting into the mace of Angantyr. Meanwhile the seven brothers come forward, and Orvarod turns to sudden flight. He is pursued by the savage crew, whom however he outstrips in speed; and as each brother successively arrives near him, he pierces him with an arrow, till the whole are

slain.

"Proud Semingar has bit the plain,
Barri and Hervardur are slain !
Another whizzing shaft is sped-
Reitner, it strikes thy towering head.

*

*

Short is the space those warriors run;
They fall, unpitied, one by one;
Writhing upon the barren moor,

They lie in blood, to rise no more."

Orvarod then enters to witness the fight between Hialmar and Angantyr, and seats himself on a rock, spectator of the bloody fray. After a severe conflict, in which both are wounded and bleeding, and ill sustaining the fight

"On the breathless verge of fate,

Angantyr glow'd with shame and hate,
And, gathering all his strength and pride,
One last but fatal effort tried.

Both arms upraised, his ponderous brand
He wielded high with either hand;

The keen point smote Hialmar's crest,
Glanced from his helm, and gored his breast.
But, as Angantyr struck, the blood
Gush'd from his side with hastier flood,
And that proud effort seem'd to force
Life's current from its inmost source.
He reels, he staggers; on the shore
His length distended, lies in gore,
Gigantic; like a stately mast

On the bleak coast by tempest cast,

Shatter'd in battle from the deck

Of some huge ship, a blood-stain'd wreck."

But Hialmar is also wounded unto death; and, in his latest moments, addresses his friend in these plaintive and elegant lines:

"Orvarod, the arm of fate prevails ;
Hialmar's hope and glory fails.
The day shall dawn on Sweden's hills,
And gild with joy her sparkling rills;
The wild flowers in her forests green
Shall laugh amidst the genial scene,
And blithe to hail the morning ray
The birds ring out their vernal lay:
But cold and stark thy friend shall lie,
Nor hear their music warbling nigh,
Nor raise to light the sparkling eye.
Thou bear me to my native land,
From dreary Samsoe's fatal strand ;

Place my cold limbs by Helga's side,
My hope in life, in death my bride!
For, O that perfect form, mature
With every grace that can allure,
Shall wither in its prime, and fall,
When hapless love and duty call;
And scarce shall live to shed a tear
O'er young Hialmar's honor'd bier.
Thou, Orvarod, bid our ashes rest
In one cold mound, together blest;
And let the Scalds their music raise
To thy friend's peace and Helga's praise."

He is carried by the maids of war to the abode of Odin and the company of the gods, when all rise from their thrones to greet him, but he,

"Drawn back by mournful sympathy,

Looks piteous down on Helga's bower,
Heedless of each immortal Power,

And casts one glance on Samsoe's shore,
Where lie his cold remains in gore."

We now open on the seventh and last Canto, which begins with some reflections on the hope of earthly love surviving its tenement of clay, and accompanying the immortal spirit to Heaven.

"Where'er the fleeting soul shall go,

Still will our pure affections glow !"

And thus Hialmar turns his sight towards Sigtune's towers, and the lovely mourner there, who shall never again behold her lord. In the mean time Orvarod buries the giant brothers under a gloomy pile of stones.

"And on the summit placed alone
A strangely graven Runic stone.
He did not give, so runs the fame,
The hostile bodies to the flame,
But ranged, in that dark tomb below,
Their ghastly forms in frightful row!
Placed magic Tirfin in its sheath,
Angantyr's giant head beneath,
And by each livid brother's side
His weapon oft in battle tried."

The corpse of Hialmar he embalms and brings home in his vessel.

"On a rich pall the chief they laid,

In panoply of steel array'd,

The iron gauntlet on his hand,

And in its grasp the elfin brand."

In the meantime the ship is borne, with her precious freight, prosperously home.

"The air is calm; the sky serene,

Reflected on the waters sheen,

Throws its blue mantle o'er the deep,
And the scarce-heaving billows sleep.
Beauteous she wins her noiseless way,
Nor dashes from her poop the spray,
Nor lets in air her streamers play.
Around, the sun's last splendors fade,
And gently falls mild evening's shade.
Then, as she nears the Swedish shore,
Steals softly o'er the waters hoar,
Borne with sweet breath on dewy wing,
The fragrance of the blooming spring.
Young Asbiorn treads the yellow sand,
Where rippling surges bathe the land.
Long had he mark'd the silvery sail

Gliding beneath the moon-beam pale," &c.

He dreads to see Hialmar return victorious, whom, instead of defending, he had deceived, and vainly strove to rob of his affianced bride. But he soon discovers the gloomy banners of death, and sees the funeral pall. Struck with remorse and sorrow, he joins the funeral train, which proceeds to Helga's bower. As they approach, they hear her melancholy song rising on the breeze.

"Hard is the hopeless damsel's lot,

At eve adored, at morn forgot!
Man reaps with pride the blissful hour,
Then leaves in woe the wither'd flower.

Nay, tell me nought of faithful loves,
Of joys that Heaven itself approves ;
Nay, feign not tales of fond despair;
Man's faith is light as summer air.

O if you climb the mountain's height,
The quarry slain shall yield delight,
And, as ye rouse each lair with glee,
Blithe pleasure chase each thought of me!
O if you seek the greenwood gay,
Each lingering care shall melt away!
Where quivers ring and archers vie,
Frail passion's charm will quickly die.

The nymph forlorn shall mourn the hour
That gave to grief her short-lived flower;
In silent sorrow waste the day,

And pour by night her plaintive lay."

As the strain was hushed, Orvarod lifted the corpse from the bier, and bore it upright, in its shining armour, into Helga's bower,-but we must, in justice to the poet and the poem, and to our readers, give the remainder of the story in the original text.

"He bore it, sheathed in warlike steel,
As if alive to breathe and feel,
Though ghastly was the hue, and dread
The visage, of the speechless dead.
Thus burthen'd, to the lone abode
Of that despairing nymph he strode,

And entering, sudden as the shock
Of Heaven that rives the senseless rock,
To the distracted mourner's side
With unrelenting purpose hied;
And, clinging to the firm belief
That woman's love is frail and brief,

Death's ghastly features he display'd
Unveil'd before the astonied maid;
Against her bosom, throbbing warm,
Placed the loved champion's lifeless form,
And, with appalling silence, press'd
The icy gauntlet to her breast.
It came upon her, like a blast
Withering life's blossom as it pass'd,
A frightful overwhelming flood,
Nor seen, nor felt, nor understood.
Then hot and sear'd the heart's blood
burn'd,

As memory and sense return'd,
And like a horrid dream the past
Came rushing o'er her soul at last.
The dead stood there without his shroud,
Surrounded by the mourning crowd;
They placed her on Hialmar's bier,
Asbiorn followed, and when he
monument,

But she did not with one embrace
Her lord's beloved relics grace,
Nor dare to lay her cheek on his,
Nor print on his cold lips a kiss,
But slowly sunk unto the ground,
Unconscious of the forms around,
And horror-struck without a sigh
Gazed upon Asbiorn dreadfully.
It was a look that chill'd his blood,
And seem'd to freeze life's secret flood.
Her spirit pass'd without a groan,
And she was dead and cold as stone;
But her strange look and glazed eye
Still fix'd him as in agony;
Nor evermore was voice or word
Thenceforth from wretched Asbiorn heard."

and buried them in one grave.
saw the Runic stone placed on the

"Then on the gloomy mound he placed
The sword that long his side had graced,
And, falling on the edge, he press'd

Its death-point through his manly breast."

And now let us join the poet in his concluding reflections on this melancholy story, that in the morning rose so bright with hope and so rich in love, and which has ended in a night of ruined love and untimely death.

"Well may old Ingva wail, and tear
The honors of his hoary hair;

While Sweden's loveliest Virgins spread
Fresh flowers to deck the honor'd dead,
And warlike Scalds bid gently flow
From golden harps their notes of woe:
Not that such duties sadly paid
May hope to soothe the silent shade;
Not that the plaint or pious wreath
Can charm the dull cold pow'r of death;
But that such tribute duly given
Lifts the weak mourners' thoughts to
heaven,

And round the venerated tomb
Bids infant virtues rise and bloom.
Well may the serfs o'er them that sleep
Uprear the monumental heap,

Gigantic mound, which there shall raise
Its structure to Earth's latest days.
A huge memorial! not to tell
How bled the brave, how beauty fell;
But that, as cold Oblivion's hand
Blots their frail glories from the land,
The great, the fair, whate'er their lot,
Sleep undistinguish'd and forgot.
The mound, the massive stones, remain
To frown on the surrounding plain;
The peasant oft shall check the plough
To gaze upon its lofty brow,

To think of wars and beacon fires,
Strange tales transmitted by his sires;
But none shall live, in sooth to tell
Who sleeps within that gloomy cell,”

This poem, Mr. Herbert informs us, will be found to contain a faithful picture of the manners and superstitions of the period which it represents, "I have (he says) attempted to give it the colouring of poetry, and to temper with chaster ornaments the rude wildness of Scaldic fiction." The poem required simplicity of plot, and characters marked with the strong and simple lines of rude nature; the poet has introduced various passages of description and reflection to relieve the savage features of his heroes and their deeds, and we think succeeded in forming a tale of interest accordant to the manners of the age and the people he has chosen, yet so softened and shaped as to please both by the train of incidents that are described, and the persons who act the various parts in the historic fable. Our only doubt is whether Asbiorn's crime is necessary to the full development of the story, and the proper effect to be produced. Supposing the intended perpetration of the crime to be deferred till after GENT. MAG. VOL. XIX.

Hialmar's death, could not his spectre have appeared in the proper juncture, and stopped the shameful deed. Helga might still have died of misery, and her base ravisher of shame. We do not know whether our alteration would square into the framework of the fiction with propriety, not knowing how far, in the Northern mythology, ghosts of dead warriors are allowed to appear at conjunctures that particularly need them ;-but, if it will not, then we would omit Helga's song entirely, fill her brow with double gloom and melancholy, and only show her after her injuries, for one moment, when the corse of Hialmar is introduced. We think the effect left on the mind at the conclusion of Canto five is weakened by the song, which, if sung at all, should be in strains of deeper affliction. Scholar as well as poet, as Mr. Herbert is, we did not expect to find his verse less polished and exact than it is, leaving little room for critical observation. Yet, in one or two instances, we think there is a flatness in the expression, that might easily be amended, as v. 394:

Our objection to any single words, or particular expressions, is very confined, yet it would extend to 1. 661:

"She spread her white arms sheen!"

for the unusual position of the word, as well as for its being a little antiquated, and out of use.

"She spread her white arms shining,"

would hardly be idiomatic or pleasing to ears polite, and if so, sheen still adds to the irregularity. At 1. 872 we read,

"Should chase the thoughts of yestrene's fray."

This word is familiar to us in Scottish, or Old English ballads, but not in poetry of a higher order, or more regular form; and we do not like the accent on the first syllable, which seems to shorten the second, that is naturally long. At v. 1059 we do not like "love demented." Whether words are correctly used is to be known by authority, by usage, by the idiom and structure of language; but whether they please is another thing, and is to be decided by taste; it is on this ground that we object to the word " demented," though, in our place as critics, we are fortunately not obliged to find another to fill up its vacant place. We do not approve the following rhyme at v. 2457:

"Writhing upon the barren moor
They lie in blood to rise no more."