THE MODERN DRAMA.
127
The winds were loud, the waves were high, |
In drear eclipse the sun |
Was crouched within the caves of heaven, |
And light had scarce begun; |
The Earth’s green front lay drowned below, |
And Death and Chaos fought |
O’er all the tumult vast of things |
Not yet to severance brought. |
’T was then that spoke the fateful voice, |
And ’mid the huge uproar, |
Above the dark I sprang to life, |
A good unhoped before. |
My tresses waved along the sky, |
And stars leapt out around, |
And earth beneath my feet arose, |
And hid the pale profound. |
A lamp amid the night, a feast |
That ends the strife of war, |
To wearied mariners a port, |
To fainting limbs a car, |
To exiled men the friendly roof, |
To mourning hearts the lay, |
To him who long has roamed by night |
The sudden dawn of day. |
All these are mine, and mine the bliss |
That visits breasts in woe, |
And fills with wine the cup that once |
With tears was made to flow. |
Nor question thou the help that comes |
From Aphrodite’s hand; |
For madness dogs the bard who doubts |
Whate’er the gods command. |
Alfred the Harper has the same strong picture and noble beat of wing. One line we have heard so repeated by a voice, that could give it its full meaning, that we should be very grateful to the poet for that alone.
Still lives the song though Regnar dies.