sword chant of Thorstein Raudi,” aud one or two
others; and in these productions the author has caught
the true spirit of the ancient Scandinavian minstrels.
The wooing song of Jarl Egill Skallagrin is a rore
specimen of a Scandinavian courtship. The story is
simple. A Vikingir—brown, grim and bearded—hes
heard, far away in Jutland, of the charms of the daughter
of an Orkney cbicftain—aud as a Norseman suffers
neither dangers nor distance to deter him from the pure
suit of a bride, Jarl sets sail at once to sce for himsclf
this wondrous beauty. He comes with no protestations
of humility, he feels be is in every way equal to her he
woos, and in dwelling on her beauties he does not forget
his own importance. This is truth itsclf. The wild
bearded northmen of Scandinavia wooed their brides
exactly a¢ Jer] Egill woos the maiden of Orkney. He
as toft spoil and slaughter, he has left a distant shore,
he says,
“To sing how I love thee,
To kiss thy small hand!
Fair daughter of Einar,
Golden-haired maid!
‘he lord of yon brown bark,
And lord of this blade;
Phe joy of the occan,—
Of warfare and wind,
Hath boune him co woo the,
And thou must be kind.
There is a tone of confidence in this, unusual now-a- days to lovers, But Jarl Egill stops not here, He telle the maiden how highly she must consider herself honored by bis suit.
“Ay, daughter of Finar,
Right tall mayst thou stand,
Itis a Vikingir
Who kisses thy hand"
Nor is he less proud when he stoops to compliment her beauty; although many a sighing lover since has vainly attempted to equal the delicacy of the sea-king’s flattery.
‘Thy white arma are locked in
Broad bracelets of gold:
Thy girdle-stead’s eleaming
With treasures untold:
The circlet that binds up
Thy long yellow
Is starred thick with jewels,
That bright aro and rare:
But mre princely
del Feil tesa,
Por girdle kis great arm
Around thee he throws ;
And again
"Pia s Vikingir asks thee,
Land-maiden to wed!
He skills not to woo thee,
In trembling and feur—
- * * *
He comes then as Jarl should,
Sword helted to side,
To win thee and wear thee
Wath glory and pri
The maiden of Orkney has a spirit as high os that of her wooer, But this only incrcases his admiration, for aa eagle mates with cagle, eo the Vikingir would wed one like himself, He exclaims in exultation—
"The curl of that proud lip,
The Bach of that eye,
‘The swell of that bosom,
So full and so high,
Like foam of sea-billow,
‘Thy white boxom shows,
Like flash of red levin
Thino eagle eye glow
Ha! firmly and boldly,
So stately and free,
"Thy foot treads this chamber,
As bark rides the sea:
‘This likes me—t
Stout maiden of
Thou woovst to purpose;
Bold hearts love the bold.”
And thereupon, as the slory goes, Jar] caught the maiden in his arms, all enamored, and imprinting a score of kissea on her snow white forehead. bore her off in triumph to his ship. And when the maiden, aflhighted at his impetuosity, tarned pale and trembled, Jarl soothed. her with tales of his prowess, holding her small: white hand all the time in his brawny palm—just as Achilles would have held the hand of Briseis in his own, and told of his feats against the Trojans, looking into her soft blue eyes as he spoke, And then Jan consoles her further by rewinding her of the proud destiny which awaits her, telling her that she shall be loved and cher- ished even aa the sword upon whose virtues he has been expatiating.
“Pair danghter of Finar,
Deem high of the fate
Phat makes thee, like thia blade,
Proud Kyill's loved mate,”
The “Elfiniand Wud,” an imitation of the Ancient Scottish Romantic Bullad, displays no little merit; but the day has passed by for the extravagant popularity which hailed such effusions in the times of Chatterton, Bishop Percy and Scott. This is an age in which men read while they mun, and poetry, however beautiful, which is Jocked up in obsolete words will find but few readers, Motherwell seems to have given way, however, to this antiquarian taste with truc fervor. The finest specimen, perhaps, of his poems in this style—though it is scarcely after the ancient ballads after all—ia the fol lowing “Cavalicr's Song,” which breathes, indeed, the very spirit of those noble gentlemen, who churged with the fiery Rupert at Marston Moor.
"A otecd! a ateed of matchle
‘A sword of meta) keene!
All else to nobie hearies is drosse,
All else on earth in meanc.
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
‘The rowlinge of the drum.
‘The clangor of the trumpet lowde,
‘Be soundes from heaven that cuine,
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