Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/88

 I plant the scroll of doom! On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste, Beneath a starless sky, The shadowy Three like meteors passed, And bade young Harald die;— They sang the war-deeds of his sires, And pointed to their tomb; They told him that this glory-flag Was his by right of doom. Since then, where hath young Harald been, But where Jarl's son should be? 'Mid war and waves—the combat keen That raged on land or sea!" So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory, As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden banner.

Mine own death's in this clenched hand! I know the noble trust; These limbs must rot on yonder strand— These lips must lick its dust, But shall this dusky standard quail In the red slaughter day; Or shall this heart its purpose fail— This arm forget to slay?