Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/89

 I trample down such idle doubt; Harald's high blood hath sprung From sires whose hands in martial bout Have ne'er belied their tongue; Nor keener from their castled rock Rush eagles on their prey, Than, panting for the battle-shock, Young Harald leads the way." It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty, Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce of heroes.

The ship-borne warriors of the North, The son's of Woden's race, To battle as to feast go forth, With stern, and changeless face; And I, the last of a great line— The Self-devoted, long To lift on high the Runic sign Which gives my name to song. In battle-field young Harald falls Amid a slaughtered foe, But backward never bears this flag, While streams to ocean flow;—