Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/93



The rivers of yon island low, Glance redly in the sun, But ruddier still they're doomed to glow, And deeper shall they run; The torrent of proud life shall swell Each river to the brim, And in that spate of blood, how well The headless corpse will swim! The smoke of many a shepherd's cot Curls from each peopled glen; And, hark! the song of maidens mild, The shout of joyous men! But one may hew the oaken tree, The other shape the shroud; As the o'er the sea Sweeps like a tempest cloud:"— So shouteth fierce Harald—so echo the Northmen, As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering.

Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread Abroad to the blue sky, And spectral visions of the dead,