Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Norwegian Rover's Song

The Norwegian Rover's Song.

Give out, give out thy silken folds,
Unbosomed to the wind,
Thou raven flag! the tyrant's arm
Thy wing may never bind.
Lord of the brave!—swoop onwards still;
Wherever thou hast flown,
The treasures of the land and sea
Were numbered as thine own.

Raise, Jarls! raise high the battle chaunt,
Our fathers' song of yore;
While to the breeze ye give the sail,
And to the wave the oar.
Of other days, when haughty plumes
Were drenched in blood, it tells;
As high from every warrior's lip,
The martial measure swells.

Of hours, when through the parted foam,
We held our bold career,—
And ocean's stoutest rovers quailed
Before our sign of fear:
When to the eagle on the deep,
And to the wolf on shore,
With swords that spared not—when they smote,
We spread a feast of gore.

The surge! the bounding surge for me,
Where surfs may never come,
To spread my banner where I list,
Where'er I list to roam.
There's music in its hollow voice,
When the storm-nursed curlew,
Amid the tempest's shroud of mist,
Shrieks out its wild halloo!

I wear no wreath upon my brow,
Wrought by my father's hand;
I bear no wealth from other times,
But shield and battle-brand.
These be the only gifts I trow,
Owned at my hour of birth;
No turret hailed me as its lord,
No heritage on earth.

My kingdom is the dancing wave,
That bears me on its breast;
Like swart sea-hawk, upon its ridge,
I rear my couch of rest.
Abroad my sceptre from my throne,
I wave o'er surge and shore,—
The winds troop round me like a king,
And answer with their roar.

I twine no garlands for the locks
Of England's maidens fair;
I build no tower upon the deep,
To shelter beauty there.
I wear no silken raiment, rich
With gold and jewelled ring;
Oh! gory is the mail I wear,—
Stern is the strain I sing.

With battle trumpetings I come,
When the pale moonlight wanes;
The torch that lights me to my bark,
Kindles their household fanes.
High rolls my shout as on I sweep,
'Mid altars wrapt in flame;
"May Odin bold nerve this brown blade,
And strike for Norway's name!"

Ho! spread your foam-wreaths out, ye waves!
Toss high your crests of pride;
The war-barks of a hundred earls
Upon your bosoms ride.
With thunder on our path above,
And drifting foam below—
Hurrah! right on before the breeze,
On eagle wing we go!