The fire shone bright on rift and wall, Within Alhalla’s cavern-hall; And oft had that lone maid, his pride, With splinter’d pine the flame supplied, And kindly spread, with ready zeal, The wholesome, frugal cottage meal: The ruddy haunch, the shreded moose, With vermil trout, and firland grouse, And sapid rice, and many a root, And many a tiny forest-fruit; And oft, in birchen vase, supplied The limpid fountain’s crystal tide, With such obeisance kind and brief, As well may suit an Indian chief. Nor wanting she—whose age and art Supplied the maid—a mother’s part. And now that chieftain, proud and high, Glanced round a wild, unsettled eye, As if that scanning glance should say, Up, strangers, and pursue your way! This Oscar marked with ready art, And thus express’d his glowing heart. OSCAR. Thanks were but light and all too weak, Hearts mantling o’er, like ours, to speak, But we shall hold and carry hence, Of thee and thine, so high a sense, Thy courtesy—thy life—thy lot, As but with life can be forgot. One only wish—one strong desire, Still draws us to thy cavern-fire, And stays th’ intent we felt the while, To quit this ocean-cinctured isle. ’Tis more to know—to hear—to see, Of one so noble, poor, and free, So proud—unfortunate as thee. Deign, then, oh chief!—for trust you may, If aught that man can feel or say Can give assurance of our faith, To hold thee quit of ill or scaith. Deign, then, thy latent woes to tell, The rush and struggle, rout and yell, The scenes of care, or deeds of strife, That mark thy onward course through life, And weighing down with double weight, Of age and care that ne’er abate, Have sear’d thy cheeks, and sear’d thy heart, And made thee, exile! what thou art. So when we reach our native vales, Dear land where home-bred bliss prevails! With joy—with pride we may relate A good man’s fame, a brave man’s fate. ALHALLA. Man of prayer—for I ween, By thy words, and dress, and mien, Such thou art,—words, words are vain To cure my woes, or soothe my pain. Little boots it thee, to know Whence I came or whence I go. Hard my lot—nor would I e’er Draw afresh the scalding tear, Tear the wound that has been heal’d, Or renew the bloody field; And if e’en my tongue were prone Thus to dwell on actions done, Could I? ’twere reliance base, E’er again to trust thy race. OSCAR.