Sing, sing, my friend; breathe life again Through Norway's song and Denmark's strain: On flowing Thames and Forth, in flood, Pour Haco's war-song, fierce and rude. O'er England's strength, through Scotland's cold, His warrior minstrels marched of old-- Called on the wolf and bird of prey To feast on Ireland's shore and bay; And France, thy forward knights and bold, Rough Rollo's ravens croaked them cold. Sing, sing of earth and ocean's lords, Their songs as conquering as their swords; Strains, steeped in many a strange belief, Now stern as steel, now soft as grief-- Wild, witching, warlike, brief, sublime, Stamped with the image of their time; When chafed--the call is sharp and high For carnage, as the eagles cry; When pleased--the mood is meek, and mild, And gentle, as an unweaned child. Sing, sing of haunted shores and shelves, St. Oluf and his spiteful elves, Of that wise dame, in true love need, Who of the clear stream formed the steed-- How youthful Svend, in sorrow sharp, The inspired strings rent from his harp; And Sivard, in his cloak of felt, Danced with the green oak at his belt-- Or sing the Sorceress of the wood, The amorous Merman of the flood-- Or elves that, o'er the unfathomed stream, Sport thick as motes in morning beam-- Or bid me sail from Iceland Isle, With Rosmer and fair Ellenlyle, What time the blood-crow's flight was south, Bearing a man's leg in its mouth. Though rough and rude, those strains are rife Of things kin to immortal life, Which touch the heart and tinge the cheek, As deeply as divinest Greek. In simple words and unsought rhyme, Give me the songs of olden time. THE DEATH-RAVEN. FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLAEGER. The silken sail, which caught the summer breeze, Drove the light vessel through the azure seas; Upon the lofty deck, Dame Sigrid lay, And watch'd the setting of the orb of day: Then, all at once, the smiling sky grew dark, The breakers rav'd, and sinking seem'd the bark; The wild Death-raven, perch'd upon the mast, Scream'd 'mid the tumult, and awoke the blast. Dame Sigrid saw the demon bird on high, And tear-drops started in her beauteous eye; Her cheeks, which late like blushing roses bloom'd, Had now the pallid hue of fear assum'd: "O wild death-raven, calm thy frightful rage, Nor war with one who warfare cannot wage. Tame yonder billows, make them cease to roar, And I will give thee pounds of golden ore." "With gold thou must not hope to pay the brave, For gold I will not calm a single wave, For gold I will not hush the stormy air, And yet my heart is mov'd by thy despair; Give me the treasure hid beneath thy belt, And straight yon clouds in harmless rain shall melt, And down I'll thunder, with my claws of steel. Upon the merman clinging to your keel."