In fury Sivard seiz'd his shining shield, His mail, his helm, and spear; He mounts his car, and thunders o'er the field; Now Norway knows no fear. Great Rollo falls beneath his dreadful arm, His steeds are stain'd with blood; Young Eric smil'd to hear the loud alarm, And flew to stop the flood. He rag'd, he foam'd--fierce flew the thirsty spear, Down fell the foremost steed: Astonish'd Sivard felt unusual fear, "Tyrant thou'rt doom'd to bleed!" Up sprang the youth--deep fell the sword, Sunk in the tyrant's brow: Fast fly the Swedes, and leave their hated lord, His mighty pride laid low. Now Norway's sons their great deliv'rer hail, But lo! he bleeds! he falls! Old Athold strips the helm and beamy mail, And on his Gods he calls. He lifts the helm, and down the snowy neck Fast falls the silky hair-- And could those limbs, the conq'ring Sivard check! Oh pow'r of great despair! Life ebbs apace--she lifts her languid head, She strives her hand to wave; Confess to all, the beauteous Ella said-- "Thanks, thanks companions brave: "Freedom rewards you--naught can Ella give, "Low, low poor Ella lies; "Sivard is dead! and Ella wou'd not live." She bleeds--she faints--she dies! _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y. PEASANT OF THE ALPS. Where cliffs arise by Winter crown'd, And through dark groves of pine around, Down the deep chasms, the snowed torrents foam, Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms, The PEASANT of the ALPS his cottage forms, And builds his humble, happy home. Unenvied is the rich domain, That far beneath him on the plain, Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves; More dear to him his hut, with plantain thatch'd, Where long his unambitious heart attach'd, Finds all he wishes, all he loves. There dwells the mistress of his heart, And _Love_ who teaches ev'ry art, Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care; When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil, He climbs the precipice with patient toil, To plant her fav'rite flow'rets there. With native shrubs, a hardy race, There the green myrtle finds a place, And roses there, the dewy leaves decline; While from the crags' abrupt and tangled steeps, With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps, And, blushing, mingles with the vine. His garden's simple produce stor'd, Prepared for him by hands ador'd Is all the little luxury he knows: And by the same dear hands are softly spread, The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed, Where in her arms he finds repose.