1828.) Harold Harrung. 25 
He went, and soon returned.—< Nothing, my lord, but the red and 
purple meteors chasing each other athwart the cope of heaven. The night 
is still and fair. Oh! shame on this unmanly sadness! Awake! 
awake—ere your name becomes a by-word.” 
The eye of Harold flashed fiercely on his friend; but it was only for 
a moment.—* Thou art right,” my faithful Herda— thou art right; I 
will be a man, and defy fate——Ulla, dearest, to your chamber.—Come, 
friends,” he cried, advancing to the board, “ who will pledge highest to 
my toast?‘ To him who shall sail his galley farthest, and bring back 
the richest spoil from distant lands, when spring shall again smile upon 
our northern shores.-—Call Eric—Eric the bard,” he added, as with loud 
acclamations all drained their goblets to the bottom—‘ he who made the 
song of triumph what time I ravaged the wide seas of Britain.” 
The bard—an old, grey-headed man, but with an eye of fire—came 
forward at the call, and, in a deep, melodious voice, chaunted forth the 
following strains :— 
O’er the deep, o’er the deep, 
As our dragon-standards sweep, 
And our bark springs the wild waves through, 
Let the coward merchants quail, 
As in misty wreaths our sail, 
Flying on before the gale, 
Meets their view. 
Far away, far away 
Lies each guardian port or bay, 
Yet landward the breeze fairly blows ; 
And they flee; till on their track 
Fleeter comes our fierce attack ; 
Then, like hunted wolves, turn back 
On their foes. 
We have met, we have met! 
But each gallant Northman yet 
For a moment must scarce draw breath: 
Hark! bold Harold gives the word— 
Lo! he leaps the first on board, 
Waving wide his fatal sword, 
Dealing death ! 
We have won, we have won! 
Soon the desperate strife is done ; 
O’er the wreck the dark waters close ; 
The hoarse tumult of the fray , 
Into silence melts away ; 
And, like lions gorged with prey, 
We repose. 
Then around—come around ! 
Let each wine-cup high be crowned ; 
Chaunt the praise of the bold sea-king ; 
Or, in gentler accents, tell 
Of the fame of those who fell, 
_ While the dirge the wild waves swell, 
As we sing. 
M.M. New Series.—Vou. VI. No. 31. E 
