PIQMELE RY: 697 
it warms not there by slow degrees, 
With changeful pulse the uncertain breeze ; 
But sudden on the wondering sight 
Bursts forth the beam of living hight, 
And instant verdure springs around, 
And magic flowers bedeck the ground. 
Return’d from regions far away 
The red-wing’d throstle pours his lay ; 
The soaring snipe salutes the spring, 
While the breeze whistles through his wing ; 
And as he hails the melting snows, 
The heathcock claps his wings and crows. 
Bright shines the sun on Sigtune’s towers, 
And Spring leads on the fragrant hours. 
The ice is loosed, and prosperous gales 
Already fill the strutting sails. 
i 
BRYNHILDA. 
A Poem by the same Author. 
O Srrance is the bower where Brynhilda reclines, 
Around it the watchfire high bickering shines ! 
Her couch is of iron, her pillow a shield, 
And the maiden’s chaste eyes are in deep slumber seal’d. 
Thy charm, dreadful Odin, around her is spread, 
From thy wand the dread slumber was pour’d on her head. 
The bridegroom must pass thro’ the furnace and flame, 
The boldest in fight, without fear, without blame. 
O whilom in battle, so bold and so free, 
Like a pirate victorious she rov’d o’er the sea. 
The helmet has oft bound the ringlets, that now 
Adown her smooth shoulder so carelessly flow ; 
And that snowy bosom, thus lovely reveal’d, 
Has been oft by the breast-plate’s tough iron conceal'd. 
The love-lighting eyes, which are fetter’d by sleep, 
Have seen the sea-fight raging fierce o’er the deep, 
And mid the dead wounds of the dying and slain ye 
The tide of destruction pour’d wide o’er the plain. 
Those soft-rounded arms now defenceless and bare, 
Those rosy-tipp’d fingers so graceful and fair, 
Have rein’d the hot courser, and oft bathed in gore 
The merciless edge of the dreaded claymore. 
Who is it that spurs his dark steed at the fire ? 
Who is it, whose wishes Pep boty aspire 
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