The tossing wilderness of blue and white. The 



Sea-Spell. k] ue sea frothed with wind has ever been a 

 salutation of joy. ^Eschylos sounded the note of 

 rapture which has since echoed through poetry 

 and romance : that * multitudinous laughter ' 

 struck a vibration which time has never dulled 

 nor lessened. It has been an exultation above 

 all in the literatures of the north. Scandinavian 

 poetry is full of the salt brine ; there is not a 

 viking-saga that is not wet with the spray of 

 surging seas. Through all the primitive tales 

 and songs of the Gael one feels the intoxication 

 of the blue wine of the running wave. In the 

 Icelandic sagas it is like a clashing of shields. 

 It calls through the Ossianic chants like a tide. 

 Every Gaelic song of exile has the sound of it, 

 as in the convolutions of a shell. The first 

 Gaelic poet rejoiced at the call of the sea, and 

 bowed before the chanting of a divine voice. 

 In his madness, Cuchulain fought with the 

 racing billows on the Irish Coast, striving with 

 them as joy-intoxicated foes, laughing against 

 their laughter : to the dark waves of Coruisk, 

 in the Isle of Skye, he rushed with a drawn 

 sword, calling to these wise warriors of the 

 sea to advance in their proud hosts that he 

 might slay them. Sigurd and Brynhild, 

 Gunhild and Olaf, Torquil and Swaran and 

 Haco, do they not sound like the names 



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