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ON THE LANGUAGE 



Lead on their defter dance to time precise, 

 Yet cull not costlier sweets, with all their art, 

 Than the rude offspring earth in woodlands bore. 



Nature is ever the same ; and hence music, and dancing, and poetry, and 

 impassioned language are to be found at this moment, in all their energy and 

 irregular wildness, among the barbarians of North America, those of the 

 Polynesian islands, and even the negro tribes of Africa : while not unfre- 

 quently we hear an equally daring and figurative diction, though of a very 

 different kind, vented by the last in a state of Mexican or West Indian slavery, 

 alternately intermixed with terrible execrations on the heads of their cruel 

 taskmasters, and with the most piteous longings for freedom and their 

 native land. 



In like manner it existed, and was even cultivated with systematic atten- 

 tion, among the earliest savages of the hyperboreal snows, the Goths, Scythians, 

 or Scandinavians; nor less so among the Celtic tribes of Gaul, Britain, and Ire- 

 land. The scalds of the former, and the bards or druids of the latter, were always 

 held in the highest dignity and admiration ; their persons were esteemed 

 sacred ; their rhapsodies were in measured flow, and had an enthusiastic effect 

 in rousing their fellow-countrymen to arms, to religious rites, or funeral 

 lamentations; in rehearsing the dangers they had encountered, and the victo- 

 ries they had gained ; and in stimulating them to a contempt of torment and 

 death under every shape, in the high career of heroic exploits, and the glory 

 of living in the national hymns of future ages. 



Such was the death-song of Regner Lodbrok, a Danish prince of the 

 eighth century, and one of the most celebrated scalds of his day. It mis- 

 chanced the warrior to fall into the hands of his enemies, by whom he was 

 thrown into prison, and condemned to be destroyed by serpents. In this 

 situation he solaced himself with rehearsing all the exploits of his life ; and 

 the following is apart of the ferocious verses he composed in the immediate 

 prospect of the fate reserved for him, translated word for word by Glaus 

 Wormius from the Runic original : " He only regrets this life who has never 

 known distress : he who aspires to the love of virgins, ought always to be 

 foremost in the roar of arms. In the halls of our father Balder (or Odin) 1 

 know there are seats prepared, where in a short time we shall drink ale out 

 of the hollow sculls of our enemies. In the house of the mighty Odin no 

 brave man laments death. I come not with the voice of despair to Odin's hall." 

 Mr. Gray has been peculiarly happy in inspiriting the old patriotic bard of 

 Cambria with a similar contempt of death. The entire description is well 

 known to every one; but it cannot be too often repeated, and ought not to be 

 neglected on the present occasion. The picture of his standing on the bat- 

 tlements of Conway Castle, and terrifying the English conqueror with his 

 dying prophecy, as the latter was descending the shaggy steep of Snowdon, is 

 exquisite and inimitable. 



The detail of the prophecy is too long for quotation ; but the following 

 fragments, which form its opening and ending, ought by no means to be 

 omitted. 



Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 

 Eobed in the sable garb of wo. 



On a rock, whose haughty brow 



With haggard eyes the poet stood 

 (Loose his beard and hoary hair 

 Stream'd, like a meteor to the troubled air), 



Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 



Ruin seize thee, ruthless king ! 



Confusion on thy banners wait ! 



Though, fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, 



They mock the air with idle state ! 



At liquidas avium voces imitarier ore 

 Ante fuit multo, quani laevia carmina cantu, &c. 



Lib. V. 1378. 



