Landon in The New Monthly 1837/Death of the Sea King

by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

II.

The Death of the Sea King.

Dark, how dark the morning
    That kindles the sky!
But darker the scorning
    Of Earl Harald's eye;
On his deck he is lying,—
    It once was his throne,
Yet there he is dying,
    Unheeded and lone.

There gather'd round nor follower nor foeman,

But over him bendeth a young and pale woman.

He has lived mid the hurtle
    Of spears and of snow;
Yet green droops the myrtle
    Where he is laid low:
The vessel is stranded
    On some southern isle;
The foes that are banded
    Will wait her awhile:—

Ay, long is that waiting—for never again

Will the Sea Raven sweep o'er her own northern main.

He was born on the water,
    'Mid storm and 'mid strife;
Through tempest and slaughter
    Was hurried his life;
Few years has he numbered,
    And golden his head,
Yet the north hills are cumbered
    With bones of his dead.

The combat is distant, the whirlwind is past

From the spot where Earl Harald is breathing his last.

’Tis an isle which the ocean
    Has kept like a bride,
For the moonlit devotion
    Of each gentler tide;
No eyes hath ere wander'd,
    No step been addrest,
Where nature has squander'd
    Her fairest and best.

Yet the wild winds have brought from the Baltic afar

That vessel of slaughter, that lord of the war.

He saw his chiefs stooping,
    But not unto him;
The stately form drooping,
    The flashing eye dim.
The wind from the nor'erd
    Swept past, fierce and free;
It hurried them forward,
    They knew not the sea;

And a foe track'd their footsteps more stern than the tide—

The plague was among them—they sicken'd and died.

Left last, and left lonely,
    Earl Harold remain'd;
One captive—one only
    Life's burden sustain'd;
She watch'd o'er his sleeping,
    Low, sweetly she spoke,
He saw not her weeping,
    She smiled when he woke;

Tho' stern was his bearing and haughty his tone,

He had one gentler feeling, and that was her own.

Fierce the wild winds were blowing
    That drove them all night,
Now the hush'd waves are flowing
    In music and light:
The storm is forsaking
    Its strife with the main,
And the blue sky is breaking
    Thro' clouds and thro' rain:

They can see the fair island whereon they are thrown,

Where the palms and the spice-groves rise lovely and lone.

Her bright hair is flying
    Escaped from its fold,
The night-dews are drying
    Away from its gold;
The op'ning flowers quiver
    Beneath the soft air;
She turns with a shiver
    From what is so fair.

Paler, colder the forehead that rests on her knee!

For her, in the wide world, what is there to see!

⁠He tries—vain the trying—
⁠ To lift up his sword,
⁠As if still defying
⁠ The Death, now his lord.

⁠Once to gaze on the ocean,
⁠ His lips faintly stir;
⁠But life's last emotion
⁠ Is one look on her.
Down drops on his bosom her beautiful head,—
The Earl and the maiden together lie dead!

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