SONG OF THE ICELANDIC FISHERMEN.
��YIELD the bark to the breezes free, Point her helm to the far deep sea, Where Heckla's watch-fire, streaming wild, Hath never the mariner's eye beguiled, Where, in boiling baths, strange monsters play Down to the deep sea launch away !
Gay over coral reefs we steer,
Where moulder the bones of the brave,
Where the beautiful sleep in their humid bier,
And the pale pearl gleams in its quenchless sphere, The lamp of their ocean grave :
Swift o'er the crested surge we row ;
Down to the fathomless sea we go.
King of day ! to thee we turn,
May our course be blest by thee, Eyes bright as thine in our homes shall burn
When again our hearths we see; When the scaly throng, to our skill a prey, At the feet of our fur-clad maids we lay.
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