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X.
"The rivers of yon island low,
Glance redly in the sun,
But ruddier still they're doomed to glow,
And deeper shall they run;
The torrent of proud life shall swell
Each river to the brim,
And in that spate of blood, how well
The headless corpse will swim!
The smoke of many a shepherd's cot
Curls from each peopled glen;
And, hark! the song of maidens mild,
The shout of joyous men!
But one may hew the oaken tree,
The other shape the shroud;
As the Landeyda o'er the sea
Sweeps like a tempest cloud:"—
So shouteth fierce Harald—so echo the Northmen,
As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering.
XI.
"Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread
Abroad to the blue sky,
And spectral visions of the dead,
