Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/269
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THE NORWEGIAN ROVER'S SONG.
251
"Dearer a mother's sigh to me
Than all the breezes of Araby!
Sweeter to me a sister's tear
Than all the fountain^ of Neodemere!
Oh! for a glance of a sister's eye,
And a mother's blessing ere I die!"
Than all the breezes of Araby!
Sweeter to me a sister's tear
Than all the fountain^ of Neodemere!
Oh! for a glance of a sister's eye,
And a mother's blessing ere I die!"
The Norwegian Rover's Song.
Give out, give out thy silken folds,
Unbosomed to the wind,
Thou raven flag! the tyrant's arm
Thy wing may never bind.
Lord of the brave!—swoop onwards still;
Wherever thou hast flown,
The treasures of the land and sea
Were numbered as thine own.
Unbosomed to the wind,
Thou raven flag! the tyrant's arm
Thy wing may never bind.
Lord of the brave!—swoop onwards still;
Wherever thou hast flown,
The treasures of the land and sea
Were numbered as thine own.
Raise, Jarls! raise high the battle chaunt,
Our fathers' song of yore;
While to the breeze ye give the sail,
And to the wave the oar.
Of other days, when haughty plumes
Were drenched in blood, it tells;
As high from every warrior's lip,
The martial measure swells.
Our fathers' song of yore;
While to the breeze ye give the sail,
And to the wave the oar.
Of other days, when haughty plumes
Were drenched in blood, it tells;
As high from every warrior's lip,
The martial measure swells.
Of hours, when through the parted foam,
We held our bold career,—
And ocean's stoutest rovers quailed
Before our sign of fear:
When to the eagle on the deep,
And to the wolf on shore,
With swords that spared not—when they smote,
We spread a feast of gore.
We held our bold career,—
And ocean's stoutest rovers quailed
Before our sign of fear:
When to the eagle on the deep,
And to the wolf on shore,
With swords that spared not—when they smote,
We spread a feast of gore.
The surge! the bounding surge for me,
Where surfs may never come,
To spread my banner where I list,
Where'er I list to roam.
There's music in its hollow voice,
When the storm-nursed curlew,
Amid the tempest's shroud of mist,
Shrieks out its wild halloo!
Where surfs may never come,
To spread my banner where I list,
Where'er I list to roam.
There's music in its hollow voice,
When the storm-nursed curlew,
Amid the tempest's shroud of mist,
Shrieks out its wild halloo!