No longer Ruric might oppose
Sure fence against his rival's blows,
Nor longer shun his doom;
The hand was raised, the arm was bent
To urge the stroke, whose swift descent
Must hurl him to the tomb.
That fatal stroke was never given:
While, trembling, yet in air it hung,
Sudden as bursts the bolt of heaven,
Forth from the darkling coppice sprung,
On foaming steed, a gallant knight
And, dashing through the raging fight
Like panther on his prey;
Full on brave Teondetha's head
His keen, avenging sword he sped
With such resistless sway,
That when he raised his reeking blade,
Life issued from the wound it made.
That gallant knight was Aldobrand,
And with him came a powerful band
Of lords and nobles high;
Men who, in danger's troubled hour,
Could front him and defy his power,
As calmly as, in lady's bower,
They heard the west-wind sigh.
That morn they had been sent in quest
Of Ruric, by his sire's behest,
And, chance-directed, joined the strife
In time to save his forfeit life.
Their leader slain, out-numbered, pent
By thronging foes, their vigor spent;
Not long might Teondetha's band
The fierce, unequal shock withstand:
It was a task too desperately great,
For mortal prowess to contend with fate.
Yet still no recreant sought to flee;
E'en in that worst extremity,
The meanest warrior would have thought
Life and its joys too dearly bought,
If purchased by the scorn and shame
Which brand an Indian coward's name.
Each fought while one remaining ray
Of hope illumed his desperate way;
Blithely as though the strife
Were but a tourney, played in sport
To pleasure some imperial court,
And not a tug for life:
When hope was gone, with one accord,
Each rushed upon his foeman's sword,
And died, as brave men ought to die,
Without a terror or a sigh.
Danger was past, the battle done;
But victory was dearly won,
And little was the victor's boast
Who, even-handed, had maintained
The fight with loss of half his host,
And saw, at last, the contest gained
By such superior force of arms
As robbed e'en victory of its charms.
With sullen greeting, Ruric gave
Slight thanks to his deliverers brave;
Thanks, whose ungracious utterance showed
He knew the gratitude he owed,
Yet scarce could school his tongue to own
A feeling, which his heart had known
So rarely, that when now it came
With wounded pride, regret, and shame,
Though each was an unwelcome guest,
It pained him more than all the rest.
To the survivors of the band,
The greeting o'er, he gave command
To see the last, sad honors paid
With reverence, to the Scanian dead.
Rude was the funeral pile which haste,
For the lamented brave, could rear;
Undecked by trophies, and ungraced
By woman's sigh, or beauty's tear:
And lowly, on that artless bed,
The living placed the honored dead;
Then lit the pyre: the ruddy flame
O'er the fall'n warriors proudly rose,
Bright and unsullied as their fame,
Fierce as their vengeance on their foes:
And round it circling, hand in hand,
Moved mournfully the friendly band;
Raising, with solemn notes and slow,
The wild, but plaintive dirge of woe.
Rest! heroes, rest! your race is run,
Your toil is o'er, your task is done;
Though low you are lying, fame gladly shall tell
How fiercely you fought, and how nobly you fell,
And ages unborn shall be proud to inherit
The honors acquired by your valor and merit:
In Odin's hall, with the brave and the free, (4)
Feast and repose, to eternity!
Rest! heroes, rest! though friends may meurn
Life's brittle thread untimely shorn;
Though worth when departed, will waken the sigh
Of regret for its loss: yet the brave never die:
They but go from the earth to their native abodes;
From sojourning with men, to reside with the gods
In Odin's hall; where, happy and free,
They feast and repose, to eternity.
As died, upon the lazy gale,
The last notes of the funeral wail;
Mounted each chief-and fresh and fast,
To merry trill of bugle blast,
Spurred cheerfully the gallant band
To greet again their native land.
TWICE has the sun, with roseate ray,
Unbarred the golden gates of day,
And twice, above the western wild,
Shook from his locks the dew, and smiled;
But yet no trace the scouts discover
Of the fall'n chief and hapless lover.
Why comes he not?-by promise plight
Before he armed him for the fight,
Ere yester noon he should have been
At Warredondo's court again.
The third day dawns; he comes not yet:
But ere the cloudless sun has set,
The breathless scouts returning, tell
Where fought the chief, and how he fell.
Then bursts the war-cry from the crowd;
And growing clamors, wild and loud,
Demand the fight; each warrior's breath
Cries "vengeance, for the chieftain's death,
And for our friends, and for the maid,
Decoyed, insulted, and betrayed!"
Sage Warredondo joyed to see
The lightning flash of energy
Which woke, to retribute his wrong,
Spontaneous, mid the nameless throng,
And spoke its feelings, fierce and high,
In each proud warrior's sparkling eye:
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