One of the great marrative poems written by the 1st Baron Rennell, a friend of Oscar Wilde, a diplomat, and governments envoy. I read it first in a book that had belonged to my father Harold from his early youth. I have admired it from the first time I read it so long ago and wanted to share it. THE SEA-KINGS GRAVE High over the wild sea-border, on the furthest downs to the west, Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman, with the yew-tree grove on its crest. And I heard in the winds his story, as they leapt up salt from the wave, And tore at the creaking branches that grow from the sea-kings grave. Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild sea-wandering lords, Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a terror of twenty swords. From the fiords of the sunless winter, they came on an icy blast, Till over the whole worlds sea-board t shadow of Odin passed, Till they sped to the inland waters and under the South-land skies, And stared on the puny princes, with their blue victorious eyes. And they said he was old and royal, and a warrior all his days, But the king who had slain his brother lived yet in the island ways. And he came from a hundred battles, and died in his last wild quest, For he said, I will have my vengeance, and then I will take my rest. He had passed on his homeward journey, and the king of the isles was dead; He had drunken the draught of triumph, and his cup was the isle-kings head; And he spoke of the song and feasting, and the gladness of things to be, And three days over the waters they rowed on a waveless sea. Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and a gust broke out of the cloud, And the spray beat over the rowers, and the murmur of winds was loud, With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the shuddering air grew warm, And the day was as dark as at even, and the wild god rode on the storm. But the old man laughed in the thunder as he set his casque on his brow, And he waved his sword in the lightnings and clung to the painted prow. And the shaft of the storm-gods quiver, flashed out from the flame-flushed skies, Rang down on his war-worn harness, and gleamed in his fiery eyes. And his mail and his crested helmet, and his hair, and his beard burned red; And they said, It is Odin calls; and he fell, and they found him dead. So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid him down to his rest, In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and the long grey beard on his breast: His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a sail for a shroud beneath, And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his battle brand in the sheath; And they buried his bow beside him, and planted the grove of yew, For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for each of his crew; Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where the sea-birds circle and swarm, And the rocks are at war with the waters, with their jagged grey teeth in the storm; And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and the mists enclose The hill with the grass-grown mound where the Norsemans yew-tree grows.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 01:13:04 +0000
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