OCR Text |
Show ALARICS DEATH. I 1 Bu C, C. GOODWIN 9 (The old legend runs that when Alaric's death was announced to Alalf, his brother in-law, he would not believe it. What he did is told below.) What's this you say, our king and great chief dead? That prone in death lies low his lordly head? Death's icy signet on his eye-l'ds pressed? His great heart pulseless In his dauntless breast? His strong arms nerveless in their final fold, His sword a-rust, his fiery spurs grown cold? He, he the royal, he the matchless one, The worthy rival of great Odin's son, Our eagle-plumed, our lion-hearted king, Who loved to hear swords clash and javelins jave-lins sing, Who, when rude war upreared its blazing crest Was wont to intorpose his own true breast Between his country and his country's foes, And smile serenely as around him rose The battle's clamors: He of soul so high, It' Is not possible that he could d.e. You would a stupid jest invent tonight, An old man's grief and terror to incite. Where is my king? Come, show me where they keep Their watch around our hero's heavy sleep. Where is my chieftain? Lead me to him now. Turn back the face-cloth from his sov'reign brow, Mark at my call if he will not arise With all the old fire in his flaming eyes! "What ho Alaric. Hear ye what is said, "The Goths are orphans for their chief is dead?" Wake! Wake Alaric! from this sleep profound pro-found That has your senses in such coma bound. What, what, no sign? Wlell, summon the old crew, Amlak and Smid, the old-time jolly few; Bring in the brew of Norsemen, and the wine, The vintage red that comes from by the Rhine. Give up a space to wassail and to song, Our king beneath it will not slumber long. Sing the old song how Greeks their women love, Those straight-faced Greeks with eyes so like a dove How more than beauty Romans love a fight, But how both love and war are Goth's delight; de-light; Gome, now, in chorus altogether sing A song to drive this stupor from our king. No waking yet? Well, bring our minstrel gray, Balic, the Visigoth, and bid him play Tho ringing strophes of our battle great That night before Rome's stout Salacian gate, When through our ranks with short sword and with, spear Rome's legions burst; until defiant near Alaric's war-shout o'er the clamors rose, A joy to us, a terror to our foes. How then inspired we answered blow for 9 blow, ' Until Rome's bravest 'neath our feet lay low. Now on the startled air bring back the shout We raised above the vanquished legion's rout. What, no sign yet, no sound? Well, hither bring The slaves that play tho lute, the slaves j that sing, The lovely captives that with winged feet The swift time of those Grecian dances beat; With song and dance let all these courts resound; Our chief will surely waken at the sound. Still, still no sign? Well, sound the battle call! War-horn and drum and trumpet, sound them all! Call out the guards and bid them fully arm, As though it were a battle's real alarm! Bid the grim warriors gather in a ring, And, circling 'round their prostrate chief and king, Chant their old battle hymn and beat their shields As Goths have done upon a thousand fields; And he will waken, for he could not die If once he thought an old-time fight was nigh. He heeds them not. His army's battle cry Kindles no more his soul to ecstacy. He heeds them not. Nor shout, nor warrior's war-rior's tread Can rouse him: Surely his great soul has fled. The sable ravens now the message bear "Alaric's dead" to Odin's solemn chair. Ho wakes no more. Then sound the grim retreat, Soft play your pipes, softly your rude drums beat ; Sound on your trumpets one long, last recall re-call Our sun Is set. The night is over all. Thor in his envy could not bear to see In mortal form such king-like majesty; Thor in his envy could not bear to own There was a mortal of such just renown; Thor hurled a thunderbolt, a coward blow, And broke our idol, laid our great king low. O spirit great in dim Valhalla's hall, Say can'st thou see us? Can'st thou hear us call? Know'st thou how much we love thee, how we yearn To hear from theo one low word in return? One word to be assurance true and high That there Is something left when heroes die? No answer comes, though ears to hear aro bent, Not one poor word to comfort us is sent; Surely the dead their secrets safely keep; Surely their sleep must be profound and deep, Else they would answer as our voices swell A last all-hail! A last and long farewell. (Copyright Applied For.) |