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This is one of my favorite poems! |
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The Skeleton in Armor |
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by Henry |
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"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! |
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Who, with thy
hollow breast |
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Still in rude
armor drest, |
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Comest to daunt me! |
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Wrapt
not in Eastern balms, |
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But with thy
fleshless palms |
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Stretched, as
if asking alms, |
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Why
dost thou haunt me?" |
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Then, from
those cavernous eyes |
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Pale flashes
seemed to rise, |
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As when the
Northern skies |
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Gleam
in December; |
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And, like the
water's flow |
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Under
December's snow, |
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Came a dull
voice of woe |
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From
the heart's chamber. |
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"I was a
Viking old! |
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My deeds,
though manifold, |
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No Skald in song has told, |
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No
Saga taught thee! |
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Take heed,
that in thy verse |
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Thou dost the
tale rehearse, |
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Else dread a
dead man's curse; |
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For
this I sought thee. |
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"Far in
the Northern Land, |
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By the wild
Baltic's strand, |
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I, with my
childish hand, |
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Tamed
the gerfalcon; |
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And, with my
skates fast-bound, |
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Skimmed the
half-frozen Sound, |
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That the poor
whimpering hound |
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Trembled
to walk on. |
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"Oft to
his frozen lair |
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Tracked I the
grisly bear, |
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While from my
path the hare |
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Fled
like a shadow; |
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Oft through
the forest dark |
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Followed the
were-wolf's bark, |
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Until the soaring
lark |
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Sang
from the meadow. |
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"But
when I older grew, |
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Joining a
corsair's crew, |
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O'er the dark
sea I flew |
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With
the marauders. |
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Wild was the
life we led; |
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Many the
souls that sped, |
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Many the
hearts that bled, |
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By
our stern orders. |
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"Many a
wassail-bout |
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Wore the long
Winter out; |
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Often our |
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Set
the cocks crowing, |
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As we the
Berserk's tale |
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Measured in
cups of ale, |
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Draining the
oaken pail, |
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Filled
to o'erflowing. |
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"Once as
I told in glee |
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Tales of the
stormy sea, |
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Soft eyes did
gaze on me, |
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Burning
yet tender; |
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And as the
white stars shine |
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On the dark
Norway pine, |
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On that dark
heart of mine |
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Fell
their soft splendor. |
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"I wooed
the blue-eyed maid, |
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Yielding, yet
half afraid, |
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And in the
forest's shade |
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Our
vows were plighted. |
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Under its
loosened vest |
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Fluttered her
little breast, |
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Like birds
within their nest |
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By
the hawk frighted. |
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"Bright
in her father's hall |
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Shields
gleamed upon the wall, |
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Loud sang the
minstrels all, |
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Chanting
his glory; |
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When of old
Hildebrand |
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I asked his
daughter's hand, |
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Mute did the
minstrels stand |
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To
hear my story. |
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"While
the brown ale he quaffed, |
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Loud then the
champion laughed, |
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And as the
wind-gusts waft |
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The
sea-foam brightly, |
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So the loud
laugh of scorn, |
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Out of those
lips unshorn, |
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From the deep
drinking-horn |
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Blew
the foam lightly. |
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"She was
a Prince's child, |
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I but a
Viking wild, |
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And though
she blushed and smiled, |
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I
was discarded! |
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Should not
the dove so white |
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Follow the
sea-mew's flight, |
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Why did they
leave that night |
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Her
nest unguarded? |
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"Scarce
had I put to sea, |
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Bearing the
maid with me, |
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Fairest of
all was she |
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Among
the Norsemen! |
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When on the
white sea-strand, |
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Waving his armèd hand, |
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Saw we old
Hildebrand, |
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With
twenty horsemen. |
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"Then
launched they to the blast, |
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Bent like a
reed each mast, |
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Yet we were
gaining fast, |
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When
the wind failed us; |
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And with a
sudden flaw |
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Came round
the gusty |
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So that our
foe we saw |
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Laugh
as he hailed us. |
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"And as
to catch the gale |
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Round veered
the flapping sail, |
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'Death!' was
the helmsman's hail, |
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'Death
without quarter!' |
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Mid-ships
with iron keel |
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Struck we her
ribs of steel; |
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Down her
black hulk did reel |
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Through
the black water! |
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"As with
his wings aslant, |
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Sails the
fierce cormorant, |
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Seeking some
rocky haunt, |
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With
his prey laden, |
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So toward the
open main, |
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Beating to
sea again, |
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Through the
wild hurricane, |
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Bore
I the maiden. |
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"Three
weeks we westward bore, |
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And when the
storm was o'er, |
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Cloud-like we
saw the shore |
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Stretching
to leeward; |
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There for my
lady's bower |
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Built I the
lofty tower, |
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Which, to
this very hour, |
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Stands
looking seaward. |
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"There
lived we many years; |
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Time dried
the maiden's tears; |
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She had
forgot her fears, |
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She
was a mother; |
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Death closed
her mild blue eyes, |
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Under that
tower she lies; |
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Ne'er shall
the sun arise |
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On
such another! |
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"Still
grew my bosom then, |
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Still as a
stagnant fen! |
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Hateful to me
were men, |
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The
sunlight hateful! |
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In the vast
forest here, |
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Clad in my
warlike gear, |
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Fell I upon
my spear, |
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Oh,
death was grateful! |
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"Thus,
seamed with many scars, |
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Bursting
these prison bars, |
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Up to its
native stars |
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My
soul ascended! |
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There from
the flowing bowl |
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Deep drinks
the warrior's soul, |
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Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" |
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Thus
the tale ended. |