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