# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Battle Flag of Sigurd

Poems.
The Battle-Flag of Sigurd.
I.
The eagle hearts of all the North Have left their stormy strand; The warriors of the world are forth To choose another land! Again, their long keels sheer the wave, Their broad sheets court the breeze; Again, the reckless and the brave, Ride lords of weltering seas. Nor swifter from the well-bent bow Can feathered shaft be sped, Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow Their snoring galleys tread. Then lift the can to bearded lip, And smite each sounding shield,
Wassaile! to every darked-ribbed ship, To every battle-field! So proudly the Skalds raise their voices of triumph, As the Northmen ride over the broad-bosom'd billow.
II.
Aloft, Sigurdir's battle-flag Streams onward to the land, Well may the taint of slaughter lag On yonder glorious strand. The waters of the mighty deep, The wild birds of the sky, Hear it like vengeance shoreward sweep, Where moody men must die. The waves wax wroth beneath our keel— The clouds above us lower, They know the battle sign, and feel All its resistless power! Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag, Nor shuns an early tomb? Who shoreward through the swelling surge, Shall bear the scroll of doom? So shout the Skalds as the long ships are nearing The low-lying shores of a beautiful land.
III.
Silent the Self-devoted stood Beside the massive tree; His image mirror'd in the flood Was terrible to see! As leaning on his gleaming axe, And gazing on the wave, His fearless soul was churning up, The death-rune of the brave. Upheaving then his giant form Upon the brown bark's prow, And tossing back the yellow storm Of hair from his broad brow; The lips of song burst open, and The words of fire rushed out, And thundering through that martial crew Pealed Harald's battle shout;— It is Harald the dauntless that lifteth his great voice, As the Northmen rollon with the Doom-written banner.
"I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag Through sunshine or through gloom; Through swelling surge on bloody strand
I plant the scroll of doom! On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste, Beneath a starless sky, The shadowy Three like meteors passed, And bade young Harald die;— They sang the war-deeds of his sires, And pointed to their tomb; They told him that this glory-flag Was his by right of doom. Since then, where hath young Harald been, But where Jarl's son should be? 'Mid war and waves—the combat keen That raged on land or sea!" So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory, As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden banner.
V.
"Mine own death's in this clenched hand! I know the noble trust; These limbs must rot on yonder strand— These lips must lick its dust, But shall this dusky standard quail In the red slaughter day; Or shall this heart its purpose fail— This arm forget to slay?
I trample down such idle doubt; Harald's high blood hath sprung From sires whose hands in martial bout Have ne'er belied their tongue; Nor keener from their castled rock Rush eagles on their prey, Than, panting for the battle-shock, Young Harald leads the way." It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty, Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce of heroes.
VI.
"The ship-borne warriors of the North, The son's of Woden's race, To battle as to feast go forth, With stern, and changeless face; And I, the last of a great line— The Self-devoted, long To lift on high the Runic sign Which gives my name to song. In battle-field young Harald falls Amid a slaughtered foe, But backward never bears this flag, While streams to ocean flow;—
On, on above the crowded dead This Runic scroll shall flare, And round it shall the lightnings spread, From swords that never spare." So rush the hero-words from the Death-doomed one While Skalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.
VII.
"Flag! from your folds, and fiercely wake War-music on the wind, Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake The sternness of my mind; Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair, Pale watcher by the sea, I hear thy wailings on the air, Thy heart's dirge sung for me;— In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung Above the salt sea foam; The wave that bears me from thy bower, Shall never bear me home; Brynhilda! seek another love, But ne'er wed one like me,
Who death foredoomed from above Joys in his destiny." Thus mourned young Harald as he thought on Brynhilda, While his eyes filled with tears which glittered, but fell not.
VIII.
"On sweeps Sigurdir's battle-flag, The scourge of far from shore; It dashes through the seething foam, But I return no more! Wedded unto a fatal bride— Bonne for a bloody bed— And battling for her, side by side, Young Harald's doom is sped! In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp, Reel headlong to the grave, There Harald's axe shall ponderous ring, There Sigurd's flag shall wave;— Yes, underneath this standard tall, Beside this fateful scroll, Down shall the tower-like prison fall Of Harald's haughty soul."
So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer and nearer The fleet of the Northmen bears down to the shore.
IX.
"Green lie those thickly-timbered shores Fair sloping to the sea; They're cumbered with the harvest stores That wave but for the free: Our sickle is the gleaming sword, Our garner the broad shield Let peasants sow, but still he's lord Who's master of the field; Let them come on, the bastard-born, Each soil-stain'd churle!—alack! What gain they but a splitten skull, A sod for their base back? They sow for us these goodly lands, We reap them in our might, Scorning all title but the brands That triumph in the fight!" It was thus the land-winners of old gained their glory, And grey stonesvoiced their praise in the bays of far isles.
X.
"The rivers of yon island low, Glance redly in the sun, But ruddier still they're doomed to glow, And deeper shall they run; The torrent of proud life shall swell Each river to the brim, And in that spate of blood, how well The headless corpse will swim! The smoke of many a shepherd's cot Curls from each peopled glen; And, hark! the song of maidens mild, The shout of joyous men! But one may hew the oaken tree, The other shape the shroud; As the Landeyda o'er the sea Sweeps like a tempest cloud:"— So shouteth fierce Harald—so echo the Northmen, As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering.
XI.
"Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread Abroad to the blue sky, And spectral visions of the dead,
Are trooping grimly by; The spirit heralds rush before Harald's destroying brand, They hover o'er yon fated shore And death-devoted band. Marshal, stout Jarls, your battle fast! And fire each beacon height, Our galleys anchor in the sound, Our banner heaves in sight! And through the surge and arrowy shower That rains on this broad shield, Harald uplifts the sign of power Which rules the battle-field!" So cries the Death-doomed on the red strand of slaughter While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing.
XII.
On rolled the Northmen's war, above The Raven Standard flew, Nor tide nor tempest ever strove With vengeance half so true. 'Tis Harald—'tis the Sire-bereaved— Who goads the dread career, And high amid the flashing storm
The flag of Doom doth rear. "On, on," the tall Death-seeker cries, "These earth-worms soil our heel, Their spear-points crash like crisping ice On ribs of stubborn steel!" Hurra! hurra! their whirlwinds sweep, And Harald's fate is sped; Bear on the flag—he goes to sleep With the life-scorning dead. Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell his sires, And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spirit.