Joy to him, the lov'd, the loving,
To the husband and the friend!

May they win their heart's approving,
Who now in vain before her bend;
May he, who scorns the fair's dominion,
Soon bow beneath her gentle chains;
And Heaven's own love, with fostering pinion,
Watch ever o'er our sister-Danes!

SINCLAIR'S SONG.

BY THE

LATE EDWARD STORM,

A NORWEGIAN POET.

ACROSS the sea came the Sinclair brave,
And he steer'd for the Norway border;
In Gulbrand valley he found his grave,
Where his merrymen fell in disorder.

Across the sea came the Sinclair brave,
To fight for the gold of Gustavus;

God help thee, chief! from the Norway glaive
No other defender can save us.

The moon rode high in the blue night-cloud,

And the waves round the bark rippled smoothly; When the mermaid rose from her wat❜ry shroud, And thus sang the prophetess soothly:

"Return, return, thou Scottish wight!
Or thy light is extinguish'd in mourning;
If thou goest to Norway, I tell thee right,
No day shall behold thy returning."

"Now loud thou liest, thou sorceress old!
Thy prophecies ever are sore;

If once I catch thee within my hold,
Thou never shalt prophesy more."

He sail'd three days, he sail'd three nights,
He and his merrymen bold;

The fourth he near'd old Norway's heights,
I tell you the tale as 'tis told.

On Romsdale coast has he landed his host,
And lifted the flag of ruin;

Full fourteen hundred, of mickle boast,

All eager for Norway's undoing.

They scathe, they ravage, where'er they light,
Justice or ruth unheeding;

They spare not the old for his locks so white,
Nor the widow for her pleading.

They slew the babe on his mother's arm,
As he smiled so sweet on his foemen:
But the cry of woe was the war-alarm,
And the shriek was the warrior's omen.

*

The Baun flamed high, and the message-wood-ran
Swiftly o'er field and o'er furrow;

No hiding-place sought the Gulbranders then,
As the Sinclair shall find to his sorrow.

* A heap of wood raised in the form of a cone on the summits of the mountains, and set on fire to give notice of invasion.

"Ye men of Norway, arise, arise!

Fight for your king and your laws; And woe to the craven wretch that flies, And grudges his blood in the cause!"

And all of Lesso, and Vog, and Lon,
With axes full sharp on their shoulders,
To Bredeboyd in a swarm are gone,
To talk with the Scottish soldiers.

Close under Lid lies a pathway long,
The swift-flowing Laugen runs by it;
We call it Kring in our northern tongue ;
There wait we the foemen in quiet.

No more on the wall hangs the rifle-gun,
For the grey marksman aims at the foemen;
Old Nökken* mounts from the waters dun,
And waits for the prey that is coming.

* The river-god.