pread the shadow of terror
From each grisly fold,
Of his broad heritage
Worthy are ye:
Win it and wear it well,
Kings of the sea.

The next 'Norse' is longer. We find in it a brave ring of true poetry:

1861.

'Oh! dark and true and tender is the North.'

Loud leaps the strong wind forth,
Fierce from the caves of the mighty North,
Ages untold,
O'er town and wold,
That rest 'neath a softer sky,
Swept that blast in anger by,
And in his wrathful eddies bore
The fiery song of Odin and Thor.
Then little avail,
'Gainst the Vi-king's arm,
The maiden's tear, the warrior's mail,
Or the priestman's charm.
And o'er the bright South-land
A shadow of dread was the North wind's course,
Whene'er his surging currents fanned
The raven banner of the Norse.

Years pass, and time new rays has brought,
Yet still the Northman's heart is warm;
But light on his soul a change has wrought,
And he loves the calm as he loved the storm.

Another god than the fearful Thor
In heaven's blue he saw,
And he gave to Peace his might in war--
His anger to the law.

And the strong hand holds the sickle now,
The anvil rings at morn;
And waving sunbeams tinge with gold
The hues of the ripening corn.

And the land he loves in peace has grown
To be mighty in wealth and name;
But o'er its brightness a cloud has flown,
And evil men to its councils came.

And all seemed locked in a deadly sleep,
While treason walked in her halls of state,
And good men grieve, but hopeless weep,
And the song of the scoffer is loud at the gate.

'The nation must pass away.
For the Northman's blood is cold,
And little he recks of honor or name,
If his hand may clutch the gold.

'Work treason--work your will--
Divide our Fatherland;
Hearts are craven, souls are base--
'Tis fit for the traitor's hand.

'Fear no more the Northman's rage,
The blood of the Vi-kings is old and worn;
No ancient mem'ry can stir him now,
To stand by the flag his fathers have borne.'

The words half-sung in silence fall,
Hushed in dread by a mightier call,

That stays the hand--that throbs the heart;
Cleaving the gloom, that wild war-note--
The traitor's foot is on your flag,
His bayonet at our throat.

And hark! the North-wind's sullen moan
Rises high to a s