Richmond Enquirer

ICELANDIC SONG.

From a New Volume of Poems, by Mr. G. Rathbone.

The southerner may talk of his meads crown'd with flow'r.
Where the gale, breathing incense, unceasingly dies;
He may vaunt the rich hue of his rose-angled bowers,
Or the sapphire and gold of his bright sunny skies;
But it is not a scene that will light up emotion
In an Icelander's breast; since his pride and his boast
Are his hoar cov'red mountains, that frown on the ocean
Lit up with ice peaks that girdle the coast.

When the winter of night darkles round him all dreary.
And his snow tunneled hills mock the advance of the day,
With a heart void of care, and with limbs seldom weary,
He launches his bark in pursuit of his prey;
Rough is his bed, and uneasy his pillow.
When far out in ocean he ramble from home
Blithe sounds his boat, as her prow cleaves the billow
Or the green spangled brine, with its ridges of foam.

Dear is the dawn of the fork'd northern light.
That illumines old Iceland's broad cone with its rays;
And dearer its splendor, increasingly bright.
When the peaks of the ice bergs appear in the blaze;
Brightly it plays on his dart's glossy price,
When it shines, steep'd in spray. on the snake's early crest.
To bury its point in the whale's finny hide.
Or dash its curv'd haft in the sea lion's chest.

Dear is the summer of day, when the fountains.
Unchain'd and free, pour the bright crystal stream
Dear is the cataract's leap in the mountains,
When sparkling at night in the moon's silver beam;
Dear are the shoals where the sea horse is bounding,
With his icicled mane and his eyeballs of fire;
But dearer than all, is the comfort surrounding
The wife of his choice, and the hearth of his sire.

February 18, 1820.