Back to Index

The Skeleton in Armor

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1841

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armour 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 grizzly 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 midnight shout
⁠  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 splendour.

"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 Skaw,
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!'
Midships 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.

Published in Ballads and Other Poems
Tags:

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.