King Boreas
(Chant Royal.)
I sit enthroned ’mid icy wastes afar,
Beyond the level land of endless snow,
For months I see the brilliant polar star
Shine on a shore, the lonelier none may know.
Supreme I rule in monarchy of might,—
My realms are boundless as the realms of Night.
Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obey
My many minions from the isles of Day;
And when my heralds sound aloud, behold
My slaves appear with suppliant heads alway!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
I am the god of the winds that are!
I blow where’er I list,—I come, I go.
Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped car
I rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro.
The dreary woodlands shudder in affright
To hear my clarion on the mountain height.
The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray,
“Is there no refuge from the storm-king’s sway?”
I am as aged as the earth is old,
Yet strong am I although my locks are grey;
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
I loose my chains, and then with awful jar
And presage of disaster and dire woe,
Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war
’Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow.
I bid them haste; they bound in eager flight
Toward far fair lands, where’er the sun’s warm light
Makes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray,
They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay.
They turn green meadows to a desert wold,
And naught for rulers of the earth care they;—
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
When in the sky, a lambent scimitar,
In early eve Endymion’s bride doth glow,
When night is perfect, and no cloud doth mar
The peace of nature, when the rivers flow
Is soft and musical, and when the sprite
Whispers to lovers on each breeze bedight
With fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may,
And seize upon whate’er I will for prey.
I see the billows high as hilltops rolled,
And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
I am in league with Death. When I unbar
My triple-guarded doors, and there bestow
Upon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scar
The brightest dales with summer blooms a-row,
They breathe on every bower a deadly blight,
And all is sere and withered in their sight.
Unheeded now, Apollo’s warming ray
Wakes not the flower, for my chill breezes play
Where once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold,
And where his jargon piped the noisy jay,—
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
Envoy.
O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say!—
“Man’s life is naught, no mortal lives for aye;
His might hath empire only of the mold,”
Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
Clinton Scollard.