And many a Saga's rhyme, And legend of the grave, But he rais'd his arm-and the flame grew dim, The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, Was strewn on the Champion's head. One moment-and all was still The stars were just fading, one by one, The clouds were just ting'd by the early sun, When there stream'd through the cavern a torch's flame, And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came To seek him in the tomb. Stretch'd on his shield, like the steel-girt slain In a speechless trance lay the warrior there, "The morning wind blows free, "I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, I have scatter'd the dust of my warrior-sire! It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart; But the winds shall not wander without their part To strew o'er the restless deep! "In the mantle of death he was here with me now,— There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow; And his cold still glance on my spirit fell "The morning wind blows free, "He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown! But gone from his head is the kingly crown, The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand, They have chased him far from the glorious land Where the feast of the gods is spread! "He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, He is driven from Valhalla without his sword! That sword its fame had won VALKYRIUR SONG. The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, were supposed to single out the warriors who were to die in battle, and be received into the halls of Odin. When a Northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obsequies were honoured with all possible magnificence. His arms, gold and silver, war-horse, domestic attendants, and whatever else he held most dear, were placed with him on the pile. His dependants and friends frequently made it a point of honour to die with their leader, in order to attend on his shade in Valhalla, or the Palace of Odin. And lastly, his wife was generally consumed with him on the same pile. See Mallet's Northern Antiquities, Herbert's Helga, &c. Tremblingly flash'd th' inconstant meteor light, MILMAN. THE Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep Of a vision-haunted night, And he look'd from his bark o'er the gloomy deep, And counted the streaks of light; For the red sun's earliest ray Was to rouse his bands that day, To the stormy joy of fight! But the dreams of rest were still on earth, And the silent stars on high, And there waved not the smoke of one cabin-hearth 'Midst the quiet of the sky; And along the twilight bay In their sleep the hamlets lay, For they knew not the Norse were nigh! The Sea-king look'd o'er the brooding wave: And there seem'd, through the arch of a tide-worn cave, A gleam, as of snow, to pour; Slowly they moved to the billow side; And the forms, as they grew more clear, Seem'd each on a tall pale steed to ride, And a shadowy crest to rear, And to beckon with faint hand From the dark and rocky strand, And to point a gleaming spear. Then a stillness on his spirit fell, For he knew Valhalla's daughters well, The choosers of the slain! |