Is it aught ev'n to her we mourn?

Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed? Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle head, Or float on the light wind borne?

We know not-but she is gone!

Her step from the dance, her voice from the song, And the smile of her eye from the festal throng;-She hath left her dwelling lone!

When the waves at sunset shine,

We may hear thy voice, amidst thousands more,
In the scented woods of our glowing shore,

But we shall not know 'tis thine!

Ev'n so with the lov'd one flown!

Her smile in the starlight may wander by,
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh,
Around us-but all unknown.

Go forth, we have loos'd thy chain !

We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers,

Which the bright day rears in our eastern bowers,

But thou wilt not be lur'd again.

Ev'n thus may the summer pour

All fragrant things on the land's green breast, And the glorious earth like a bride be dress'd, But it wins her back no more !

THE SWORD OF THE TOMB.

A NORTHERN LEGEND..

The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in " Starkother," a tragedy by the Danish poet Ochlenschlager. The sepulchral fire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the ashes of deceased heroes, is frequently mentioned in the Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to the departed spirit were supposed by the Scandinavian mythologists to be the consequence of any profanation of the sepulchre.

See Ochlenschlager's Plays.

"VOICE of the gifted elder time!

Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme!
Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose,

How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes;

Voice of the buried past!

"Voice of the grave! 'tis the mighty hour,
When night with her stars and dreams hath power,
And my step hath been soundless on the snows,

And the spell I have sung hath laid repose
On the billow and the blast."

Then the torrents of the North,
And the forest pines were still,
While a hollow chant came forth
From the dark sepulchral hill.

"There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead,

tread;

But where the day looks not the brave may
There is heard no song, and no mead is pour'd,
But the warrior may come to the silent board
In the shadow of the night.

"There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb,
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom;
But soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!"

Then died the solemn lay,

As a trumpet's music dies,

By the night-wind borne away

Through the wild and stormy skies.

The fir-trees rock'd to the wailing blast,
As on through the forest the warrior pass'd,-
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old,
The dark place of visions and legends, told
By the fires of Northern pine.

The fir-trees rock'd, and the frozen ground
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound;

And it seem'd that the depths of those awful shades,
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades,

Gave warning, with voice and sign.

But the wind strange magic knows

To call wild shape and tone

From the grey wood's tossing boughs
When night is on her throne.

The pines clos'd o'er him with deeper gloom,
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb;
The pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright
With the arrowy streams of the northern light,

But his road through dimness lay!

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