He pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood,

The dark shrine stain'd with the victim's blood:
Nor paus'd, till the rock where a vaulted bed

Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead,
Arose on his midnight way.

Then first a moment's chill

Went shuddering through his breast,

And the steel-clad man stood still
Before that place of rest.

But he cross'd at length, with a deep-drawn breath,

The threshold-floor of the hall of Death,

And look'd on the pale mysterious fire

Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire,
With a strange and solemn light.

Then darkly the words of the boding strain
Like an omen rose on his soul again,
-"Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,

For the viewless have fearful might!"

But the gleaming sword and shield
Of many a battle-day

Hung o'er that urn, reveal'd

By the tomb-fire's waveless ray.

With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound, They hung o'er the dust of the far-renown'd, Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice Had call'd to the banquet where gods rejoice, And the rich mead flows in light.

With a beating heart his son drew near,
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear,
-"Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!"

And many a Saga's rhyme,

And legend of the grave,

That shadowy scene and time

Call'd back, to daunt the brave.

But he rais'd his arm-and the flame grew dim,

And the sword in its light seem'd to wave and swim,
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well-
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell
Through the chamber of the dead!

The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound,
And the urn lay shiver'd in fragments round;
And a rush, as of tempests, quench'd the fire,
And the scatter'd dust of his warlike sire

Was strewn on the Champion's head.

One moment-and all was still

In the slumberer's ancient hall,

When the rock had ceas'd to thrill

With the mighty weapon's fall.

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
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,

In a speechless trance lay the warrior there,
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare
Burst on him through the gloom.

"The morning wind blows free,
And the hour of chase is near:
Come forth, come forth, with me!
What dost thou, Sigurd, here?"

"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
But the winds shall not wander without their part

To strew o'er the restless deep!

heart;

"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

With an icy ray and a withering spell

Oh! chill is the house of sleep!"

"The morning wind blows free,

And the reddening sun shines clear;

Come forth, come forth, with me!

It is dark and fearful here!"

"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 chas'd him far from the glorious land

Where the feast of the gods is spread!

"He must go forth alone on his phantom steed,

He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed;

His place is no longer at Odin's board,

He is driven from Valhalla without his sword!

But the slayer shall avenge the dead!"

That sword its fame had won

By the fall of many a crest,

But its fiercest work was done

In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast!