Page:Felicia Hemans in the New Monthly Magazine Volume 8 1823.pdf/9

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But he raised 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 rung 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.

The stars were just fading, one by one, The clouds were just tinged 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.

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 With an icy ray and a withering spell— Oh! chill is the house of sleep!"

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 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!"