Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1838.pdf/12



The Earl lay on his purple bed, Faint and heavy was his head, Where the snows of age were shed— Heavy on his pillow. Never more when seas are dark Will Earl Sigurd guide his bark Thro' the dashing billow. Never from that bed of pain Will the warrior rise again.

Yes, he will arise:—e'en now Red he flushes to the brow; Like the light before his prow Is the dark eye's gleaming. No: it never shall be said Sigurd died within his bed With its curtains streaming— Whose sole curtain wont to be Banners red with victory.

Lift me up, the sea-king said— At the word his sons obey'd, And the old man was convey'd Where the sea was sounding. At his ancient castle-gate, Death's dark coming to await, With his knights surrounding, Morn was reddening in the sky, As the Earl came forth to die.

In a carved oaken chair, Carved with carving quaint and rare— Faces strange—and garlands fair— Is the chieftain seated, As when at some festival In his high ancestral hall Bards his deeds repeated. And there was no loftier song, Than what bore his name along.

Round him swept his mantle red, Like a chief apparelled, With his helmet on his head— With its white plumes flying. At his side the sheathed brand, And the spear in his right hand— Mid the dead and dying. Where the battle raged the worst, Ever was that right hand first.

He—the tamer of the wild— Who invincible was styled, Now is feeble as a child By its mother sleeping;