Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/90

 On, on above the crowded dead This Runic scroll shall flare, And round it shall the lightnings spread, From swords that never spare." So rush the hero-words from the Death-doomed one While Skalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.

Flag! from your folds, and fiercely wake War-music on the wind, Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake The sternness of my mind; Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair, Pale watcher by the sea, I hear thy wailings on the air, Thy heart's dirge sung for me;— In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung Above the salt sea foam; The wave that bears me from thy bower, Shall never bear me home; Brynhilda! seek another love, But ne'er wed one like me,