Slumbering Sister
THE SLUMBERING SISTER.
Though through the door the morning sun glows red,
Yet she, our cherished one, whom all night long
We lulled to sleep with flute-notes and with song
Has not awakened. Is she dead?
Yet she, our cherished one, whom all night long
We lulled to sleep with flute-notes and with song
Has not awakened. Is she dead?
Stifled by incense fumes, behold!
She lies here,—incense that our love of old
Burnt to her as around some holy grave.
Without avail we sought to deck her form
In the fair robe her sister's limbs made warm;
Cold, it slips down, the garment that we gave,
And leaves exposed her lifeless frame.
She's dead, lo! Sweden was her name.
She lies here,—incense that our love of old
Burnt to her as around some holy grave.
Without avail we sought to deck her form
In the fair robe her sister's limbs made warm;
Cold, it slips down, the garment that we gave,
And leaves exposed her lifeless frame.
She's dead, lo! Sweden was her name.
'Tis in a house of mourning that we guest,
And funeral ale 's the drink with which we feast.
Deafly she slumbers, chin upon her breast,
The while her sister, Norway, in the west
Rises at daybreak. Hear her song ascending!
She hails the new day till we all have wondered
At her brave words. From hundred mouths to hundred
Through distant regions they re-echo still.
But she whom we love sleeps here chill.
And funeral ale 's the drink with which we feast.
Deafly she slumbers, chin upon her breast,
The while her sister, Norway, in the west
Rises at daybreak. Hear her song ascending!
She hails the new day till we all have wondered
At her brave words. From hundred mouths to hundred
Through distant regions they re-echo still.
But she whom we love sleeps here chill.
Let us depart and no more waste our youth
In empty funeral speech and threnody.
In empty funeral speech and threnody.
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