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.
One moment—and all was still
In the slumberer's ancient hall,
When the rock had ceased to thrill
With the mighty weapon's fall.
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.
"The morning-wind blows free,
And the hour of chace 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 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!"
"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 chased him far from the glorious land
Where the feast of the gods is spread!*[1]
"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.F. H.
- ↑ * Severe sufferings to the departed spirit were supposed by the Northern Mythologists to be the consequence of any profanation of the sepulchre.
