"VOICE of the gifted elder time! Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme! Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes; Voice of the buried past! "Voice of the grave! 'tis the mighty hour When night with her stars and dreams hath power, And my step hath been soundless on the snows, And the spell I have sung hath laid repose On the billow and the blast." Then the torrents of the North And the forest pines were still, While a hollow chant came forth From the dark sepulchral hill. "There shines no sun midst the hidden dead, But where the day looks not the brave may tread; There is heard no song, and no mead is poured, But the warrior may come to the silent board In the shadow of the night. "There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb, And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom; But soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep, For the viewless have fearful might!" Then died the solemn lay, As a trumpet's music dies, By the night-wind borne away Through the wild and stormy skies. The fir-trees rocked to the wailing blast, As on through the forest the warrior passed -- Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old -- The dark place of visions and legends, told By the fires of Northern pine. The fir-trees rocked, and the frozen ground Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound; And it seemed that the depths of those awful shades, From the dreary gloom of their long arcades, Gave warning with voice and sign. But the wind strange magic knows, To call wild shape and tone From the gray wood's tossing boughs, When Night is on her throne. The pines closed o'er him with deeper gloom, As he took the path to the monarch's tomb: The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright With the arrowy streams of the Northern light; But his road through dimness lay! He passed, in the heart of that ancient wood, The dark shrine stained with the victim's blood; Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead, Arose on his midnight way. Then first a moment's chill Went shuddering through his breast, And the steel-clad man stood still Before that place of rest. But he crossed at length, with a deep-drawn breath, The threshold-floor of the hall of Death, And looked on the pale mysterious fire Which gleamed from the urn of his warrior-sire With a strange and solemn light. Then darkly the words of the boding strain Like an omen rose on his soul again -- "Soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep; For the viewless have fearful might!" But the gleaming sword and shield Of many a battle-day Hung o'er that urn, revealed By the tomb-fire's waveless ray; With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound, They hung o'er the dust of the far-renowned, Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice Had called to the banquet where gods rejoice, And the rich mead flows in light. With a beating heart his son drew near, And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear -- "Soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep; For the viewless have fearful might!" And many a Saga's rhyme, And legend of the grave, That shadowy scene and time Called back to daunt the brave. But he raised his arm -- and the flame grew dim, And the sword in its light seemed 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 rang with the heavy sound, And the urn lay shivered in fragments round; And a rush, as of tempests, quenched the fire, And the scattered 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 streamed through the cavern a torch's flame, And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came To seek him in the tomb. Stretched 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 chase is near: Come forth, come forth with me! What dost thou, Sigurd, here?" "I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, I have scattered 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! "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? |