Till the feet of Brynhild's bearers on the

topmost bale are laid,

And her bed is dight by Sigurd's; then he sinks the pale white blade

And lays it 'twixt the sleepers, and leaves them there alone

He, the last that shall ever behold them,

and his days are well nigh done.

Then is silence over the plain; in the moon shine the torches pale

As the best of the Niblung Earl-folk bear fire to the builded bale :

Then a wind in the west ariseth, and the white flames leap on high,

And with one voice crieth the people a great and mighty cry,

And men cast up hands to the Heavens, and pray without a word,

As they that have seen God's visage, and the face of the Father have heard.

They are gone - the lovely, the mighty, the hope of the ancient Earth :

It shall labor and bear the burden as before that day of their birth;

It shall groan in its blind abiding for the day that Sigurd hath sped, And the hour that Brynhild hath hasten'd, and the dawn that waketh the dead:

It shall yearn, and be oft-times holpen, and forget their deeds no more,

Till the new sun beams on Baldur, and the happy sealess shore.

THE BURGHERS' BATTLE

THICK rise the spear-shafts o'er the land That erst the harvest bore;

The sword is heavy in the hand,

And we return no more.

The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,

Our banner of the war,

And ripples in the Running Ox,

And we return no more.

Across our stubble acres now
The teams go four and four ;

But outworn elders guide the plough,
And we return no more.

And now the women, heavy-eyed,
Turn through the open door

From gazing down the highway wide,
Where we return no more.

The shadows of the fruitéd close
Dapple the feast-hall floor;

There lie our dogs and dream and doze,
And we return no more.

Down from the minster tower to-day
Fall the soft chimes of yore

Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play:
And we return no more.

But underneath the streets are still;
Noon, and the market's o'er !
Back go the goodwives o'er the hill;
For we return no more.

What merchant to our gates shall come?
What wise man bring us lore?
What abbot ride away to Rome,

Now we return no more?

What mayor shall rule the hall we built? Whose scarlet sweep the floor?

What judge shall doom the robber's guilt,
Now we return no more?

New houses in the streets shall rise
Where builded we before,

Of other stone wrought otherwise;
For we return no more.

And crops shall cover field and hill,
Unlike what once they bore,

And all be done without our will,
Now we return no more.

Look up the arrows streak the sky,
The horns of battle roar ;

The long spears lower and draw nigh,
And we return no more.

Remember how, beside the wain,
We spoke the word of war,

And sow'd this harvest of the plain,
And we return no more.

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!
The days of old are o'er;

Heave sword about the Running Ox!
For we return no more.

Light, our light, what dusty night

Numbs the golden drowsy head?
Lo! empath'd in pearls of light,
Morn resurgent from the dead;

From whose amber shoulders flow
Shroud and sheet of cloudy woe.

Woods are dreaming, and she dreams :
Through the foliaged roof above
Down immeasurably streams
Splendor like an angel's love,
Till the tomb and gleaming urn
In a mist of glory burn.

Cedars there in outspread palls
Lean their rigid canopies;
Yet a lark note through them falls,
As he scales his orient skies.

That aërial song of his,

Sweet, might come from thee in bliss.

Spring on spring renew the show Of their frail memorial woe.

Wreaths of intertwisted yew
Lay for cypress where she lies,
Mingle perfume from the blue
Of the forest violet's eyes.

Let the squirrel sleek its fur,
And the primrose peep at her.

CIRCE

THIS the house of Circe, queen of charms, -
A kind of beacon-cauldron pois'd on high,
Hoop'd round with ember-clasping iron
bars,

Sways in her palace porch, and smoulderingly

Drips out in blots of fire and ruddy stars :
But out behind that trembling furnace air
The lands are ripe and fair,

Hush are the hills and quiet to the eye.
The river's reach goes by

With lamb and holy tower and squares of

corn,

And shelving interspace

Of holly bush and thorn

And hamlets happy in an Alpine morn,
And deep-bower'd lanes with grace
Of woodbine newly born.

But inward o'er the hearth a torch-head stands

Inverted, slow green flames of fulvous hue,
Echoed in wave-like shadows over her.
A censer's swing-chain set in her fair
hands

Dances up wreaths of intertwisted blue
In clouds of fragrant frankincense and
myrrh.

A giant tulip head and two pale leaves Grew in the midmost of her chamber there. A flaunting bloom, naked and undivine, Rigid and bare,

Gaunt as a tawny bond-girl born to shame, With freckled cheeks and splotch'd side serpentine,

A gipsy among flowers,

Unmeet for bed or bowers,

Virginal where pure-handed damsels sleep: Let it not breathe a common air with them, Lest when the night is deep,

And all things have their quiet in the

Men eyed as gods, and damsels still as stone,

Pressing their brows alone,

In amethystine robes,

Or reaching at the polish'd orchard globes, Or rubbing parted love-lips on their rind, While the wind

Sows with sere apple-leaves their breast and hair.

And all the margin there

Was arabesqued and border'd intricate
With hairy spider things,

That catch and clamber,

And salamander in his dripping cave
Satanic ebon-amber;

Blind worm, and asp, and eft of cumbrous gait,

And toads who love rank grasses near a

We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady

And night were bright like day ; If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,

And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.

HESPERIA

OUT of the golden remote wild west where

the sea without shore is,

Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the fulness of joy,