But the wind strange magic knows, From the grey wood's tossing boughs, The pines closed o'er him with deeper gloom, He pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood, Then first a moment's chill Went shuddering through his breast, But he cross'd at length, with a deep-drawn breath, And look'd on the pale mysterious fire Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire Then darkly the words of the boding strain -"Soft be thy step through the silence deep, But the gleaming sword and shield Hung o'er that urn, reveal'd By the tomb-fire's waveless ray; With a faded leaf of oak-leaves bound, With a beating heart his son drew near, And many a Saga's rhyme, Call'd back, to daunt the brave. But he raised his arm--and the flame grew dim, And the sword in its light seem'd to wave and swin, And his faltering hand could not grasp it well- The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, One moment-and all was still The stars were just fading, one by one, To seek him in the tomb. Stretch'd on his shield, like the steel-girt slain, In a speechless trance lay the warrior there; "The morning wind blows free, "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; "In the mantle of death he was here with me now- With an icy ray and a withering spell Oh! chill is the house of sleep! "The morning wind blows free, It is dark and fearful here!" "He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown! The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand- 'He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, His place is no longer at Odin's board, That sword its fame had won VALKYRIUR SONG. [The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, were sup posed to single out the warriors who were to die in battle, and be received into the halls of Odin. When a northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obsequies were honored with all possible magnificence. His arms, gold and silver, war-horse, domestic attendants, and whatever else he held most dear, were placed with him on the pile. His dependants and friends frequently made it a point of honor to die with their leader, in order to attend on his shade in Valhalla, or the palace of Odin' And, lastly, his wife was generally consumed with him on the same pile. See MALLET'S Northern Antiquities, HERBERT'S Helga, &c., "Tremblingly flash'd th' inconstant meteor light, THE sea-king woke from the troubled sleep Of a vision-haunted night, Milman. And he look'd from his bark o'er the gloomy deep, For the red sun's earliest ray Was to rouse his bands that day To the stormy joy of fight! But the dreams of rest were still on earth, And the silent stars on high, And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth 'Midst the quiet of the sky; And along the twilight bay, In their sleep the hamlets lay, For they knew not the Norse were nigh! The Sea-king look'd o'er the brooding wave: He turn'd to the dusky shore, And there seem'd, through the arch of a tide-worn cave, A gleam, as of snow, to pour; And forth, in watery light, Moved phantoms, dimly white, Which the garb of woman bore. Slowly they moved to the billow side; And to beckon with faint hand For he knew Valhalla s daughters well, And a sudden rising breeze "There are songs in Odin's Hall "At the feast and in the song, "Lo! the mighty sun looks forth- There was arming heard on land and wave, And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave With the mists of morning fled; But at eve, the kingly hand THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS. A SWISS TRADITION. "The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells; and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of the land.-See Quarterly Review, No. 44. The Grütli, where the confederates held their nightly meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Forest-cantons, here called the Forest-sea. OH! enter not yon shadowy cave, Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave For there the Patriot Three The Patriot Three that met of yore And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore Now silently they sleep Amidst the hills they freed! But their rest is only deep Till their country's hour of need. They start not at the hunter's call, But when the battle-horn is blown Through their eagles' lonely sky; When the spear-heads light the lakes, When trumpets loose the snows, When the rushing war-steed shakes The glacier's mute repose; |