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 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 ceas'd 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 do'st 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!

'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 it fiercest work was done
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast!

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,
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth;
Save that all signs of human joy or grief,
The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seem'd
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek
Strange and unnatural."

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,
And counted the streaks of light;

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 the forms, as they grew more clear,
Seem'd each on a tall pale steed to ride,
And a shadowy crest to rear,

And to beckon with faint hand
From the dark and rocky strand,
And to point a gleaming spear.
Then a stillness on his spirit fell,
Before th' unearthly train.

For he knew Valhalla s daughters well,
The Choosers of the slain!

And a sudden rising breeze
Bore, across the moaning seas,
To his ear their thrilling strain.

"There are songs in Odin's Hall
For the brave ere night to fall!
Doth the great sun hide his ray ?-
He must bring a wrathful day!
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath?
Swords must do the work of death!
Regner-Sea-king!-thee we call!
There is joy in Odin's Hall.

At the feast and in the song,
Thou shalt be remember'd long!
By the green isles of the flood,
Thou hast left thy track in blood!
On the earth and on the sea,
There are those will speak of thee!
"Tis enough, the war-gods call,-
There is mead in Odin's Hall!

Regner! tell thy fair-hair'd bride
She must slumber at thy side!
Tell the brother of thy breast
Even for him thy grave hath rest!
Tell the raven steed which bore thee,
When the wild wolf fled before thee,
He too with his lord must fall,
There is room in Odin's Hall!

"Lo! the mighty sun looks forth-
Arm! thou leader of the north!
Lo! the mists of twilight fly,-
We must vanish, thou must die!
By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows not fear,
See-king! nobly shalt thou fall!-
There is joy in Odin's Hall!"

There was arming heard on land and wave,
When afar the sunlight spread,

And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave

With the mists of morning fled;
But at eve, the kingly hand
Of the battle-axe and brand
Lay cold on a pile of dead!

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,
Seek not the bright spars there,

Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave
With freshness fill the air:

For there the Patriot Three
In the garb of old array'd
By their native Forest-sea,
On a rocky couch are laid.

The Patriot Three that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,

And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore

In the name of liberty!

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,
Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by!
And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To a Switzer's heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.

But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,

When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone

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;

- མའ་་

When Ur's beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet's light;
Then from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap, like Tell's proud leap
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep

From the flashing billow sprung*

They shall wake beside their Forest-sea,
In the ancient garb they wore

When they link'd the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli's moonlight shore:

And their voices shall be heard,
And be answered with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,
And the signal-fires blaze out.
And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day,

When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crown'd casques,t o'erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!

For the Kühreihen'st notes must never sound
In the land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain !

And the yellow harvests wave
For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep.

SWISS SONG,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.

[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thankgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the departed.-See PLANTA'S History of the Helvetic Confederacy.]

Look on the white Alps round!

If yet they gird a land

*The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler s marked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung.

† Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond's Switzerland.

The Kühreihen, the celebrated Ranz des Vaches.