The fir-trees rock'd to the wailing blast,
As on through the forest the warrior past
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 rock'd, and the frozen ground
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound,
And it seem'd that the depths of those mystic shades
From the dreamy 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 grey 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 pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood,
The dark shrine stain'd 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 cross'd at length, with a deep-drawn breath,
The threshold-floor of the hall of death,
And look'd on the pale mysterious fire,
Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire
With a strange and a solemn light.*[1]
Then darkly the words of the boding strain,
Like an omen, rose on his soul again,
—"Soft be thy tread through the silence deep.
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!"
But the magic sword and shield
Of many a battle-day
Hung o'er that urn reveal'd
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray.
With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound,
They hung o'er the dust of the far-renown'd,
Whom the bright Valkyriur's glorious voice
Had call'd to the banquet where gods rejoice,
And the rich mead flows in light.
With a beating heart his son drew near,
And still rung the verse in his thrilling ear,
—"Soft be thy tread 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
Call'd back to daunt the brave.
- ↑ * The sepulchral fire, supposed to guard the ashes of departed heroes, is frequently alluded to in the Northern Sagas.
