6
On, on above the crowded dead
This Runic scroll shall flare,
And round it shall the lightnings spread,[1]
From swords that never spare."
So rush the hero-words from the Death-doomed one
While Skalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.
VII.
"Flag! from your folds, and fiercely wake
War-music on the wind,
Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake
The sternness of my mind;
Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair,
Pale watcher by the sea,
I hear thy wailings on the air,
Thy heart's dirge sung for me;—
In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung
Above the salt sea foam;
The wave that bears me from thy bower,
Shall never bear me home;
Brynhilda! seek another love,
But ne'er wed one like me,
- ↑ And round it shall pale lightnings spread.—MS. copy.
