Through all souls subduing strode
The alarum-call of God.
But the sacrifice they dread!
Will, the weakling, hides his head;—
<g>One</g> man died for them of yore,—
Cowardice is crime no more!
[Sinks down on a stone, and looks with shrinking
gaze around.]
Oft I shudder'd at their doom;
And I walk'd, with horror quivering,
As a little child walks shivering
Amid shrieking shapes that loom
In a dim and haunted room.
But I check'd my bosom's quaking,
And bethought me, and consoled it:
Out of doors the day is breaking,
Not of night it is, this gloom,
But the shutters barr'd enfold it;
And I thought, the day inwelling,
Rich with summer's golden bloom,
Shall anon prevail, expelling
All the darkness that is dwelling
In the dim and haunted room.
O how bitter my dismay!
Pitchy darkness on me broke,—
And, without, a nerveless folk
Sat forlorn by fjord and bay,
Dim traditions treasuring
While their sotted souls decay.
Even as, year by year, the king
Treasured up his Snefrid dead,
Loosed the linen shroud o'erspread
By her mute heart listening low,
Still upon hope's fragments fed,
Thinking, "Now the roses red
In her pallid ashes blow!"
