And many a Saga's rhyme, And legend of the grave, Called back, to daunt the brave. But he raised his arm, and the flame grew dim, And the sword in its light seemed to wave and swim, And his faltering hand could not grasp it wellFrom the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell Through the chamber of the dead! The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, One moment-and all was still The stars were just fading, one by one, And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came Stretched on his shield, like the steel-girt slain "The morning wind blows free, "I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, "In the mantle of death he was here with me now,There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow; And nis cold still glance on my spirit fell "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 Volhalla without his sword! That sword its fame had won VALKYRIUR SONG. The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, were supposed 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 obsequic were honoured 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 honour 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 Hegla, &c. Tremblingly flashed 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 scemed On the fixed brightness of each dazzling cheek Strange and unnatural Milman. THE Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep And he looked 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 there waved not the smoke of one cabinhearth '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 looked o'er the brooding wave: He turned to the dusky shore, There was arming heard on land and wave, When afar the sunlight spread, And there seemed, through the arch of a tide- And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave worn cave, A gleam, as of snow, to pour; Slowly they moved to the billow side; And to beckon with faint hand Then a stillness on his spirit fell, Before th' unearthly train, 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- 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. 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 Lucerna, or Lake of the Forest-cantons, here called the Forest-sea. OH! enter not yon shadowy cave, Seek not the bright stars there, 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; Till their country's hour of need. They start not at the hunter's call, And the Alpine herdsman's lay, But when the battle-horn is blown When spear-heads light the lakes, When Uri's beechen woods wave red From the flashing billow sprung! In the ancient garb they wore When they linked the hands that made us.free, And their voices shall be heard, And the land shall see such deeds again For the Kühreihen'st notes must never sound In a land that wears the chain, And the yellow harvest wave For no stranger's hand to reap, SWISS SONG, ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE. The Swiss, even to our days have continued to celebrate the anniversary of ancient battles with much solemnity; assem bling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings 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 Where freedom's voice and step are found, •The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the T'ellensprung. Crowned helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond's Switzerland. The Kuhreihen, the celebrated Rans des Vaches. The faithful band, our sires, who fell Here, in the narrow battle-dell! If yet, the wilds among, Our silent hearts may burn, When the deep mountain-horn had rung, And home our steps may turn, -Home-home!-if still that name be dear Praise to the men who perished here! Look on the white Alps round! Up to the shining snows The sound of battle rose! They saw the princely crest, They saw the knightly spear Praise to the mountain-born, The brethren of the glen! Look on the white Alps round Teach them in song to bless the band If, by the wood-fire's blaze, When winter-stars gleam cold, The glorious tales of elder days May proudly yet be told, Forget not then the shepherd-race, Who made the hearth a holy place! Look on the white Alps round! If yet the sabbath bell Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound, For blood first bathed its flowery sod, THE MESSENGER-BIRD. Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world. See Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs. THOU art come from the spirits' land, thou bird! Thou art come from the spirits' land! |