Ev'n thus may the summer pour All fragrant things on the land's green breast, And the glorious earth like a bride be dress'd, But it wins her back no more. THE SWORD OF THE TOMB. A NORTHERN LEGEND. The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in "Starkother," a tragedy by the Danish Poet Ochlenschlager: The sepulchral fire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the ashes of deceased heroes, is frequently mentioned in the Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to the departed spirit were supposed by the Scandinavian mythologists to be the consequence of any profanation of the sepulchre. See Ochlenschlager's Plays. "VOICE of the gifted elder time! Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme! How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes; "Voice of the grave! 'tis the mighty hour, Then the torrents of the North, "There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead, "There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb, Then died the solemn lay, As a trumpet's music dies, By the night-wind borne away The fir-trees rock'd to the wailing blast, The fir-trees rock'd, and the frozen ground 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 The pines closed o'er him with deeper gloom, But his road through dimness lay! He pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood, Then first a moment's chill Went shuddering through his breast, And the steel-clad man stood still 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, Then darkly the words of the boding strain |