With a beating heart his son drew near,
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear,
-"Soft be thy step 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.

But he rais'd his arm-and the flame grew dim,

And the sword in its light seem'd to wave and swim,

And his faltering hand could not grasp it well-
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell
Through the chamber of the dead!

The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound,
And the urn lay shiver'd in fragments round;

And a rush, as of tempests, quench'd the fire,
And the scatter'd dust of his warlike sire

Was strewn on the Champion's head.

One moment—and all was still

In the slumberer's ancient hall,

When the rock had ceas'd to thrill

With the mighty weapon's fall.

The stars were just fading, one by one,

The clouds were just ting'd by the early sun,

When there stream'd through the cavern a torch's flame,

And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came

To seek him in the tomb.

Stretch'd on his shield, like the steel-girt slain,
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there,
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare

Burst on him through the gloom.

"The morning wind blows free,

And the hour of chase is near:

Come forth, come forth, with me!

What dost thou, Sigurd, here ?"

"I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, warrior-sire!

I have scatter'd the dust of my

It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart ; But the winds shall not wander without their part

To strew o'er the restless deep!

"In the mantle of death he was here with me now,There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow;

And his cold, still glance on my spirit fell

With an icy ray and a withering spell

Oh! chill is the house of sleep!"

"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 chas'd 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 Valhalla without his sword!

But the slayer shall avenge the 'dead!"

That sword its fame had won

By the fall of many a crest,

But its fiercest work was done

In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast!

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 obsequies 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 dependents 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 Helga, &c.