for my feet to find?

How then in the gates of Valhall may the door of the gleaming ring Clash to on the heel of Sigurd, as I follow on my king?"

Then she rais'd herself on her elbow, but again her eyelids sank,

And the wound by the sword-edge whisper'd, as her heart from the iron shrank, And she moan'd: "O lives of man-folk, for unrest all overlong

By the Father were ye fashion'd; and what hope amendeth wrong?

Now at last, O my beloved, all is gone; none else is near,

Through the ages of all ages, never sunder'd, shall we wear.

For here have been heavy tidings, and the Mightiest under shield

Is laid on the bale high-builded in the Niblungs' hallow'd field.

Fare forth for he abideth, and we do Allfather wrong,

If the shining Valhall's pavement await their feet o'erlong."

Then they took the body of Brynhild in the raiment that she wore,

And out through the gate of the Niblungs the holy corpse they bore, And thence forth to the mead of the people, and the high-built shielded bale; Then afresh in the open meadows breaks forth the women's wail

When they see the bed of Sigurd, and the glittering of his gear;

And fresh is the wail of the people as Brynhild draweth anear,

And the tidings go before her that for twain the bale is built,

That for twain is the oak-wood shielded and the pleasant odors spilt.

There is peace on the bale of Sigurd, and the Gods look down from on high, And they see the lids of the Volsung close shut against the sky,

As he lies with his shield beside him in the Hauberk all of gold,

That has not its like in the heavens, nor has earth of its fellow told;

And forth from the Helm of Aweing are the sunbeams flashing wide, And the sheathed Wrath of Sigurd lies still by his mighty side.

Then cometh an elder of days, a man of the ancient times,

Who is long past sorrow and joy, and the steep of the bale he climbs ; And he kneeleth down by Sigurd, and bareth the Wrath to the sun That the beams are gather'd about it, and from hilt to blood-point run,

And wide o'er the plain of the Niblungs doth the Light of the Branstock glare,

Till the wondering mountain-shepherds on that star of noontide stare, And fear for many an evil; but the ancient man stands still

With the war-flame on his shoulder, nor thinks of good or of ill,

The shadows of the fruitéd close
Dapple the feast-hall floor;

There lie our dogs and dream and doze,
And we return no more.

Down from the minster tower to-day
Fall the soft chimes of yore

Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play :
And we return no more.

But underneath the streets are still;
Noon, and the market's o'er !

Back go the goodwives o'er the hill;
For we return no more.

What merchant to our gates shall come?
What wise man bring us lore?
What abbot ride away to Rome,

Now we return no more?

What mayor shall rule the hall we built? Whose scarlet sweep the floor?

What judge shall doom the robber's guilt,
Now we return no more?

New houses in the streets shall rise
Where builded we before,

Of other stone wrought otherwise;
For we return no more.

And crops shall cover field and hill,
Unlike what once they bore,

And all be done without our will,
Now we return no more.

Look up! the arrows streak the sky,
The horns of battle roar ;

The long spears lower and draw nigh,
And we return no more.

Remember how, beside the wain,
We spoke the word of war,

And sow'd this harvest of the plain,
And we return no more.

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!
The days of old are o'er ;

Heave sword about the Running Ox!
For we return no more.

A DEATH SONG

WHAT Cometh here from west to east a-wending?

And who are these, the marchers stern and slow?

We bear the message that the rich are sending

Aback to those who bade them wake and know.

Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,

But one and all if they would dusk the day.

BRING no jarring lute this way
To demean her sepulchre,
Toys of love and idle day
Vanish as we think of her.

We, who read her epitaph,
Find the world not worth a laugh.

Light, our light, what dusty night

Numbs the golden drowsy head?
Lo! empath'd in pearls of light,
Morn resurgent from the dead;

From whose amber shoulders flow
Shroud and sheet of cloudy woe.

Woods are dreaming, and she dreams :
Through the foliaged roof above
Down immeasurably streams
Splendor like an angel's love,
Till the tomb and gleaming urn
In a mist of glory burn.

Cedars there in outspread palls
Lean their rigid canopies;
Yet a lark note through them falls,
As he scales his orient skies.

That aërial song of his,

Sweet, might come from thee in bliss.

There the roses pine and weep

Strong, delicious human tears;

There the posies o'er her sleep

Spring on spring renew the show Of their frail memorial woe.

Wreaths of intertwisted yew
Lay for cypress where she lies,
Mingle perfume from the blue
Of the forest violet's eyes.

Let the squirrel sleek its fur,
And the primrose peep at her.
We have seen three winters sow
Hoarfrost on thy winding-sheet:
Snows return again, and thou
Hearest not the crisping sleet.

Winds arise and winds depart,
Yet no tempest rocks thy heart.

We have seen with fiery tongue

Thrice the infant crocus born:
Thrice its trembling curtain hung
In a chink of frozen morn.

This can rear its silken crest:
Nothing thaws her ice-bound breast.

But we yearn and make our moan For the step we us'd to know:

years:

Laughter in a silver flow:

Inverted, slow green flames of fulvous hue,
Echoed in wave-like shadows over her.
A censer's swing-chain set in her fair
hands

Dances up wreaths of intertwisted blue
In clouds of fragrant frankincense and
myrrh.

A giant tulip head and two pale leaves Grew in the midmost of her chamber there. A flaunting bloom, naked and undivine, Rigid and bare,

Gaunt as a tawny bond-girl born to shame, With freckled cheeks and splotch'd side serpentine,

A gipsy among flowers,

Unmeet for bed or bowers,

Virginal where pure-handed damsels sleep : Let it not breathe a common air with them, Lest when the night is deep,

And all things have their quiet in the

moon,

Some birth of poison from its leaning stem
Waft in between their slumber-parted lips,
And they cry out or swoon,
Deeming some vampire sips

Where riper Love may come for nectar boon!

And near this tulip, rear'd across a loom, Hung a fair web of tapestry half done, Crowding with folds and fancies half the

room: