# The Forest Sanctuary, and Other Poems/The Sword of the Tomb

THE SWORD OF THE TOMB.
A NORTHERN LEGEND.
The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in "Storkother," 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! Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose, How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes;  Voice of the buried past!
"Voice of the grave! 'tis the mighty hour, When night with her stars and dreams hath power, And my step hath been soundless on the snows, And the spell I have sung hath laid repose  On the billow and the blast."
Then the torrents of the North, And the forest pines were still, While a hollow chant came forth From the dark sepulchral hill.
"There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead, But where the day looks not the brave may tread: There is heard no song, and no mead is pour'd, But the warrior may come to the silent board  In the shadow of the night.
"There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb, And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom; But soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep,  For the viewless have fearful might!"
Then died the solemn lay, As a trumpet's music dies, By the night-wind borne away Through the wild and stormy skies.
The fir-trees rock'd to the wailing blast, As on through the forest the warrior pass'd,— Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old, The dark place of visions and legends, told  By the fires of Northern pine.
The fir-trees rock'd, and the frozen ground Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound; And it seem'd that the depths of those awful shades, From the dreary gloom of their long arcades,  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 When night is on her throne.
The pines clos'd o'er him with deeper gloom, As he took the path to the monarch's tomb; The pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright With the arrowy streams of the northern light,  But his road through dimness lay!
He pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood, The dark shrine stain'd with the victim's blood: Nor paus'd, till the rock where a vaulted bed Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead,  Arose on his midnight way.
Then first a moment's chill Went shuddering through his breast, And the steel-clad man stood still Before that place of rest.
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,  With a strange and solemn light.
Then darkly the words of the boding strain Like an omen rose on his soul again, —"Soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep,  For the viewless have fearful might!"
But the gleaming sword and shield Of many a battle-day Hung o'er that urn, reveal'd By the tomb-fire's waveless ray.
With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound, They hung o'er the dust of the far-renown’d, Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice Had call'd to the banquet where gods rejoice,  And the rich mead flows in light.
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, I have scatter'd the dust of my warrior-sire! 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!