All sheath'd the maidens brought it, and fear'd the hidden blade,

But the naked blue-white edges across her knees she laid,

And spake: "The heap'd-up riches, the gear my fathers left,

All dear-bought woven wonders, all rings from battle reft,

All goods of men desired, now strew them on the floor,

And so share among you, maidens, the

gifts of Brynhild's store."

They brought them mid their weeping, but none put forth a hand

To take that wealth desired, the spoils of many a land :

There they stand and weep before her, and some are mov'd to speech,

And they cast their arms about her and strive with her, and beseech

Then upright by the bed of the Niblungs for a moment doth she stand,

And the blade flasheth bright in the chamber, but no more they hinder her hand

Than if a God were smiting to rend the world in two:

Then dull'd are the glittering edges, and the bitter point cleaves through The breast of the all-wise Brynhild, and her feet from the pavement fail, And the sigh of her heart is hearken'd mid the hush of the maidens' wail. Chill, deep is the fear upon them, but they bring her aback to the bed, And her hand is yet on the hilt, and sidelong droopeth her head.

Are

Then there cometh a cry from withoutward, and Gunnar's hurrying feet swift on the kingly threshold, and Brynhild's blood they meet. Low down o'er the bed he hangeth and hearkeneth for her word,

And her heavy lids are open'd to look on the Niblung lord,

And she saith: "I pray thee a prayer, the last word in the world I speak, That ye bear me forth to Sigurd, and the hand my hand would seek; The bale for the dead is builded, it is wrought full wide on the plain, It is rais'd for Earth's best Helper, and thereon is room for twain:

Ye have hung the shields about it, and the Southland hangings spread,

There lay me adown by Sigurd and my head beside his head:

But ere you leave us sleeping, draw his Wrath from out the sheath,

And lay that Light of the Branstock, and the blade that frighted death Betwixt my side and Sigurd's, as it lay that while agone,

When once in one bed together we twain were laid alone :

How then when the flames flare upward may I be left behind?

How then may the road he wendeth be hard

for my feet to find?

How then in the gates of Valhali 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.

Scarce more than a sigh was the word, as back on the bed she fell,

Nor was there need in the chamber of the passing of Brynhild to tell; And no more their lamentation might the maidens hold aback,

But the sound of their bitter mourning was as if red-handed wrack

Ran wild in the Burg of the Niblungs, and the fire were master of all.

Then the voice of Gunnar the war-king cried out o'er the weeping hall : "Wail on, O women forsaken, for the mightiest woman born!

Now the hearth is cold and joyless, and the waste bed lieth forlorn,

Wail on, but amid your weeping lay hand to the glorious dead,

That not alone for an hour may lie Queen Brynhild's head :

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 BURGHERS' BATTLE

THICK rise the spear-shafts o'er the land
That erst the harvest bore;

The sword is heavy in the hand,
And we return no more.

The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,
Our banner of the war,

And ripples in the Running Ox,

And we return no more.

Across our stubble acres now
The teams go four and four;

But outworn elders guide the plough,
And we return no more.

And now the women, heavy-eyed,
Turn through the open door

From gazing down the highway wide,
Where we return no more.

Back go the good wives 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.

We ask'd them for a life of toilsome earning,

They bade us bide their leisure for our bread;

We crav'd to speak to tell our woeful learning:

We come back speechless, bearing back our dead.

They will not learn; they have no ears to hearken;

They turn their faces from the eyes of fate;

Their gay-lit halls shut out the skies that darken.

But, lo! this dead man knocking at the gate.

Here lies the sign that we shall break our prison;

Amidst the storm he won a prisoner's rest; But in the cloudy dawn the sun arisen Brings us our day of work to win the best. Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,

But one and all if they would dusk the day.

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.

We have eaten, we have earn'd
Wine of grief and bread of care,
We, who saw her first inurn'd
In the dust and silence there.
We have wept-ah God! not so:
Trivial tears dried long ago.

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

years:

Laughter in a silver flow :

CIRCE

THIS the house of Circe, queen of charms, -
A kind of beacon-cauldron pois'd on high,
Hoop'd round with ember-clasping iron
bars,

Sways in her palace porch, and smoulderingly

Drips out in blots of fire and ruddy stars :
But out behind that trembling furnace air
The lands are ripe and fair,

Hush are the hills and quiet to the eye.
The river's reach goes by

With lamb and holy tower and squares of

corn,

And shelving interspace

Of holly bush and thorn

And hamlets happy in an Alpine morn,
And deep-bower'd lanes with grace
Of woodbine newly born.

But inward o'er the hearth a torch-head stands

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