And his faltering hand could not grasp it wellFrom 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 ceased to thrill
With the mighty weapon's fall.

The stars were just fading one by one,
The clouds were just tinged 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 crownThe crown from his head, and the spear from his hand

They have chased him far from the glorious land Where the feast of the gods is spread!

[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 dependants 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.] "Tremblingly flash'd th' inconstant meteor-light, Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth; Save that all signs of human joy or grief, The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seem'd On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek Strange and unnatural." MILMAN.

THE Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep
Of a vision-haunted night,

And he look'd from his bark o'er the gloomy deep,
And counted the streaks of light;

For the red sun's earliest ray Was to rouse his bands that day To the stormy joy of fight!

Seem'd each on a tall pale steed to ride, And a shadowy crest to rear,

And to beckon with faint hand From the dark and rocky strand, And to point a gleaming spear.

Then a stillness on his spirit fell,

Before th' unearthly train,

For he knew Valhalla's daughters well-
The Choosers of the slain !

And a sudden rising breeze
Bore, across the moaning seas,
To his ear their thrilling strain.

"There are songs in Odin's Hall
For the brave ere night to fall!
Doth the great sun hide his ray?
He must bring a wrathful day!
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath?
Swords must do the work of death!
Regner!-Sea-king!-thee we call !-
There is joy in Odin's Hall.

"At the feast, and in the song,
Thou shalt be remember'd long!
By the green isles of the flood,
Thou hast left thy track in blood!
On the earth and on the sea,
There are those will speak of thee!
"Tis enough, the war-gods call,—
There is mead in Odin's Hall!

"Regner! tell thy fair-hair'd bride
She must slumber at thy side!
Tell the brother of thy breast
Even for him thy grave hath rest!
Tell the raven steed which bore thee,
When the wild wolf fled before thee,
He too with his lord must fall,-
There is room in Odin's Hall!

"Lo! the mighty sun looks forth-
Arm! thou leader of the North!
Lo! the mists of twilight fly-
We must vanish, thou must die!
By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows no fear,
Sea-king! nobly thou shalt fall!-
There is joy in Odin's Hall!"

There was arming heard on land and wave,
When afar the sunlight spread,

And the phantom-forms of the tide-worn cave
With the mists of morning fled;

But at eve, the kingly hand Of the battle-axe and brand Lay cold on a pile of dead!

THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS.

A SWISS TRADITION.

[The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells; and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of the land.-See Quarterly Review, No. 44.

The Grütli, where the confederates held their nightly meet-
ings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or
Lake of the Forest Cantons, here called the Forest-Sea.]
OH! enter not yon shadowy cave,

Seek not the bright spars there,
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave
With freshness fill the air:

For there the Patriot Three,
In the garb of old array'd,
By their native Forest-Sea

On a rocky couch are laid.

The Patriot Three that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,

And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore
In the name of liberty!

Now silently they sleep

Amidst the hills they freed;
But their rest is only deep

Till their country's hour of need.

They start not at the hunter's call,
Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by;

And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To a Switzer's heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.

But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles' lonely sky;

When the spear-heads light the lakes,
When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier's mute repose;

When Uri's beechen woods wave red

In the burning hamlet's light

Then from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might !
With a leap, like Tell's proud leap
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep

From the flashing billow sprung!1

They shall wake beside their Forest-Sea,

In the ancient garb they wore

When they link'd the hands that made us free,

On the Grütli's moonlight shore;

And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer'd with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,
And the signal-fires blaze out.

And the land shall see such deeds again

As those of that proud day When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain, Through the serried spears made way; And when the rocks came down On the dark Morgarten dell, And the crowned casques, o'erthrown, Before our fathers fell!

For the Kühreihen's 3 notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain ;

And the yellow harvests wave

For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!

SWISS SONG,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.

[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the departed.-See PLANTA'S History of the Helvetic Confederacy.]

LOOK on the white Alps round!
If yet they gird a land

Where Freedom's voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,-

1 The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung.

THE MESSENGER BIRD.

[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world. See PICART's Ceremonics and Religious Customs.]

THOU art come from the spirits' land, thou bird!

Thou art come from the spirits' land: Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore;

And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there-and they weep no more!

And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst

From the fountain of youth ere now,1

For there must the stream in its freshness burst Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lured to earth From the land of deathless flowers,

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, Though their hearts were once with ours:

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,

And heard the tales of our fathers' days,
Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain! Can those who have loved forget?

We call and they answer not again:

Do they love-do they love us yet?

1 An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, in the 16th century, with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters.-See ROBERTSON'S History of America.

2 ANSWER TO "THE MESSENGER BIRD."

BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY.

YES! I came from the spirits' land,

From the land that is bright and fair;

I came with a voice from the shadowy band, To tell that they love you there.

To say, if a wish or a vain regret

Could live in Elysian bowers,

Twould be for the friends they can ne'er forget, The beloved of their youthful hours.

Doth the warrior think of his brother there,
And the father of his child?
And the chief of those that were wont to share
His wandering through the wild?

We call them far through the silent night,

And they speak not from cave or hill; We know, thou bird! that their land is bright, But say, do they love there still ??

THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.

[An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only gone on a journey, and, being in constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers.-PICART'S Ceremonies and Religious Customs.

"J'ai passe moi-même," says Chateaubriand in his Souvenirs d'Amerique, “chez une peuplade Indienne qui se prenait à pleurer à la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la Contrée des Ames, et depuis long-tems en voyage."]

WE saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance; The light of his eye was a joy to see, The path of his arrows a storm to flee. But there came a voice from a distant shoreHe was call'd-he is found midst his tribe no more He is not in his place when the night-fires burn, But we look for him still-he will yet return! His brother sat with a drooping brow In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough: We roused him-we bade him no longer pine, For we heard a step-but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look'd for the maid of the mournful songMournful, though sweet,—she hath left us long: We told her the youth of her love was gone, And she went forth to seek him-she pass'd alone. We hear not her voice when the woods are still, From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, The winter is white on his lonely head:

He hath none by his side when the wilds we track, He hath none when we rest-yet she comes not back!

We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step-but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look'd for the chief, who hath left the spear And the bow of his battles forgotten here: We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament On the wind of the forest at eve is sent: We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!Where are they? Thou'rt seeking some distant coast: Oh ask of them, stranger !-send back the lost! Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams, Tell them our lives but of them are dreams! Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, And to watch for a step-but the step was thine!

THE ISLE OF FOUNTS;

AN INDIAN TRADITION.

["The river St Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich high land; one of which the present generation of the Creek Indians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth. They say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in pursuit of game; but that in their endeavours to approach it, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly before them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved, at length, to leave the delusive pursuit, and to return; which, after a number of difficulties, they effected. When they reported their adventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed with an irresistible desire to invade and make a conquest of so charming a country; but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, never having been able again to find that enchanting spot."-BERTRAM's Travels through North and South Carolina, &c.

The additional circumstances in the "Isle of Founts" are merely imaginary.]

SON of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake

Along whose banks the west winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile-
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle !

Lull but the mighty serpent-king,1

Midst the gray rocks, his old domain; Ward but the cougar's deadly spring,

Thy step that lake's green shore may gain; And the bright Isle, when all is pass'd, Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!

Yes there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear as within thine arrow's flight,
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams,

Floats on the wave in golden light;
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!

And breathings from their sunny flowers, Which are not of the things that die, And singing voices from their bowers, Shall greet thee in the purple sky; Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell Far in the green reed's hollow cell.

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise From the deep chambers of the earth? The wild and wondrous melodies

To which the ancient rocks gave birth ?? Like that sweet song of hidden caves Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves.

The emerald waves !--they take their hue

And image from that sunbright shore; But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,

And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed, The dreamy land should still recede !

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,

1 The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the "bright old inhabitants." They represent them as snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of drawing to them every living creature that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle of dazzling brightness. See Notes to LEYDEN'S Scenes of Infancy.

2 The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American missionaries Laxas de Musica, and alluded to in a former note.