HACON.

The clash of arms in battle’s rout

Was heard on Storda’s shore;

The war-steed’s tramp—the victor’s shout—

Blent with the billows’ roar.

There standard, helm, and burnish’d shield

Were mingled on the plain—

And blood, like rivers, from that field

Crimsoned the shuddering main.

Amid the plumed and martial host,

With lofty step and bold,

A warrior strode! a monarch’s boast

His kingly bearing told.

And well that boast his arm of might

In glorious deeds redeemed—

A meteor in the gathering night

The sword of Hacon gleamed.

The storm was o’er; from lurid skies

Looked forth each silent star:

And forms that never more should rise

Cumbered the ground afar.

And o’er them stalks the conqueror now,

With step and glance of pride;

The hue of slaughter on his brow—

His falchion at his side.

His red blade rested on the dead,

He laid his helmet by;

When hark! a sudden courser’s tread—

Is it a foeman nigh?

His ready arm has grasped the spear—

Why falls it from his hand?

Why mutely and with glance of fear

Greets he that midnight band?

Lo! shield, and crest, and lance were there,

And casque of glittering gold;

And long bright waves of shining hair

Beneath each helmet rolled.

Each on a dark steed mounted high,

He saw the shadowy train—

He knew the Maids of Destiny—

The Choosers of the Slain!

Like music on the breath of night

Their softened chorus came—

As bending in the wan moon’s light,

They called on Hacon’s name.

“Hero! there’s mirth in Odin’s hall,

The royal feast is spread—

Thou son of Yngvon! thee we call

To banquet with the dead!

High in Valhalla’s starry dome

The gods expecting stand—

They wait thy presence—conqueror—come!

There’s joy in that green land!

Haste, sisters, haste! Ere midnight fall,

His welcome we prepare—

And tell the guests in Odin’s hall

Hacon will meet them there!”

The forms are gone. The quivering gale

Their echoed voices bore—

The warrior king, all cold and pale,

Lay on that lonely shore.—

They buried his corse beside the wave,

His good sword by his side;—

The only requiem o’er his grave,

The moanings of the tide!