Clear eyes, that burning on a host
Would win a field at sunset lost,
Ere stars from Odin's hand were toss'd.
He stretch'd his hand, he bowed his head:
The wan ghost to his bosom sped—
Dead kiss'd the bearded lips of Dead!
"What dost thou here, my youngest born?
"Thou—scarce yet fronted with life's storm—
"Why art thou from the dark earth torn?
"When high Valhalla puls'd and rang
"With harps that shook as grey bards sang—
"'Mid the loud joy I heard the clang.
"Of Death's dark doors—to me alone
"Smote in thy awful dying groan—
"My soul recall'd its blood and bone.
"Viewless the cord which draws from far
"To the round sun some mighty star;
"Viewless the strong-knit soul-cords are!
"I felt thy dying gasp—thy soul
"Towards mine a kindred wave in roll,
"I left the harps—I left the bowl.
"I sought the Hellway—I—the blest;
"That thou, new death-born son should rest
"Upon the strong rock of my breast.
"What dost thou here, young, fair and bold?
"Sleek with youth's gloss thy locks of gold;
"Thy years by flow'rs might yet be told!
"What dost thou at the ghostly goal,
"While yet thy years were to thy soul,
"As mead yet shallow in the bowl?"