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,