But he cross’d at length, with a deep-drawn breath,
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death,
And look’d on the pale mysterious fire
Which gleam’d from the urn of his warrior-sire
With a strange and solemn light.
Then darkly the words of the boding strain
Like an omen rose on his soul again—
“Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep;
For the viewless have fearful might!”