But the gleaming sword and shield
Of many a battle-day
Hung o’er that urn, reveal’d
By the tomb-fire’s waveless ray;
With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound,
They hung o’er the dust of the far-renown’d,
Whom the bright Valkyriur’s warning voice
Had call’d to the banquet where gods rejoice,
And the rich mead flows in light.
With a beating heart his son drew near,