Classic Poem

The Danish swords drive down the Swedish host
 Towards the coast,
Far off the war-cars roll, the weapons gleam
 I' the moon's pale beam.
There, on the fatal field, ere long to die,
Young Sweyn, and Ulf, the grayhaired warrior, lie.

Sweyn.

O father—why should Fate decree my doom,
 In youth's full bloom?
My mother never more with loving care
 Shall deck my hair;
From her high tow'r my minstrel-girl in vain
Beholds with longing gaze the vacant plain.

Ulf.

Though they will grieve, when in wild dreams by night
 We mock their sight,
Be comforted; not long the faithful heart
 Endures its smart.
Soon will thy smiling girl—with golden hair—
To thee at Odin's feast the wine-cup bear.

Sweyn.

Once with a festive strain my harp-strings rung;
 I blithely sung
Of kings and heroes passed long since from life,
 Of love and strife.
Now silent hangs my harp, and yields no tone
Save when the wind draws forth a mournful moan.

Ulf.

Great Odin's hall beneath the sun's bright beams
 High-soaring, gleams;
Beneath Him swim the stars, around His throne
 The tempests moan.
There with our fathers shall we rest full long,
Then lift thy voice, and end thy broken song.

Sweyn.

O father, why should Fate decree my doom
 In youth's full bloom?
As yet no scutcheon, won in well-fought field
 Adorns my shield.
Twelve judges, high-enthroned, their judgments deal,
No place they grant me at the hero's meal.

Ulf.

“ One noble deed may many deeds outweigh,”
 The twelve will say,

“'Tis when, to aid his country's sorest needs,
  A hero bleeds.”—
Behold where flies the foe! lift up thine eyes,
Bright gleams yon heav'n—there, there our pathway lies.