The Sea-king looked o’er the brooding wave;

He turned to the dusky shore,

And there seemed, through the arch of a tide-worn cave

A gleam, as of snow, to pour;

And forth, in watery light,

Moved phantoms, dimly white,

Which the garb of woman bore.

Slowly they moved to the billow side;

And the forms, as they grew more clear,

Seemed each on a tall, pale steed to ride,

And a shadowy crest to rear,

And to beckon with faint hand,

From the dark and rocky strand,

And to point a gleaming spear.

Then a stillness on his spirit fell,

Before th’ unearthly train,

For he knew Valhalla’s daughters well,

The Choosers of the slain!

And a sudden rising breeze

Bore, across the moaning seas,

To his ear their thrilling strain.

“Regner! tell thy fair-haired bride

She must slumber at thy side!

Tell the brother of thy breast,

Even for him thy grave hath rest!

Tell the raven steed which bore thee,

When the wild wolf fled before thee,

He too with his lord must fall,—

There is room in Odin’s Hall!”

There was arming heard on land and wave,

When afar the sunlight spread,

And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave

With the mists of morning fled;

But at eve, the kingly hand

Of the battle-axe and brand,

Lay cold on a pile of dead!—Hemans.