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By her Sigurd's blood-stained bier,
As with equal death opprest, Gudrun sat; she shed no tear,
Her hand she smote not on her breast: Word, nor sign, nor act might show The wonted course of woman's woe.
Sages came, the wisest they,
But vain the aids from art they borrow; Can rhetoric soothe, or reason sway,
That stern mood of deepest sorrow, When the heart to bursting swells, Yet no tear its anguish tells ?
Round her pressed a widowed train,
Sisters they, in grief united,
Each her own sad tale recited :
Vainly; for her anguished mind,
Stunned beneath that sudden blow,
to another's woe. Hard and cold was Gudrun's soul, Nor sigh would rise, nor tear would roll.
Last did youthful Gulrand speak
“Matrons, though in wisdom old, Here, I ween, your skill is weak;
Age's counsels, all too cold, Cannot reach the widowed heart, When youth's strong loves are rent apart.”
With hurrying hand, from Sigurd's bier,
Swept she then the pall away: “On him, thy love, look, Gudrun dear!
To his cold lip thy warm lip lay; And round him, as they still could hold Thy living lord, thine arms enfold.”
Gudrun turned-one hurried glance
On that much-loved form she threwA moment viewed, where murder's lance
Had pierced the breast to her so true; Saw stiff with blood those locks of gold, And quenched that eye so bright, so bold.
She saw, and sank, and low reclined
Hid in the couch her throbbing head: Her loose veil floated unconfined,
Her burning cheek was crimsoned red : Then, her bursting heart's relief, Copious fell the shower of grief.a
* Translated, in “Conybeare's Anglo-Saxon Poetry,” from an Icelandic Poem.
CREATOR SPIRIT, by whose aid
0, source of uncreated light,
Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy seven-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence.
Refine and purge our earthly parts :
Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe: Give us thyself, that we may see The Father, and the Son, by thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.
THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Though in the paths of death I tread,
Though in a bare and rugged way,
SWEET brooklet! ever gliding-
“With pilgrim course I flow,
Or in summer's scorching glow,
Nor stop, nor stay: