"The dead man left his eyes beneath the brows Of Hilda, in a child whose speech Prattled of sword, spear, buckler, idle rows Of galleys on the beach. "And Hilda sang him songs of northern lands, Weird songs of foamy wraith and roaming sail, Songs of gaunt wolves, clear icebergs, magic brands, Enchanted shirts of mail. "The years built up a giant broad and grave, With florid locks, and eyes that look'd men through; A passion for the long lift of the wave From roaming sires he drew. "Amongst the craggy islands did he rove, And, like an eagle, took and rent his prey; Oft, deep with battle-spoil, his galleys clove Homeward their joyous way. "He towering, full-arm'd, in the van, with spear Outstretch'd, and hair blown backward like a flame: While to the setting sun his oarsmen rear The glory of his name. "Once, when the sea his battle galleys cross'd, His mother, sickening, turn'd from summer light, And faced death as the Norse land, clench'd with frost, Faces the polar night. "At length his masts came raking through the mist: He pour'd upon the beach his wild-eyed bands: The fierce, fond, dying woman turn'd and kiss'd His orphan-making hands, "And lean'd her head against his mighty breast In pure content, well knowing so to live One single hour was all that death could wrest Away, or life could give; "And murmur'd as her dying fingers took Farewell of cheek and brow, then fondly drown'd Themselves in tawny hair--'I cannot brook To sleep here under ground. "My women through my chambers weep and wail: I would not waste one tear-drop though I could: When they brought home that lordly length of mail With bold blood stain'd and glued, "I wept out all my tears. Amongst my kind I cannot sleep; so upon Marsco's head, Right in the pathway of the Norway wind, See thou and make my bed! "The north wind blowing on that lonely place Will comfort me. Kiss me, my Torquil! I Feel the big hot tears plashing on my face. How easy 'tis to die!' "The farewell-taking arms around him set Clung closer; and a feeble mouth was raised, Seeking for his in darkness--ere they met The eyeballs fix'd and glazed. "Dearer that kiss, by pain and death forestall'd, Than ever yet touch'd lip! Beside the bed The Norseman knelt till sunset, then he call'd The dressers of the dead, "Who, looking on her face, were daunted more Than when she, living, flash'd indignant fires; For in the gathering gloom the features wore A look that was her sire's. "And upward to a sea-o'erstaring peak With lamentation was the Princess borne, And, looking northward, left with evening meek, And fiery-shooting morn." In this wise ran the story full of breaks: And brooding o'er that subtle sense of death That sighs through all our happy days, that shakes All raptures of our breath,