The sun was sinking. Evening lay Still couched and dreaming in the west, And mute as priests of Egypt pressed The stars along their opening way: And earth stood in the evening’s hush As blessed as a bride stands fair With diamonds in her raven hair, And veil which hides not smile or blush. From all day sports now seeking rest The Naiad smiled in glad repose, While twilight’s blush with hue of rose Glowed tremblingly upon her breast. The Cupids, bound while day-beams crown The gazing sky, are loosed and rove With bow and arrows up and down Upon the moon-beams in the grove,— The darksome green triumphal gate Which spring had entered through of late. From dripping oaks the nightingale Struck notes which echoed through the dale As tender, innocent and chaste As lays which Franzen’s[E] muse has graced. It was as if, her cares dismissed, Now nature kept her hour of tryst, All stir, and yet such hush complete Thou might’st have heard her bosom beat. Then did the twain in winsome bliss Together rove the hours away. As groom and bride change rings, so they Exchanged their childhood’s memories. He told her of the days he spent Still in his mother’s house content, Which, built of fir and painted red, Stood lone, with pines on every hand, And of his cherished fatherland, And of dear sisters, all now dead. Then told he how his soul was stirred By all the battle-songs he heard, And sagas which, whoever reads, Will wake desire for valiant deeds, And how he dreamed full many a night He sat in armor burnished white Upon the giant charger Grane, And rode like Sigurd Fafnisbane Through Vafur’s flames, to where the maid Of memory dwells in castle walls Which gleam afar when evening falls Throughout the mountain laurel glade. Thick grew his breath, close grew his room, He rushed out in the forest’s gloom, Climbed up and joined with boyish glee The eagle on the highest tree, And rocked before the northern blast. It cooled his cheek, it cooled his heart. How happy could he but depart Upon the cloud-wain hurrying past, And wend him yonder through the air To that far world, so bright and fair, Where victory beckons, and renown Stands holding out her laurel crown, And where King Charles (though he has known But seven more years of youth than thou), Is plucking crowns from Europe’s brow, And keeping none except his own. “At length I won at fifteen years My mother’s blessing, and with tears Embraced her, and to camp I went; And there my life has since been spent, And has shone true as beacon rays Amid the rage and rush of men. Yet saw I birds come back again, And feed their young on summer days, Or saw I boys who lay and played Beside some brook in flowers and shade;