In the hall of Swarin the Sea King the thanes were heavy of mood,
Though red on the carven benches shone the light from the pine-tree wood
Ablaze on the hearth, and golden it flashed on the many-folden,
The fair-dyed, woven hangings where the bed of Swarin stood.

Night-long had the leeches pondered the lore of the woodland green,
Runes scored on the bark of birch trees whose quivering branches lean
To the east, and wan for sorrow they waited the weird of the morrow,
For sore their hearts misdoubted what the brooding Norns-might mean.

For the strength was shorn from Swarin. As a storm-uprooted oak
Lay the Lord of the Ice-Hills mighty in the play of sworded folk,
But the white hair, oft uplifted by the whistling sea-wind, drifted
Like foam on the blue-stained bed-gear, and the women's sobs out-broke.

Sudden the gray lips parted with a glad, far-echoing cry:
“Long is the road to God-home, but behold! my feet draw nigh.
Wide on the wold is the faring, but the hours of night are wearing,
And my day of days is dawning in yonder pallid sky.

“Make room, O heroes of Odin! room at the mead-crowned board!
Yet shamed am I that I fall not by bite of the singing sword
Amidst the eager rattle of spears, the thorns of battle.
Shall Swarin die as a coward? My hearth-friends, lift your lord.”

Then the wail waxed great and grievous, and the glee-men rent atwain
Their shining harpstrings witless to mend the people's pain,
For love's eyes, nothing blinded, wist well that the king was minded
To go home that day to Odin and his heart of death was fain.

But the Dauntless of Spirit raised him and called for his war-array,
And in crested helm they dight him and steel shirt gleaming gray.
On his gold-rimmed shield they bore him, his banner of fame before him,
And the horns blew up as for battle, while they took the seaward way.

Then the pale world glowed with sundawn, and over the blue sea-floor
Fell a ruddy shaft like a pathway to Odin's open door.
With gold was the king's helm smitten, and the dragon-keel was litten
And the blazoned sails, and the sea-runes cut deep in the flashing oar.

On the deck they laid King Swarin, with treasure for Odin's need,
Fur cloaks, and hammered war-gear and many a silken weed,
With gold of the world's desire, and they hid the seed of fire
In the heart of the foam-necked sea-bird, while the war-host wept for the deed.

But in seemly guise his kinsfolk heaped store of priceless things,
Glittering stones from the earth-caves, and battle-spoil of rings,
On the mail-girt breast of the Fearless, and smiled to his smiling, tearless,
And wished him weal in his faring, for their hearts were the hearts of kings.

Last knelt his daughter beside him and kissed him soft and sweet,
And lifted her child to nestle once more where the great heart beat;
Till the sunny ringlets blended with the hoary beard,—then wended
Shoreward her way full queenly, guiding the youngling's feet.

And the dragon leapt from the tether, the golden beak sprang free,
And blithely the ship ran over the blue hills of the sea,
Whilst a long cry followed after, but the white waves foamed with laughter,
And the salt wind sang in the cordage the song of Æger's glee.

And the keen gray eyes of Swarin, whilst the clouds sped by above,
Waxed dreamy as maiden's musing on her blossoming days of love,
For afar from his gaze had drifted all sights save the east sky rifted
By the ruby gates of God-home, and his heart had peace thereof.

But the fire-seed yearned for harvest, for the praise of those who reap,
And the stealthy flames, a-whisper, crept up the bulwark steep,
Whilst wide o'er the Sea Queen's acre rang the shout of the Battle-breaker,
As the reddened sword of Swarin in the bitter wound stood deep.

Clear rose the hero's death song: “Thus my count of slain I fill.
Welcome me home, All-Father! On earth have I wrought thy will.
Now are the bright doors parted, and over the gulf, leal-hearted,
I clasp for thy cloudy garment and follow thy foot-steps still.”

The wild-fire wrapt the sea-bird from topmast unto wave,
But loud laughed out King Swarin on the latest breath he gave,
For flashed in the flame-rent spaces gold shields and glimmering faces
Of Odin's Victory-Wafters, the Choosers of the Brave.