Herva

Argantyr, wake!—to thee I call, Hear from thy dark sepulchral hall! ’Mid the forest’s inmost gloom, Thy daughter, circling thrice thy tomb, With mystic rites of thrilling power Disturbs thee at this midnight hour! I, thy Sauferlama’s child, Of my filial right beguil’d, Now adjure thee to resign The charmed Sword by birth-right mine! When the Dwarf, on Eyvor’s plain, Dim glided by thy marriage-train, In jewel’d belt of gorgeous pride, To thy pale and trembling bride, Gave he not, in whisper deep, That dread companion of thy sleep?— Fall’n before its edge thy foes, Idly does it now repose In the dark tomb with thee?—awake! Spells thy sullen slumber break! Now their stern command fulfill!— Warrior, art thou silent still?— Or are my gross senses found Deaf to the low sepulchral sound?— HERVARDOR,—HIARVARDOR,—hear! HRANI, mid thy slumber drear! Spirits of a dauntless race, In armour clad, your tombs I trace. Now, with sharp and blood-stain’d spear, Accent shrill, and spell severe, I wake you all from slumber mute, Beneath the dark oak’s twisted root!— Are Andgrym’s hated sons no more That sleeps the Sword, that drank their gore?— Living,—why, to Magic Rhyme, Speaks no voice of former time, Low as o’er your tombs I bend To hear th’ expected sounds ascend, Murmuring from your darksome hall, At a virgin’s solemn call?— HERVARDOR,—HIARVARDOR,—hear! HRANI,—mark my spell severe! Henceforth may the semblance cold, That did each warrior’s spirit hold, Parch, as corse unblest, that lies Withering in the sultry skies!— Ghastly may your forms decay, Hence the noisome reptile’s prey, If ye force not, thus adjur’d, My Sire to yield the charmed Sword!