Page:The Forest Sanctuary.pdf/121

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LAYS OF MANY LANDS.
115


He pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood,
The dark shrine stain'd with the victim's blood:
Nor paus'd, till the rock where a vaulted bed
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead,
      Arose on his midnight way.

Then first a moment's chill
Went shuddering through his breast,
And the steel-clad man stood still
Before that place of rest.


But he cross'd at length, with a deep-drawn breath,
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death,
And look'd on the pale mysterious fire
Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire,
      With a strange and solemn light.

Then darkly the words of the boding strain
Like an omen rose on his soul again,
—"Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
      For the viewless have fearful might!"

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