628 ANNUAL REGISTER, -1815. 
To the chamber of shields, where the beautiful maid 
By the spell of the mighty defenceless is laid ? 
Is it Sigurd the valiant, the slayer of kings, 
With the spoils of the Dragon, his gold and his rings ? 
Or is it bold Gunnar, who vainly assays 
On the horse of good Sigurd to rush thro’ the blaze ? 
The steed knows his rider in field and in stall : 
No other hands rein him, no other spurs gall. 
He brooks not the warrior that pricks his dark side, 
Be he prince, be he chieftain of might and of pride. 
How he neighs ! how he plunges, and tosses his mane ! 
How he foams ! how he lashes his flank with disdain ! 
O crest-fallen Gunnar, thou liest on the plain! 
Through the furnace no warrior, save Sigurd, may ride. 
Let his valour for thee win the spell-guarded bride ! 
He has mounted his war-horse, the beauteous and bold; 
His buckler and harness are studded with gold. 
A dragon all writhing in gore is his crest ; 
A dragon is burnish’d in gold on his breast. 
The furnace glows redder, the flames crackle round, 
But the horse and the rider plunge thro’ at one bound. 
He has reach’d the dark canopy’s shield-cover’d shade, 
Where spell-bound the beautiful damsel is laid ; 
He has kiss’d her closed eyelids, and call’d her his bride ; 
He ha stretch’d his hold limbs in the gloom by her side. 
“«¢ My name is bold Gunnar, and Grana my steed; 
“ Through bickering furnace I prick’d him with speed.” 
The maiden all languidly lifts up her head, 
She seems in her trance half awaked from the dead ; 
Like a swan on the salt-lake she mournfully cries, 
‘< Does the bravest of warriors claim me as his prize ?” 
O know’st thou, young Sigurd, who lies by thy side? 
O kenn’st thou, Brynhilda, who calls thee his bride ? 
On the gay hills of France dwells thy proud foster-sire, 
And there thy chaste bower was guarded by fire. 
It was mantled with ivy and luscious woodbine. 
It was shrowded with jasmine and sweet eglantine. 
O mind’st thou, when darkling thou sat’st in thy bower, 
What courser came fleet by thy charm-circled tower ? 
Whose hawk on thy casement perch’d saucy and free ? 
What warrior pursued it? Whose crest did’st thou see ? 
Did the gold-burnish’d dragon gleam bright to thy view ? 
Did thy spells hold him back, or did Sigurd break through ? 
For whom the bright mead did thy snowy hands pour, 
Which never for man crown’d the goblet before ? 
