by Henrik Ibsen
NOW they sing the hero loud; --
But they sing him in his shroud.
Torch he kindled for his land;
On his brow ye set its brand.
Taught by him to wield a glaive;
Through his heart the steel ye drave.
Trolls he smote in hard-fought fields;
Ye bore him down 'twixt traitor shields.
But the shining spoils he won,
These ye treasure as your own.--
Dim them not, that so the dead
Rest appeased his thorn-crowned head.
Last updated May 02, 2015