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Of the dear land where he was bred ;
Brothers and sisters long since dead.
He told, as well, how, many a time,
The old, the deep heroic rhyme,
And saga-volume parchment-bound,
Had wakened longings so profound
For great exploit. In dreams of night
He seemed a warrior armed for fight,
And mounted on the tall steed Grane,
Like mythic Sigurd Fafnisbane,
He rode through magic fire-wall straight
To sage Brynhilda's castle gate,
That flaming in the moonlight stood,
Encircled by a laurel wood.
The house grew close, his breath not free,
Then to the forest would he flee,
And climbing, with a boy's delight,
The fir-top where the eagles light,
Would sit, rocked by the northern blast,
Till cheek and heart were cooled at last.