Ah, my love shall fare as a banner in the hand of thy renown,
In the arms of thy fame accomplished shall it lie when we lay us adown.
O deathless fame of Sigurd! O glory of my lord!
O birth of the happy Brynhild to the measureless reward!"
So they sat as the day grew dimmer, and they looked on days to come,
And the fair tale speeding onward, and the glories of their home;
And they saw their crowned children and the kindred of the kings,
And deeds in the world arising and the day of better things:
All the earthly exaltation, till their pomp of life should be passed,
And soft on the bosom of God their love should be laid at the last.'
And on the page facing this lies a pressed flower--there used to be
two--guarded by these tender rhymes:--
'Whoe'er shall read this mighty song
In some forthcoming evensong,
We pray thee guard these simple flowers,
For, gentle Reader, they are "ours."'
But ill has some 'gentle Reader' attended to the behest, for, as I said,
but one of the flowers remains. One is lost--and Narcissus has gone
away. This inscription is but one of many such scattered here and there
through his books, for he had a great facility in such minor graces, as
he had a neat hand at tying a bow. I don't think he ever sent a box of
flowers without his fertility serving him with some rose-leaf fancy to
accompany them; and on birthdays and all red-letter days he was always
to be counted upon for an appropriate rhyme.
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