Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?
I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;
Did he think to light me home some day?

Hungry here with the crunching swine,
Hungry harvest have I to reap;
In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,
I watch his lambs that browse and leap.

There is plenty of bread at home,
His servants have bread enough and to spare;
The purple wine-fat froths with foam,
Oil and spices make sweet the air,
While I perish hungry and bare.

Rich and blessed those servants, rather
Than I who see not my Father's face!
I will arise and go to my Father:—
"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me, Father, a servant's place."

God of the battle, hear our prayer! 
By the lifted falchion's glare; 
By the uncouth fane sublime, 
Marked with many a Runic rhyme; 
By the "weird sisters" dread, 
That, posting through the battle red, 
Choose the slain, and with them go 
To Valhalla's halls below, 
Where the phantom-chiefs prolong 
Their echoing feast, a giant throng, 
And their dreadful beverage drain 
From the skulls of warriors slain: 
God of the battle, hear our prayer: 
And may we thy banquet share!

Save us, God, from slow disease; 
From pains that the brave spirit freeze; 
From the burning fever's rage; 
From wailings of unhonoured age, 
Drawing painful his last breath; 
Give us in the battle death! 
Let us lift our glittering shield, 
And perish, perish in the field!

Now o'er Cumri's hills of snow 
To death, or victory, we go; 
Hark! the chiefs their cars prepare; 
See! they bind their yellow hair; 
Frenzy flashes from their eye, 
They fly — our foes before them fly! 

Woden, in thy empire drear, 
Thou the groans of death dost hear, 
And welcome to thy dusky hall 
Those that for their country fall! 

Hail, all hail the godlike train, 
That with thee the goblet drain; 
Or with many a huge compeer, 
Lift, as erst, the shadowy spear! 
Whilst Hela's inmost caverns dread 
Echo to their giant tread, 
And ten thousand thousand shields 
Flashed lightning o'er their glimmering fields! 

Hark! the battle-shouts begin — 
Louder sounds the glorious din: 
Louder than the ice's roar, 
Bursting on the thawing shore; 
Or crashing pines that strew the plain, 
When the whirlwinds hurl the main! 
Riding through the death-field red, 
And singling fast the destined dead, 
See the fatal sisters fly! 
Now my throbbing breast beats high — 
Now I urge my panting steed, 
Where the foemen thickest bleed. 
Soon exulting I shall go, 
Woden, to thy halls below; 
Or o'er the victims, as they die, 
Chaunt the song of Victory!