The Norseman's Ride by Bayard Taylor

The frosty fires of Northern starlight Gleamed on the glittering snow, And through the forest's frozen branches The shrieking winds did blow; A floor of blue, translucent marble Kept ocean's pulses still, When, in the depth of dreary midnight, Opened the burial hill.
Then while a low and creeping shudder Thrilled upward through the ground, The Norseman came, as armed for battle, In silence from his mound: He, who was mourned in solemn sorrow By many a swordsman bold, And harps that wailed along the ocean, Struck by the Skalds of old.
Sudden, a swift and silver shadow Rushed up from out the gloom,— A horse that stamped with hoof impatient, Yet noiseless, on the tomb. "Ha, Surtur! let me hear thy tramping, Thou noblest Northern steed, Whose neigh along the stormy headlands Bade the bold Viking heed!"
He mounted: like a north-light streaking The sky with flaming bars, They, on the winds so wildly shrieking, Shot up before the stars. "Is this thy mane, my fearless Surtur, That streams against my breast? Is this thy neck, that curve of moonlight, Which Helva's hand caressed?
"No misty breathing strains thy nostril, Thine eye shines blue and cold, Yet, mounting up our airy pathway, I see thy hoofs of gold! Not lighter o'er the springing rainbow Walhalla's gods repair, Than we, in sweeping journey over The bending bridge of air.
"Far, far around, star-gleams are sparkling Amid the twilight space; And Earth, that lay so cold and darkling, Has veiled her dusky face. Are those the Nornes that beckon onward To seats at Odin's board, Where nightly by the hands of heroes The foaming mead is poured?
"'Tis Skuld! her star-eye speaks the glory That waits the warrior's soul, When on its hinge of music opens The gateway of the Pole,— When Odin's warder leads the hero To banquets never done, And Freya's eyes outshine in summer The ever-risen sun.
"On! on! the Northern lights are streaming In brightness like the morn, And pealing far amid the vastness, I hear the Gjallarhorn: The heart of starry space is throbbing With songs of minstrels old, And now, on high Walhalla's portal, Gleam Surtur's hoofs of gold!"