stormy air,
And yet my heart is mov’d by thy despair;
Give me the treasure hid beneath thy belt,
And straight yon clouds in harmless rain shall melt,
And down I’ll thunder, with my claws of steel.
Upon the merman clinging to your keel.”

“What I conceal’d beneath my girdle bear,
Is thine—irrevocably thine—I swear.
Thou hast refus’d a great and noble prey,
To get possession of my closet key.
Lo! here it is, and, when within thy maw,
May’st thou much comfort from the morsel draw!”
The polish’d steel upon the deck she cast,
And off the raven flutter’d from the mast.

Then down at once he plung’d amid the main,
And clove the merman’s frightful head in twain;
The foam-clad billows to repose he brought,
And tam’d the tempest with the speed of thought;
Then, with a thrice-repeated demon cry,
He soar’d aloft and vanish’d in the sky:
A soft wind blew the ship towards the land,
And soon Dame Sigrid reach’d the wish’d-for strand.

Once, late at eve, she play’d upon her harp,
Close by the lake where slowly swam the carp;
And, as the moon-beam down upon her shone,
She thought of Norway, and its pine-woods lone.
“Yet love I Denmark,” said she, “and the Danes,
For o’er them Alf, my mighty husband, reigns.”
Then ’neath her girdle something mov’d and yearn’d,
And into terror all her bliss was turn’d.

“Ah! now I know thy meaning, cruel bird . . . ”
Long sat she, then, and neither spoke nor stirr’d.
Faint, through the mist which rob’d the sky in gray,
The pale stars glimmer’d from the milky way.
“Ah! now I know thy meaning, cruel bird . . . ”
She strove in vain to breathe another word.
Above her head, its leaf the aspen shook—
Moist as her cheek, and pallid as her look.

Full five months pass’d, ere she, ’mid night and gloom,
Brought forth with pain an infant from her womb:
They baptiz’d it, at midnight’s murky hour,
Lest it should fall within the demon’s power.
It was a boy, more lovely than the morn,
Yet Sigrid’s heart with bitter care was torn.
Deep in a grot, through which a brook did flow,
With crystal drops they sprinkled Harrald’s brow.

He grew and grew, till upon Danish ground
No youth to match the stripling could be found;
He was at once so graceful and so strong—
His look was fire, and his speech was song.
When yet a child, he tam’d the battle steed,
And only thought of war and daring deed;
But yet Queen Sigrid nurs’d prophetic fears,
And when she view’d him, always swam in tears.

One evening late, she lay upon her bed,
(King Alf, her noble spouse, was long since dead)
She felt so languid, and her aching breast
With more than usual sorrow was oppress’d.
Ah, then she heard a sudden sound that thrill’d
Her every nerve, and life’s warm current chill’d:—
The bird of death had through the casement flown,
And thus he scream’d to her, in frightful tone:

“The wealthy bird came towering,
Came scowering,
O’er hill and stream.
‘Look here, look here, thou needy bird,
How gay my feathers gleam.’

“The needy bird came fluttering,
Came muttering,
And sadly sang,
‘Look here, look here, thou wealthy bird,
How loose my feathers hang.’

“Remember, Queen, the stormy day,
When cast away
Thou wast so nigh:—
Thou wast the needy bird that day,
And unto me didst cry.

“Death-raven now comes towering,
Comes scowering,
O’er hill and stream;
But when wilt thou, Dame Sigrid fair,
Thy plighted word redeem.”

A hollow moan from Sigrid’s bosom came,
While he survey’d her with his eye of flame:
“Fly,” said she; “demon monster, get thee hence!
My humble pray’r shall be my son’s defence.”
She cross’d herself, and then the fiend flew out;
But first, contemptuously he danc’d about,
And sang, “No pray’r shall save him from my rage;
In Christian blood my thirst I will assuage.”

Young Harrald seiz’d his scarlet cap, and cried,
“I’ll probe the grief my mother fain would hide;”
Then, rushing into her apartment fair,
“O mother,” said he, “wherefore sitt’st thou there,
Far from thy family at dead of night,
With lips so mute, and cheeks so ghastly white?
Tell me what lies so heavy at thy heart;
Grief, when confided, loses half its smart.”

“O Harrald,” sigh’d she, yielding to his pray’r,
“Creatures are swarming in the earth and air,
Who, wild with wickedness, and hot with wrath,
Wage war on those who follow virtue’s path.
One of those fiends is on the watch for thee,
Arm’d with a promise wrung by him from me:
His blood-shot eyes in narrow sockets roll,
And every night he leaves his mirksome hole.

“He was a kind of God, in former days;
Kings worshipp’d him, and minstrels sang his praise;
But when Christ’s doctrine through the dark North flam’d,
His, and all evil spirits’ might was tam’d.
He now is but a raven; yet is still
Full strong enough to work on thee his will:
Lost is the wretch who in his power falls—
Vainly he shrieks, in vain for mercy calls.”

She whisper’d to him then, with bloodless lip,
What had befallen her on board the ship;
But youthful Harrald listen’d undismay’d,
And merely gripp’d the handle of his blade.
“My son,” she murmur’d, when her tale was told,
“Fear withers me, but thou look’st blythe and bold.”
The youth uplifted then his sparkling eye,
And said, whilst gazing on the moon-lit sky,

“Once, my dear mother, at the close of day,
Among tall flowers in the grove I lay,
Soft sang the linnets from a thousand trees,
And, sweetly lull’d, I slumber’d by degrees.
Then, heaven’s curtain was, methought, undrawn,
And, clad in hues that deck the brow of morn,
An angel slowly sank towards the earth,
Which seem’d to hail him with a smile of mirth.

“He rais’d his hand, and bade me fix my eye
Upon a chain which, hanging from the sky,
Embrac’d the world; and, stretching high and low,
Clink’d, as it mov’d, the notes of joy and wo:
The links that came in sight were purpled o’er
Full frequently with what seem’d human gore;
Of various metals made, it clasp’d the mould,—
Steel clung to silver, iron clung to gold.

“Then said the angel, with majestic air,—
‘The chain of destiny thou seest there.
Accept whate’er it gives, and murmur not;
For hard necessity has cast each lot.’
He vanish’d—I awoke with sudden start,
But that strange dream was graven on my heart.
I go wherever fate shall please to call,—
Without God’s leave, no fly to earth can fall.”

It thunders—and from midnight’s mirky cloud,
Comes peal on peal reverberating loud:
The froth-clad breakers cast, with sullen roar,
A Scottish bark upon the whiten’d shore.
Straight to the royal palace hasten then
A lovely maid and thirty sea-worn men.
Minona, Scotland’s princess, Scotland’s boast,
The storm has driven to the Danish coast.

Oft, while the train hew timber in the groves,
Minona, arm in arm, with Harrald roves.
Warm from his lip the words of passion flow;
Pure in her eyes the flames of passion glow.
One summer eve, upon a mossy bank,
Mouth join’d to mouth, and breast to breast, they sank:
The moon arose in haste to see their love,
And wild birds carroll’d from the boughs above.

But now the ship, which seem’d of late a wreck,
Floats with a mast set proudly on her deck.
Minona kisses Harrald’s blooming