XVII.

He placed her on a bank of moss,

A silver runnel bubbled by,

And new-born thoughts his soul engross,

And tremors yet unknown across

His stubborn sinews fly,

The while with timid hand the dew

Upon her brow and neck he threw,
And mark'd how life with rosy hue

On her pale cheek revived anew,

And glimmer'd in her eye.

Inly he said, "That silken tress,

What blindness mine that could not guess,

Or how could page's rugged dress

That bosom's pride belie?

O, dull of heart, through wild and wave

In search of blood and death to rave,

With such a partner nigh!"

XVIII.

Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd,

Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, The stains of recent conflict clear'd,

And thus the Champion proved,

That he fears now who never fear'd,
And loves who never loved.

And Eivir-life is on her cheek,

And yet she will not move or speak,

Nor will her eyelid fully ope;

Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye,

Through its long fringe, reserved and shy,

Affection's opening dawn to spy;

And the deep blush, which bids its dye

O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly,

Speaks shame-facedness and hope.

XIX.

But vainly seems the Dane to seek

For terms his new-born love to speak,

Y

For words, save those of wrath and wrong,

Till now were strangers to his tongue;

So, when he raised the blushing maid,

In blunt and honest terms he said,-
(Twere well that maids, when lovers woo,
Heard none more soft, were all as true,)
"Eivir! since thou for many a day
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way,
It is but meet that in the line

Of after-life I follow thine.

To morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide,
And we will grace his altar's side,

A Christian knight and Christian bride;

And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be said,

That on the same morn he was christen'd and wed."

END OF CANTO SIXTH.

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

319

CONCLUSION.

AND now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary maid?
And why these listless looks of yawning sorrow?

No need to turn the page, as if 'twere lead,
Or fling aside the volume till to-morrow.-
Be cheer'd-'tis ended-and I will not borrow,

To try thy patience more, one anecdote
From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro.

Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath wrote A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add a note.

END OF HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.