"
"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.
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