"
Firmly the raven holding him in air,
Survey'd his prize with fiercely-rabid glare:
"Now is the time to wreak on thee my lust;
Yet thou shalt own that I am good and just."
Then from its socket, Harrald's eye he tore,
And drank a full half of the hero's gore:--
"Since I have mark'd thee, thou art free to go;
But loiter not when thou art there below."
Young Harrald sinks with many a sob and tear,
Down from the sky to nature's lower sphere:
He rested long beneath the poplar tall,
Which grew up, under the red church's wall.
Then, rising slow, he feebly stagger'd on,
Till his Minona's bower he had won.
Trembling and sad he stood beside the door--
Pale as a spectre, and besprent with gore!
"Minona, come, ere Harrald's youthful heart
Is burst by love and complicated smart.
Soon will his figure disappear from earth,
Yet we shall meet in heaven's halls of mirth:
Minona, come and give me one embrace,
That I may instantly my path retrace."
Thus warbles he in passion's wildest note,
While death each moment rattles in his throat.
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