“From the dungeon-rock, thou robber, bring
    My daughter back again! 
  Her gentle voice, her harp’s sweet string
    Soothed an old father’s pain. 
  From the dance along the green shore
    Thou hast borne her o’er the wave;
  Eternal shame light on thy head;
    Mine trembles o’er the grave.”

  Forth from his cavern, at the word,
    The robber comes, all steeled,
  Swings in the air his giant sword,
    And strikes his sounding shield. 
  “A goodly guard attends thee there;
    Why suffered they the wrong? 
  Is there none will be her champion
    Of all that mighty throng?”

  Yet from that host there comes no sound;
    They stand unmoved as stone;
  The blind king seems to gaze around;
    Am I all, all alone?”
  “Not all alone!” His youthful son
    Grasps his right hand so warm—­
  “Grant me to meet this vaunting foe! 
    Heaven’s might inspires my arm.”

  “O son! it is a giant foe;
    There’s none will take thy part;
  Yet by this hand’s warm grasp, I know
    Thine is a manly heart. 
  Here, take the trusty battle-sword—­
    ’Twas the old minstrel’s prize;—­
  If thou art slain, far down the flood
    Thy poor old father dies!”

  And hark! a skiff glides swiftly o’er,
    With plashing, spooming sound;
  The king stands listening on the shore;
    ’Tis silent all around—­
  Till soon across the bay is borne
    The sound of shield and sword,
  And battle-cry, and clash, and clang,
    And crashing blows, are heard.

  With trembling joy then cried the king: 
    “Warrior! what mark you?  Tell! 
  ’Twas my good sword; I heard it ring;
    I know its tone right well.” 
  “The robber falls; a bloody meed
    His daring crime hath won;
  Hail to thee, first of heroes! hail! 
    Thou monarch’s worthy son!”

  Again ’tis silent all around;
    Listens the king once more;
  “I hear across the bay the sound
    As of a plashing oar.” 
  Yes, it is they!—­They come!—­They come—­
    Thy son, with spear and shield,
  And thy daughter fair, with golden hair,
    The sunny-bright Gunild.”

  “Welcome!” exclaims the blind old man,
    From the rock high o’er the wave;
  “Now my old age is blest again;
    Honored shall be my grave. 
  Thou, son, shalt lay the sword I wore
    Beside the blind old king. 
  And thou, Gunilda, free once more,
    My funeral song shalt sing.”

* * * * *

  THE MINSTREL’S CURSE[32] (1814)

  Once in olden times was standing
    A castle, high and grand,
  Broad glancing in the sunlight,
    Far over sea and land. 
  And round were fragrant gardens,
    A rich and blooming crown;
  And fountains, playing in them,
    In rainbow brilliance shone.