“Since thou, Sir John, protected me from harm,
    What I have said may be some small return. 
    I do dislike to leave thee here, so lonely;
    But since I for my BERTHO went in search,
    Nought stays my footsteps long.  Where’er I go,
    Whether I be successful in my search,
    Or perish by the way, I trust again
    We shall in spirit, if not in body, meet. 
    I have seen this witching Pole-Queen; I have passed
    This circling cold and stood in the warm heart
    Of her domains—­have pressed her magic isle
    With my poor human feet, and with my voice
    Have plead the cause of two young, eager souls. 
    She was not kind, and yet not very cruel,
    She may relent, even of her hate towards thee. 
    If I again have access to her ear,
    I’ll not forget to plead thy cause, dear sir,
    As if it were mine own.  Farewell!”

                                       “Farewell,
    And heaven bless thine innocence, sweet friend.”

With parting gesture full of tender grace
And soft regret, she passed upon her way. 
A weary time it grew till on the summit
Of Thug she stood, gazing bewildered round. 
No more she heard her lover’s haunting call;
But she herself cried out with aching voice,
Whose sweetness dropped with every silver tone
From the full note of hope to doubt and fear.

    Sudden a chill fell on her, and a shadow;
    Her breath congealed, and on those rosy lips
    The white rime gathered.  From behind a rock,
    Which crowned the mountain, there advanced to view
    WOLE, that old warrior who before OENE
    Rumbled his boastful story.  In his hand
    He poised his massive spear in act to throw;
    Yet, seeing there, chilled in her loveliness,
    (Like some young rose-bud nipped by spring-time frost,)
    The maiden whom his Queen herself did spare,
    The frown rolled from his forehead as a cloud
    Rolls from a rugged crag.  The spear remained
    Moveless in air, while through his frosty glance
    Melted a softness never known before. 
    The life so nearly frozen in her veins
    Flew back and thrilled her heart, as on her knees
    She dropped, and lifting up her pleading hands
    Crying—­“Slay me, at once, great WOLE, slay me! 
    With those keen looks, or tell me of my lover! 
    If this great mountain rested on my breast
    It could not crush me worse than this suspense,
    Kill me or free me from it!  What, to thee—­
    Thou greatest warrior of this shadowy land,
    Whose conquests like the snows upon this mount
    Lie white and venerable on thy fame,
    Unsoiled by one defeat—­what is to thee,
    One prisoner, if she who loves him well,
    Comes kneeling at thy feet, to ask him back? 
    Thou’lt give him her, I know, since to achieve
    Renown like thine there must be generous heart.”