“Look!” cried the warrior and outstretched his spear—­
    “’Tis not auspicious hour for such a plea.”

    Following the motion of his hand she saw
    From the horizon phantom suns and moons
    Shoot swiftly, or along the red edge roll. 
    Dim on the distant verge of ghostly shores
    Pale fleets of paler shades, and flying hosts
    Of spectral horsemen on their vanishing steeds,
    Fled either way before the coming morn;
    While fairies that, on snow-flakes, sailed about
    Down through the valleys darted out of sight;
    And meteors, coursing higher in the sky,
    Exploded in their wrath, dropping down dead
    The fiery ghouls who rode their shining wings.

    Sudden, while Olive gazed, she thought a flame
    Sprang from her feet, when looking, startled, down,
    She saw the glory of the rising sun
    Touching the pinnacle of sparkling ice
    On which she stood.  Silent and rapt she gazed
    While thousand golden flames on thousand spires
    Were low and lower lit; and here and there
    Some broad plain glimmered into sudden white—­
    And frozen cataracts which, in daring leaps
    Midway between vast depths were holden tight,
    Gleamed out like streams of gold:—­Thus, one by one,
    The wonders of that soulless land appeared,
    While grey and ghast, behind the sparkling towers
    Of gorgeous Thug, the ancient Night stooped down.

    WOLE gnashed his teeth and turned again to smite
    The helpless girl who pleaded; but the light
    Which angered him had beautified her so,
    That his cold breath grew moist upon his beard. 
    The sunlight melting in her eyes and flushing
    Her cheeks with rosy redness, crowned her hair
    With lustrous splendor, and about her form
    Fell like a robe of glory, warm and soft.

    “Mortal!” he cried, while in the agony
    ’Twixt admiration and inherent hate,
    The sullen throbbing of his heart was seen
    Thrilling his moistened beard—­“Pass from my sight! 
    Thou makest old Thug’s warrior drop his spear,
    And should that fair face beam on me eternal,
    Eternal I would swear the sun was good
    And OENE was no Queen.  Yet I would rather,
    Crush thee beneath my feet, than be this traitor.”

    He would have thrust her rudely from his path. 
    But she arose from off her bended knee,
    Turning her fair face from him, so her hair
    Hid its too touching beauty from his sight;
    Clasping her suppliant hands upon her bosom
    She spoke out wildly, as one weary waiting
    For long-expected good;—­

                              “Oh, cruel WOLE! 
    Where is my BERTHO in this mountain hidden?—­
    Shaping fantastic dreams of heartless OENE,
    With aching hands into a tangible beauty. 
    How can’st thou keep two yearning souls apart? 
    If thou could’st feel what love is, mighty master
    Of loveless War, then thou would’st pity me!”