Part First. The Musician’s Tale: The Saga of King Olaf. VIII. Gudrun

ON King Olaf’s bridal night

Shines the moon with tender light,

And across the chamber streams

Its tide of dreams.

At the fatal midnight hour,

When all evil things have power,

In the glimmer of the moon

Stands Gudrun.

Close against her heaving breast

Something in her hand is pressed;

Like an icicle, its sheen

Is cold and keen.

On the cairn are fixed her eyes

Where her murdered father lies,

And a voice remote and drear

She seems to hear.

What a bridal night is this!

Cold will be the dagger’s kiss;

Laden with the chill of death

Is its breath.

Like the drifting snow she sweeps

To the couch where Olaf sleeps;

Suddenly he wakes and stirs,

His eyes meet hers.

“What is that,” King Olaf said,

“Gleams so bright above my head?

Wherefore standest thou so white

In pale moonlight?”

“’T is the bodkin that I wear

When at night I bind my hair;

It woke me falling on the floor;

’T is nothing more.”

“Forests have ears, and fields have eyes;

Often treachery lurking lies

Underneath the fairest hair!

Gudrun beware!”

Ere the earliest peep of morn

Blew King Olaf’s bugle-horn;

And forever sundered ride

Bridegroom and bride!