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,