But first, contemptuously he danc'd about,
And sang, "No pray'r shall save him from my rage;
In Christian blood my thirst I will assuage."

Young Harrald seiz'd his scarlet cap, and cried,
"I'll probe the grief my mother fain would hide;"
Then, rushing into her apartment fair,
"O mother," said he, "wherefore sitt'st thou there,
Far from thy family at dead of night,
With lips so mute, and cheeks so ghastly white?
Tell me what lies so heavy at thy heart;
Grief, when confided, loses half its smart."

"O Harrald," sigh'd she, yielding to his pray'r,
"Creatures are swarming in the earth and air,
Who, wild with wickedness, and hot with wrath,
Wage war on those who follow virtue's path.
One of those fiends is on the watch for thee,
Arm'd with a promise wrung by him from me:
His blood-shot eyes in narrow sockets roll,
And every night he leaves his mirksome hole.

"He was a kind of God, in former days;
Kings worshipp'd him, and minstrels sang his praise;
But when Christ's doctrine through the dark North flam'd,
His, and all evil spirits' might was tam'd.
He now is but a raven; yet is still
Full strong enough to work on thee his will:
Lost is the wretch who in his power falls -
Vainly he shrieks, in vain for mercy calls."