"Hail to thee, Father!--man of hoary age,
Thy Queen demands from thee thy counsel sage.
Young Harrald to a distant land will go,
And I his destiny would gladly know:
Thou read'st the stars,--O do the stars portend
That he shall come to an untimely end?
Take from his mother's heart this one last care,
And she will always name thee in her pray'r."

The hermit, rising from his lonely nook,
With naked head, and coldly placid look,
Went out and gaz'd intently on the sky,
Whose lights were letters to his ancient eye.
"The stars," said he, "in friendly order stand,
One only, flashes like an angry brand:-
Thy Harrald, gentle Queen, will not be slain
Upon the EARTH, nor yet upon the MAIN."

While thus the seer prophetically spoke,
A flush of joy o'er Sigrid's features broke:
"He'll not be slain on ocean or on land,"
She said, and kiss'd the hermit's wrinkled hand;
"Why then, I'm happy, and my son is free
To mount his bark, and gallop through the sea:
Upon the grey stone he will sit as king,
When, in the grave, my bones are mouldering."

The painted galley floats now in the creek -
Flags at her mast, and garlands at her beak;