She strove in vain to breathe another word.
Above her head, its leaf the aspen shook -
Moist as her cheek, and pallid as her look.

Full five months pass'd, ere she, 'mid night and gloom,
Brought forth with pain an infant from her womb:
They baptiz'd it, at midnight's murky hour,
Lest it should fall within the demon's power.
It was a boy, more lovely than the morn,
Yet Sigrid's heart with bitter care was torn.
Deep in a grot, through which a brook did flow,
With crystal drops they sprinkled Harrald's brow.

He grew and grew, till upon Danish ground
No youth to match the stripling could be found;
He was at once so graceful and so strong -
His look was fire, and his speech was song.
When yet a child, he tam'd the battle steed,
And only thought of war and daring deed;
But yet Queen Sigrid nurs'd prophetic fears,
And when she view'd him, always swam in tears.

One evening late, she lay upon her bed,
(King Alf, her noble spouse, was long since dead)
She felt so languid, and her aching breast
With more than usual sorrow was oppress'd.
Ah, then she heard a sudden sound that thrill'd
Her every nerve, and life's warm current chill'd:-
The bird of death had through the casement flown,
And thus he scream'd to her, in frightful tone: