She saw the glory of the rising sun
Touching the pinnacle of sparkling ice
On which she stood. Silent and rapt she gazed
While thousand golden flames on thousand spires
Were low and lower lit; and here and there
Some broad plain glimmered into sudden white--
And frozen cataracts which, in daring leaps
Midway between vast depths were holden tight,
Gleamed out like streams of gold:--Thus, one by one,
The wonders of that soulless land appeared,
While grey and ghast, behind the sparkling towers
Of gorgeous Thug, the ancient Night stooped down.

WOLE gnashed his teeth and turned again to smite
The helpless girl who pleaded; but the light
Which angered him had beautified her so,
That his cold breath grew moist upon his beard.
The sunlight melting in her eyes and flushing
Her cheeks with rosy redness, crowned her hair
With lustrous splendor, and about her form
Fell like a robe of glory, warm and soft.

"Mortal!" he cried, while in the agony
'Twixt admiration and inherent hate,
The sullen throbbing of his heart was seen
Thrilling his moistened beard--"Pass from my sight!
Thou makest old Thug's warrior drop his spear,
And should that fair face beam on me eternal,
Eternal I would swear the sun was good
And OENE was no Queen. Yet I would rather,
Crush thee beneath my feet, than be this traitor."

He would have thrust her rudely from his path.
But she arose from off her bended knee,
Turning her fair face from him, so her hair
Hid its too touching beauty from his sight;
Clasping her suppliant hands upon her bosom
She spoke out wildly, as one weary waiting
For long-expected good;--

"Oh, cruel WOLE!
Where is my BERTHO in this mountain hidden?--
Shaping fantastic dreams of heartless OENE,
With aching hands into a tangible beauty.
How can'st thou keep two yearning souls apart?
If _thou_ could'st feel what love is, mighty master
Of loveless War, then thou would'st pity me!"

"Thou shalt behold thy lover, southern girl,"
Was WOLE's reply, and reaching round the rock
Took up a horn shorn from some monster's head
And blew in it a blast meant to be angry:
Yet strangely pining from the curves it came,
And went down wailing through the pallid sunlight,
For it was born of the tumultuous sigh
Stirred in