Uprose the day of crimson sight, The day without a God. At morn the hero said Good-night; See there that stain on sod! XIII. At morn the Countess Louis heard Young light sing in the lark. Ere eve it was that other bird, Which brings the starless dark. XIV. To heaven she vowed herself, and yearned Beside her lord to lie. Archduchess Anne on Kraken turned, All white as a dead eye. XV. If I could kill thee! shrieked her look: If lightning sprang from Will! An oaken head old Kraken shook, And she might thank or kill. XVI. The pride that fenced her heart in mail, By mortal pain was torn. Forth from her bosom leaped a wail, As of a babe new-born. XVII. She clad herself in courtly use, And one who heard them prate, Had said they differed upon views Where statecraft raised debate. XVIII. The wretch detested must she trust, The servant master own: Confide to godless cause so just, And for God's blessing moan. XIX. Austerely she her heart kept down, Her woman's tongue was mute When voice of People, voice of Crown, In cannon held dispute. XX. The Crown on seas of blood, like swine, Swam forefoot at the throat: It drank of its dear veins for wine, Enough if it might float! XXI. It sank with piteous yelp, resurged Electrical with fear. O had she on old Kraken urged Her word of mercy clear! XXII. O had they with Count Louis been Accordant in his plea! Cursed are the women vowed to screen A heart that all can see! XXIII. The godless drove unto a goal Was worse than vile defeat. Did vengeance prick Count Louis' soul They dressed him luscious meat. XXIV. Worms will the faithless find their lies In the close treasure-chest. Without a God no day can rise, Though it should slay our best. XXV. The Crown it furled a draggled flag, It sheathed a broken blade. Behold its triumph in the hag That lives with looks decayed! XXVI. And lo, the man of oaken head, Of soldier's honour bare, He fled his land, but most he fled His Lady's frigid stare. XXVII. Judged by the issue we discern God's blessing, and the bane. Count Louis' dust would fill an urn, His deeds are waving grain. XXVIII. And she that helped to slay, yet bade To spare the fated man, Great were her errors, but she had Great heart, Archduchess Anne. THE SONG OF THEODOLINDA I. Queen Theodolind has built In the earth a furnace-bed: There the Traitor Nail that spilt Blood of the anointed Head, Red of heat, resolves in shame: White of heat, awakes to flame. Beat, beat! white of heat, Red of heat, beat, beat! II.