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; High on the yard-arm hoisted is the sail, Half spread it flutters in the evening gale. The night before he goes, young Harrald stray'd Into the wood where first he saw his maid: Burning impatience fever'd all his blood, He wish'd for wings to bear him o'er the flood. Then sigh'd the wind among the bushy grounds, Far in the distance rose the yell of hounds: The flame-wisps, starting from the sedge and grass, Hung, 'mid the vapours, over the morass. Up to him came a beldame, wildly drest, Bearing a closely-folded feather-vest: She smil'd upon him with her cheeks so wan, Gave him the robe, and was already gone. Young Harrald, though astonish'd, has no fears; The mighty garment in his hand he rears: Of wond'rous lovely feathers it was made, Which once the roc and ostrich had array'd. He wishes much to veil in it his form, And speed as rapidly as speeds the storm: He puts it on, then seeks the open plain,-- Takes a short flight, and flutters back again. "Courage!" he cried, "I will no longer stay; Scotland shall see me, ere the break of day." Then like a dragon in the air he soars, Startled from slumber, in his wake it roars. His wings across the ocean take their flight; Groves, cities, hills, have vanish'd from his sight,-- See! there he goes, lone rider of the sky, Miles underneath him, black the billows lie. He hears a clapping on the midnight wind: Speed, Harrald, speed! the raven is behind. Flames from his swarthy-rolling eye are cast:-- "Ha! Harrald," scream'd he, "have we met at last?" For the first time, the youth felt terror's force; Pale grew his cheek, as that of clammy corse, Chill was his blood, his nervous arm was faint, While thus he stammer'd forth his lowly plaint: "I see it is in vain to strive with fate; Thank God, my soul is far above thy hate; But, ere my mortal part thou dost destroy, Let me one moment of sweet bliss enjoy: The fair unmatch'd Minona is my love, For her I travell'd, fool-like, here above: Let me fly to her with my last farewell, And I am thine, ere morning decks the fell."