He came to me by stealth, in secrecy, And laid his hand upon my hand, and spake: ‘Brunhild, beware of Merow, for he thinks To poison thee, and so to make his peace With Fredegonde, who thus has tempted him. And she has sent him poisons, which the art Of Lapland sorcerers distilled for her, From herbs accurséd, in the moon’s eclipse, Bidding him mix the draught into thy wine. So, if he bids thee drink, drink not, but rest Thy lips upon the rim, lest thou shouldst die.’ “Ah! how the sky seemed barren of all light When the soft voice had finished whispering; And my soul questioned me in weariness: What plan or purpose was there left in life, If my belovéd plotted death for me? But yet I thanked the page, and let him kiss My hand, and gave him a thick ring of gold, And sent him from me ere I turned to weep. “Great bitterness was mine for many days: Then one day in the cheerful, fire-lit hall, When Merow and his company had come Home from the chase, and feasted joyfully While his hounds couched beside the glowing fire, Merow, who had been sitting watching me, Called for his horn, ringed several times with gold, And filled it with the warm, spiced, foaming ale From the great bowl; and filled a golden cup Which Praetextatus out of Italy Had brought, and given him, with the red wine; Wrought all of gold this fair cup was, wherein Were Danaë in the brazen tower shown, And sweet Europa clinging to her Bull, And Leda on a pleasant river-side Crushing the lilies with her silver flank While the Swan kissed her lips and fast-shut eyes; This was the cup that Merow filled, and then He came, and put it in my hands, and spoke: “‘Thou fairest among women, whose bright eyes Have lit for us these sunless winter days, With radiant kindliness and gracious smiles Cheering our weariness, though in thy heart Sorrow for Sigebert still weeping lies: How shall we render thanks for courtesy When all our thanks would not outweigh one smile That kindles in thine eyes, and curves thy lips Upward, and lingers there deliciously, Though the deep eyes have once again turned grave With sorrow half remembered? O fair Queen, Sprung of a kingly race, and not like her Whose rule has been a curse unto this land, A bastard peasant, spawned in infamy, We pledge thee in our beakers: pledge thou us And if perchance, O Queen, thy widowed days Pass wearily and sorrow sleep with thee Ere youth has even ripened with the sun In thy clear cheeks, then choose among us men; For we are young, and hardy in the chase, And foremost in the battle, and our limbs Are straight and comely, and our eyes are bright With health, and we have riches, all of us, And all are noble, for our fathers rule Over wide tracts of land and many folk,