Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf 8

On King Olaf's bridal night Shines the moon with tender light, And across the chamber streams Its tide of dreams. At the fatal midnight hour, When all evil things have power, In the glimmer of the moon Stands Gudrun. Close against her heaving breast Something in her hand is pressed; Like an icicle, its sheen Is cold and keen. On the cairn are fixed her eyes Where her murdered father lies, And a voice remote and drear She seems to hear. What a bridal night is this! Cold will be the dagger's kiss; Laden with the chill of death Is its breath. Like the drifting snow she sweeps To the couch where Olaf sleeps; Suddenly he wakes and stirs, His eyes meet hers. 'What is that,' King Olaf said, 'Gleams so bright above my head? Wherefore standest thou so white In pale moonlight?' ''T is the bodkin that I wear When at night I bind my hair; It woke me falling on the floor; 'T is nothing more.' 'Forests have ears, and fields have eyes; Often treachery lurking lies Underneath the fairest hair! Gudrun beware!' Ere the earliest peep of morn Blew King Olaf's bugle-horn; And forever sundered ride Bridegroom and bride!