 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
VIII.
The sound of a whirlwind! — a rushing shock! —The bandit-haunts rock;
Nor Lothbroch himself that tempest may mock:
And terror came on him — the Mariner's dread,
When the white herds of Neptune low over his head!
And then burst on their sight, though whence none knew,
A Form, that seemed a Spirit to view,
And those storms of dismay, The sounds of her way,
That herald her coming in dreadful array —
But lo! her robes of lucid ether
Condense in deeper folds together,
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Resolves the shape that came in the storm —
A form of this world — but still it retained
The air of another — wherever she reigned —
She parted their swords —'tis the Lady they saw
So late at the Well, wildly beauteous in awe!
And Lothbroch beholds, with amazement and dread,
The Vola Gunilda — the mistress and head
Of his Scandinian wild arts, whence his power begun, —
And by the terrible blast of her anger 'tis done!
And comes she in wrath? — those eyeballs of fire,
Those pale cheeks of vengeance, confess her fierce ire,
And the lips that quiver ere they breathe
The fury that struggles her bosom beneath!
The rage hath found way, and her maddening soul
Is streamed in her speech, and is sealed in her scowl.
| The Legend of St. Loy | |