'Vinsauf, thy wine,' he said, 'hath power,
Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower;
Yet three drops from this flask of mine,
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or
wine,

Shall give him prison under ground
More dark, more narrow, more profound.
Short rede, good rede, let Harold have
A dog's death and a heathen's grave.'
I have lain on a sick man's bed,
Watching for hours for the leech's tread,
As if I deemed that his presence aloue
Were of power to bid my pain begone;
I have listed his words of comfort given,
As if to oracles from heaven;

160

170

I have counted his steps from my chamber door,

And blessed them when they were heard

'Thou art a fond fantastic boy,'
Harold replied, 'to females coy,
Yet prating still of love;
Even so amid the clash of war
I know thou lov'st to keep afar,
Though destined by thy evil star

With one like me to rove,
Whose business and whose joys are found
Upon the bloody battle-ground.
Yet, foolish trembler as thou art,
Thou hast a nook of my rude heart,
And thou and I will never part; -
Harold would wrap the world in flame
Ere injury on Gunnar came.'

IV

50