And went her ways from the rock-hall and was glad for her warrior's sake.

But behind her dull speech followed, and the voice of the hollow spake :

'Thou hast left me bound in anguish, and hast gained thine heart's desire;

Now I would that the dewy night-grass might be to thy feet as the fire,

And shrivel thy raiment about thee, and leave thee bare to the flame,

And no way but a fiery furnace for the road whereby ye came !

But since the folk of God-home we may not slay nor

smite,

And that fool of the folk that thou lovest, thou hast saved in my despite,

Take with thee, thief of God-home, this other word

I say:

Since the safeguard wrought in the ring-mail I may not do away

I lay this curse upon it, that whoso weareth the

same,

Shall save his life in the battle, and have the battle's

shame ;

He shall live through wrack and ruin, and ever have the worse,

And drag adown his kindred, and bear the people's curse.'

"Lo, this the tale of the Hauberk, and I knew it for the truth:

And little I thought of the kindreds; of their day I had no ruth;

For I said, They are doomed to departure; in a little while must they wane,

And nought it helpeth or hindreth if I hold my hand or refrain.

Yea, thou wert become the kindred, both thine and mine; and thy birth

To me was the roofing of heaven, and the building up of earth.

I have loved, and I must sorrow; thou hast lived, and thou must die;

Ah, wherefore were there others in the world than thou and I?"

THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS.

1890.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

I.-SONG.

(FROM CHAPTER VI.)

IN hay-tide, through the day new-born,
Across the meads we come ;

Our hauberks brush the blossomed corn
A furlong short of home.

Ere yet the gables we behold

Forth flasheth the red sun,

And smites our fallow helms and cold
Though all the fight be done.

In this last mead of mowing-grass

Sweet doth the clover smell, Crushed neath our feet red with the pass Where hell was blent with hell.

And now the willowy stream is nigh,
Down wend we to the ford;

No shafts across its fishes fly,
Nor flasheth there a sword.

But lo! what gleameth on the bank

Across the water wan,

As when our blood the mouse-ear drank
And red the river ran?

Fair sirs, from murder-carles we flee,

Whose fashion is as the mountain-trolls'; No man can tell how many they be,

And the voice of their host as the thunder rolls.

They were weary men at the ending of day,
But they spurred nor stayed for longer word.
Now ye, O merchants, whither away?

What do ye there with the helm and the sword?

O we must fight for life and gear,

For our beasts are spent and our wains are stayed,
And the host of the Mountain-men draws near,
That maketh all the world afraid.

They left the chapmen on the hill,

And through the eve and through the night

They rode to have true tidings still,

And were there on the way when the dawn was bright.

O damsels fair, what do ye then

To loiter thus upon the way,

And have no fear of the Mountain-men,

The host of the carles that strip and slay?

O riders weary with the road,

Come eat and drink on the grass hereby !

And lay you down in a fair abode

Till the mid-day sun is broad and high;

Then unto you shall we come aback,

And lead you forth to the Mountain-men,

To note their plenty and their lack,

And have true tidings there and then.

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