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On that happy day labour rested; ceorl and theowe had alike a holiday to dance, and tumble round the May-pole; and thus, on the first of May Youth, and Mirth, and Music, "brought the summer home." It is on that second day of May, 1052, that my story opens, at the House of Hilda, the reputed Morthwyrtha.

The gravestone of the Saxon father-chief was lit up, as with the coil of the lightning; and the Morthwyrtha looked from the mound, and saw in her visions of awe the Valkyrs in the train of the fiery star. On the roof of his palace stood Harold the King, and with folded arms he looked on the Rider of Night.

Thou constrainest my lips And thou crushest my spell; Bright Son of the Giant Dark Father of Hell!" The whole form of the Morthwyrtha then became convulsed and agitated, as if with the tempest of frenzy; the foam gathered to her lips, and her voice rang forth like a shriek: "In the Iron Wood rages The Weaver of Harm, The giant Blood-drinker Hag-born MANAGARM.

In her right hand the Morthwyrtha held her seid-staff, her feet were bare, and her loins girt by the Hunnish belt inscribed with mystic letters; from the belt hung a pouch or gipsire of bearskin, with plates of silver. Her face, as Harold entered the circle, had lost its usual calm it was wild and troubled.

At these words the face of the Prophetess kindled, the fire suddenly leapt up higher and brighter; again, vivid sparks lighted the runes on the fragments of bark that were shot from the flame; over these last the Morthwyrtha bowed her head, and then, lifting it, triumphantly burst once more into song.

At these words the face of the Prophetess kindled, the fire suddenly leapt up higher and brighter; again, vivid sparks lighted the runes on the fragments of bark that were shot from the flame; over these last the Morthwyrtha bowed her head, and then, lifting it, triumphantly burst once more into song.

As the Morthwyrtha ceased, the fire crackled loud, and from its flame flew one of the fragments of bark to the feet of the sorceress: the runic letters all indented with sparks.

Thou constrainest my lips And thou crushest my spell; Bright Son of the Giant Dark Father of Hell!" The whole form of the Morthwyrtha then became convulsed and agitated, as if with the tempest of frenzy; the foam gathered to her lips, and her voice rang forth like a shriek: "In the Iron Wood rages The Weaver of Harm, The giant Blood-drinker Hag-born MANAGARM.

Dread Father of men, In the land of thy grave, Give voice to the Vala, And light to the Brave." As she thus chaunted, the Morthwyrtha now sprinkled the drops from the vessel over the bautastein, now, one by one, cast the fragments of bark scrawled with runes on the fire.

The night was dim, but not dark; no moon shone, but the stars, wan though frequent, gleamed pale, as from the farthest deeps of the heaven; clouds grey and fleecy rolled slowly across the welkin, veiling and disclosing, by turns, the melancholy orbs. The Morthwyrtha, in her dark dress, stood within the circle of stones.