THE SPELL.
15
The viper writhes on her finger white;
It raises its sickly coil!—
"My helmsman, back thro' the cloud-capped night,
And the tempest's mad turmoil!"
It raises its sickly coil!—
"My helmsman, back thro' the cloud-capped night,
And the tempest's mad turmoil!"
She moans, and sighs; for the serpent's breath
Is warm with her crimson blood!—
"On—on, I say, thro' the jaws of death,
And the foam of the wind-lashed flood!"
Is warm with her crimson blood!—
"On—on, I say, thro' the jaws of death,
And the foam of the wind-lashed flood!"
The wizard's spells they have seared her heart,
And she knoweth her knight no more.—
"From this land, my sword, we shall ne'er depart
Till his blood hath bathed the shore!"
And she knoweth her knight no more.—
"From this land, my sword, we shall ne'er depart
Till his blood hath bathed the shore!"
The snake's dull scales are as cold as lead;
And the wizard's heart lies bare.—
"Await, my bark, at the headland's head:
We shall sail by the beacon's flare."
And the wizard's heart lies bare.—
"Await, my bark, at the headland's head:
We shall sail by the beacon's flare."
