BALLADS. Ill 



And to have seen how he did writh 



When this her tale she told, 

 It would have made a wizard's blood 



Within his heart run cold. 



Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, 



And sought the battle's bed : 

 And soon all mangled o'er with wounds 



He on the cold turf bled 



And from his smoking corse, she tore 



His head, half clove in two, 

 She ceased, and from beneath her garb, 

 The bloodj trophy drew. 



The eyes were starting from their soots, 



The mouth it ghastly grinned. 

 And there was a gash across the brow, 



The scalp was nearly skinned. 



'Twas Bertrand's Head! With a terrible scream, 



The maiden gave a spring, 

 And from her fearful hiding-place 



She fell into the ring. 



The lights they fled, — the caldron sunk, 



Deep thunders shook the dome. 

 And hollow peals of laughter came 



Resounding through the gloom. 



Insensible the maiden lay 



Upon the hellish ground : 

 And still mysterious sounds were heard 



At intervals around. 



She woke, — she half arose, — and wild. 



She cast a horrid glare, 

 The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, 



And all was stillness there. 



