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But here on thy bosom
Confess I that humble
Makes me thy love.”
“Humble he is not who yet doth hold me
Against my will.
Warm with my father’s blood how darest thou
Breathe words of love?
Release me, thy hand like the pyre doth burn me
This night that burned.
Bear me to death, to dishonor bear me,
Show now thy power,
Iamtland’s warrior,
Over a woman!”
The train drew near, and noise and laughter
Rang through the forest;
He took her up, and away he leaped
Into the gloom.
Silent she sat on his arm, nor heard he
Aught save her sobbing;—
Whereat slowly his stride was slackened,
Until he stood still,
Listened and waited,
Silent and redeless.
“Strength goes out of me, now thou art silent,
Threaten me rather
“Nay, no longer I threaten, thou from me
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