ALFHILD.
But rain or storm is a trifling thing,
'Tis as nothing beside the poignant sting
I suffer within my breast.—
My home and my father and all the rest
I left for Olaf, the friend I loved best!
He swore to me then I should be his bride!
And I came—God's love I felt in my soul;
But he drove me away, he thrust me aside;
So loudly he laughed when I writhed in dole!
While they banquet within, like a dog I must stay
Out here in the storm. Hence,—hence I will go!
[Starts to go, but stops.]