“Desist, O Ribolt, my heart’s ador’d,
’Tis time, ’tis time to sheath thy sword.
“My youngest brother I pray thee spare,
That he to my mother may tiding bear;
“Bear her the tidings of the slaughter,
O would she never had borne a daughter!”
Scarce had the name of Ribolt sounded,
When Ribolt tottered, deadly wounded.
He sheathed his faulchion, blood be-dyed:
“Come, dear Gulborg, we hence will ride.”
They thread the mazes of the wood,
No word escaped him, bad or good.
“Hear, Ribolt, hear, my destined mate,
Why art not glad as thou wast of late?”
“Gulborg, I feel my life-blood leak,
Gulborg, I feel me faint and weak.
“But chiefly, chiefly I look not pleas’d
Because Death’s hand my heart has seiz’d.”
“Myself of my girdle I’ll dis-array,
And thy streaming blood will stanch and stay.”