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I

Thou shalt not whimper, daughter mine!
No selfish season this for sighs!
There are kine to milk, and paths to be digged,
And the hind--hear how it grieves and cries!
Fresh snow on the roof-tree lieth thick,
Still heavy the drifts weigh down the skies;
This be a day to do and dare,--
Then up, Wynhilda,--dry thine eyes!

II

It's not from the handwork I hold back,
It's not for frost I fret and weep;
My fingers are willing,--but faith grows faint,--
O prithee, mother, let me sleep!

III

Weak words, thy words, Wynhilda mine!
These days, bear-fierce, must hearts be dead;
Though Edwald sleep face-down tonight,
And firebrand show his bosom red
With axe and war-bill, vain by tears!
This morn's no morn to hang the head;
Our clansman's woe is our common woe,--
And death were his proudest marriage-bed!

IV

Nay, stay thy chiding, mother mine!
I've flown this night to the field, rock-girt;
I weep, but not for Edwald slain,--
A caitiff he skulked, alone unhurt!