I almost fear that 'twill little please you; but that must be as it may. (GUDMUND: Saints in heaven, surely she would not--!) It was a fair and noble maid, She dwelt in her father's hall; Both linen and silk did she broider and braid, Yet found in it solace small. For she sat there alone in cheerless state, Empty were hall and bower; In the pride of her heart, she was fain to mate With a chieftain of pelf and power. But now 'twas the Hill King, he rode from the north, With his henchmen and his gold; On the third day at night he in triumph fared forth, Bearing her to his mountain hold. Full many a summer she dwelt in the hill; Out of beakers of gold she could drink at her will. Oh, fair are the flowers of the valley, I trow, But only in dreams can she gather them now! 'Twas a youth, right gentle and bold to boot, Struck his harp with such magic might That it rang to the mountain's inmost root, Where she languished in the night. The sound in her soul waked a wondrous mood-- Wide open the mountain-gates seemed to stand; The peace of God lay over the land, And she saw how it all was fair and good. There happened what never had happened before; She had wakened to life as his harp-strings thrilled; And her eyes were opened to all the store Of treasure wherewith the good earth is filled. For mark this well: it hath ever been found That those who in caverns deep lie bound Are lightly freed by the harp's glad sound. He saw her prisoned, he heard her wail-- But he cast unheeding his harp aside, Hoisted straightway his silken sail, And sped away o'er the waters wide To stranger strands with his new-found bride. [With ever-increasing passion. So fair was thy touch on the golden strings That my breast heaves high and my spirit sings! I must out, I must out to the sweet green leas! I die in the Hill-King's fastnesses! He mocks at my woe as he clasps his bride And sails away o'er the waters wide. [Shrieks. With me all is over; my hill-prison barred; Unsunned is the day, and the night all unstarred. [She totters and, fainting, seeks to support herself against the trunk of a tree.

Margit Monologue from The feast at Solhoug

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