And then the blue-eyed Norseman toldA Saga of the days of old."There is," said he, "a wondrous bookOf Legends in the old Norse tongue,Of the dead kings of Norroway,—Legends that once were told or sungIn many a smoky fireside nookOf Iceland, in the ancient day,By wandering Saga-man or Scald;Heimskringla is the volume called;And he who looks may find thereinThe story that I now begin."And in each pause the story madeUpon his violin he played,As an appropriate interlude,Fragments of old Norwegian tunesThat bound in one the separate runes,And held the mind in perfect mood,Entwining and encircling allThe strange and antiquated rhymesWith melodies of olden times;As over some half-ruined wall,Disjointed and about to fall,Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,And keep the loosened stones in place.
And then the blue-eyed Norseman toldA Saga of the days of old."There is," said he, "a wondrous bookOf Legends in the old Norse tongue,Of the dead kings of Norroway,—Legends that once were told or sungIn many a smoky fireside nookOf Iceland, in the ancient day,By wandering Saga-man or Scald;Heimskringla is the volume called;And he who looks may find thereinThe story that I now begin."
And in each pause the story madeUpon his violin he played,As an appropriate interlude,Fragments of old Norwegian tunesThat bound in one the separate runes,And held the mind in perfect mood,Entwining and encircling allThe strange and antiquated rhymesWith melodies of olden times;As over some half-ruined wall,Disjointed and about to fall,Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,And keep the loosened stones in place.
I am the God Thor,I am the War God,I am the Thunderer!Here in my Northland,My fastness and fortress,Reign I forever!Here amid icebergsRule I the nations;This is my hammer,Miölner the mighty;Giants and sorcerersCannot withstand it!These are the gauntletsWherewith I wield it,And hurl it afar off;This is my girdle;Whenever I brace it,Strength is redoubled!The light thou beholdestStream through the heavens,In flashes of crimson,Is but my red beardBlown by the night-wind,Affrighting the nations!Jove is my brother;Mine eyes are the lightning;The wheels of my chariotRoll in the thunder,The blows of my hammerRing in the earthquake!Force rules the world still,Has ruled it, shall rule it;Meekness is weakness,Strength is triumphant,Over the whole earthStill is it Thor's-Day!Thou art a God too,O Galilean!And thus single-handedUnto the combat,Gauntlet or Gospel,Here I defy thee!
I am the God Thor,I am the War God,I am the Thunderer!Here in my Northland,My fastness and fortress,Reign I forever!
Here amid icebergsRule I the nations;This is my hammer,Miölner the mighty;Giants and sorcerersCannot withstand it!
These are the gauntletsWherewith I wield it,And hurl it afar off;This is my girdle;Whenever I brace it,Strength is redoubled!
The light thou beholdestStream through the heavens,In flashes of crimson,Is but my red beardBlown by the night-wind,Affrighting the nations!
Jove is my brother;Mine eyes are the lightning;The wheels of my chariotRoll in the thunder,The blows of my hammerRing in the earthquake!
Force rules the world still,Has ruled it, shall rule it;Meekness is weakness,Strength is triumphant,Over the whole earthStill is it Thor's-Day!
Thou art a God too,O Galilean!And thus single-handedUnto the combat,Gauntlet or Gospel,Here I defy thee!
And King Olaf heard the cry,Saw the red light in the sky,Laid his hand upon his sword,As he leaned upon the railing,And his ships went sailing, sailingNorthward into Drontheim fiord.There he stood as one who dreamed;And the red light glanced and gleamedOn the armor that he wore;And he shouted, as the riftedStreamers o'er him shook and shifted,"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"To avenge his father slain,And reconquer realm and reign,Came the youthful Olaf home,Through the midnight sailing, sailing,Listening to the wild wind's wailing,And the dashing of the foam.To his thoughts the sacred nameOf his mother Astrid came,And the tale she oft had toldOf her flight by secret passesThrough the mountains and morasses,To the home of Hakon old.Then strange memories crowded backOf Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack,And a hurried flight by sea;Of grim Vikings, and their raptureIn the sea-fight, and the capture,And the life of slavery.How a stranger watched his faceIn the Esthonian market-place,Scanned his features one by one,Saying, "We should know each other;I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother,Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son!"Then as Queen Allogia's page,Old in honors, young in age,Chief of all her men-at-arms;Till vague whispers, and mysterious,Reached King Valdemar, the imperious,Filling him with strange alarms.Then his cruisings o'er the seas,Westward to the Hebrides,And to Scilly's rocky shore;And the hermit's cavern dismal,Christ's great name and rites baptismal,In the ocean's rush and roar.All these thoughts of love and strifeGlimmered through his lurid life,As the stars' intenser lightThrough the red flames o'er him trailing,As his ships went sailing, sailing,Northward in the summer night.Trained for either camp or court,Skilful in each manly sport,Young and beautiful and tall;Art of warfare, craft of chases,Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races,Excellent alike in all.When at sea, with all his rowers,He along the bending oarsOutside of his ship could run.He the Smalsor Horn ascended,And his shining shield suspendedOn its summit, like a sun.On the ship-rails he could stand,Wield his sword with either hand,And at once two javelins throw;At all feasts where ale was strongestSat the merry monarch longest,First to come and last to go.Norway never yet had seenOne so beautiful of mien,One so royal in attire,When in arms completely furnished,Harness gold-inlaid and burnished,Mantle like a flame of fire.Thus came Olaf to his own,When upon the night-wind blownPassed that cry along the shore;And he answered, while the riftedStreamers o'er him shook and shifted,"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"
And King Olaf heard the cry,Saw the red light in the sky,Laid his hand upon his sword,As he leaned upon the railing,And his ships went sailing, sailingNorthward into Drontheim fiord.
There he stood as one who dreamed;And the red light glanced and gleamedOn the armor that he wore;And he shouted, as the riftedStreamers o'er him shook and shifted,"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"
To avenge his father slain,And reconquer realm and reign,Came the youthful Olaf home,Through the midnight sailing, sailing,Listening to the wild wind's wailing,And the dashing of the foam.
To his thoughts the sacred nameOf his mother Astrid came,And the tale she oft had toldOf her flight by secret passesThrough the mountains and morasses,To the home of Hakon old.
Then strange memories crowded backOf Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack,And a hurried flight by sea;Of grim Vikings, and their raptureIn the sea-fight, and the capture,And the life of slavery.
How a stranger watched his faceIn the Esthonian market-place,Scanned his features one by one,Saying, "We should know each other;I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother,Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son!"
Then as Queen Allogia's page,Old in honors, young in age,Chief of all her men-at-arms;Till vague whispers, and mysterious,Reached King Valdemar, the imperious,Filling him with strange alarms.
Then his cruisings o'er the seas,Westward to the Hebrides,And to Scilly's rocky shore;And the hermit's cavern dismal,Christ's great name and rites baptismal,In the ocean's rush and roar.
All these thoughts of love and strifeGlimmered through his lurid life,As the stars' intenser lightThrough the red flames o'er him trailing,As his ships went sailing, sailing,Northward in the summer night.
Trained for either camp or court,Skilful in each manly sport,Young and beautiful and tall;Art of warfare, craft of chases,Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races,Excellent alike in all.
When at sea, with all his rowers,He along the bending oarsOutside of his ship could run.He the Smalsor Horn ascended,And his shining shield suspendedOn its summit, like a sun.
On the ship-rails he could stand,Wield his sword with either hand,And at once two javelins throw;At all feasts where ale was strongestSat the merry monarch longest,First to come and last to go.
Norway never yet had seenOne so beautiful of mien,One so royal in attire,When in arms completely furnished,Harness gold-inlaid and burnished,Mantle like a flame of fire.
Thus came Olaf to his own,When upon the night-wind blownPassed that cry along the shore;And he answered, while the riftedStreamers o'er him shook and shifted,"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"
"Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me!Danger and shame and death betide me!For Olaf the King is hunting me downThrough field and forest, through thorp and town!"Thus cried Jarl HakonTo Thora, the fairest of women."Hakon Jarl! for the love I bear theeNeither shall shame nor death come near thee!But the hiding-place wherein thou must lieIs the cave underneath the swine in the sty."Thus to Jarl HakonSaid Thora, the fairest of women.So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall KarkerCrouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker,As Olaf came riding, with men in mail,Through the forest roads into Orkadale,Demanding Jarl HakonOf Thora, the fairest of women."Rich and honored shall be whoeverThe head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever!"Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave,Through the breathing-holes of the darksome cave.Alone in her chamberWept Thora, the fairest of women.Said Karker, the crafty, "I will not slay thee!For all the king's gold I will never betray thee!""Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl,And then again black as the earth?" said the Earl.More pale and more faithfulWas Thora, the fairest of women.From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying,"Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying!"And Hakon answered, "Beware of the king!He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring."At the ring on her fingerGazed Thora, the fairest of women.At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encumbered,But screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered;The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife,And the Earl awakened no more in this life.But wakeful and weepingSat Thora, the fairest of women.At Nidarholm the priests are all singing,Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging;One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's,And the people are shouting from windows and walls;While alone in her chamberSwoons Thora, the fairest of women.
"Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me!Danger and shame and death betide me!For Olaf the King is hunting me downThrough field and forest, through thorp and town!"Thus cried Jarl HakonTo Thora, the fairest of women.
"Hakon Jarl! for the love I bear theeNeither shall shame nor death come near thee!But the hiding-place wherein thou must lieIs the cave underneath the swine in the sty."Thus to Jarl HakonSaid Thora, the fairest of women.
So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall KarkerCrouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker,As Olaf came riding, with men in mail,Through the forest roads into Orkadale,Demanding Jarl HakonOf Thora, the fairest of women.
"Rich and honored shall be whoeverThe head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever!"Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave,Through the breathing-holes of the darksome cave.Alone in her chamberWept Thora, the fairest of women.
Said Karker, the crafty, "I will not slay thee!For all the king's gold I will never betray thee!""Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl,And then again black as the earth?" said the Earl.More pale and more faithfulWas Thora, the fairest of women.
From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying,"Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying!"And Hakon answered, "Beware of the king!He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring."At the ring on her fingerGazed Thora, the fairest of women.
At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encumbered,But screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered;The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife,And the Earl awakened no more in this life.But wakeful and weepingSat Thora, the fairest of women.
At Nidarholm the priests are all singing,Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging;One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's,And the people are shouting from windows and walls;While alone in her chamberSwoons Thora, the fairest of women.
Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloftIn her chamber, that looked over meadow and croft.Heart's dearest,Why dost thou sorrow so?The floor with tassels of fir was besprent,Filling the room with their fragrant scent.She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine,The air of summer was sweeter than wine.Like a sword without scabbard the bright river layBetween her own kingdom and Norroway.But Olaf the King had sued for her hand,The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned.Her maidens were seated around her knee,Working bright figures in tapestry.And one was singing the ancient runeOf Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun.And through it, and round it, and over it allSounded incessant the waterfall.The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold,From the door of Ladé's Temple old.King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift,But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift.She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain,Who smiled, as they handed it back again.And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way,Said, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say?"And they answered: "O Queen! if the truth must be told,The ring is of copper, and not of gold!"The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek,She only murmured, she did not speak:"If in his gifts he can faithless be,There will be no gold in his love to me."A footstep was heard on the outer stair,And in strode King Olaf with royal air.He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of love,And swore to be true as the stars are above.But she smiled with contempt as she answered: "O King,Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring?"And the King: "O speak not of Odin to me,The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be."Looking straight at the King, with her level brows,She said, "I keep true to my faith and my vows."Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom,He rose in his anger and strode through the room."Why, then, should I care to have thee?" he said,—"A faded old woman, a heathenish jade!"His zeal was stronger than fear or love,And he struck the Queen in the face with his glove.Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled,And the wooden stairway shook with his tread.Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath,"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death!"Heart's dearest,Why dost thou sorrow so?
Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloftIn her chamber, that looked over meadow and croft.Heart's dearest,Why dost thou sorrow so?
The floor with tassels of fir was besprent,Filling the room with their fragrant scent.
She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine,The air of summer was sweeter than wine.
Like a sword without scabbard the bright river layBetween her own kingdom and Norroway.
But Olaf the King had sued for her hand,The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned.
Her maidens were seated around her knee,Working bright figures in tapestry.
And one was singing the ancient runeOf Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun.
And through it, and round it, and over it allSounded incessant the waterfall.
The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold,From the door of Ladé's Temple old.
King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift,But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift.
She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain,Who smiled, as they handed it back again.
And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way,Said, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say?"
And they answered: "O Queen! if the truth must be told,The ring is of copper, and not of gold!"
The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek,She only murmured, she did not speak:
"If in his gifts he can faithless be,There will be no gold in his love to me."
A footstep was heard on the outer stair,And in strode King Olaf with royal air.
He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of love,And swore to be true as the stars are above.
But she smiled with contempt as she answered: "O King,Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring?"
And the King: "O speak not of Odin to me,The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be."
Looking straight at the King, with her level brows,She said, "I keep true to my faith and my vows."
Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom,He rose in his anger and strode through the room.
"Why, then, should I care to have thee?" he said,—"A faded old woman, a heathenish jade!"
His zeal was stronger than fear or love,And he struck the Queen in the face with his glove.
Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled,And the wooden stairway shook with his tread.
Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath,"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death!"Heart's dearest,Why dost thou sorrow so?
Now from all King Olaf's farmsHis men-at-armsGathered on the Eve of Easter;To his house at Angvalds-nessFast they press,Drinking with the royal feaster.Loudly through the wide-flung doorCame the roarOf the sea upon the Skerry;And its thunder loud and nearReached the ear,Mingling with their voices merry."Hark!" said Olaf to his Scald,Halfred the Bald,"Listen to that song, and learn it!Half my kingdom would I give,As I live,If by such songs you would earn it!"For of all the runes and rhymesOf all times,Best I like the ocean's dirges,When the old harper heaves and rocks,His hoary locksFlowing and flashing in the surges!"Halfred answered: "I am calledThe Unappalled!Nothing hinders me or daunts me.Hearken to me, then, O King,While I singThe great Ocean Song that haunts me.""I will hear your song sublimeSome other time,"Says the drowsy monarch, yawning,And retires; each laughing guestApplauds the jest;Then they sleep till day is dawning.Pacing up and down the yard,King Olaf's guardSaw the sea-mist slowly creepingO'er the sands, and up the hill,Gathering stillRound the house where they were sleeping.It was not the fog he saw,Nor misty flaw,That above the landscape brooded;It was Eyvind Kallda's crewOf warlocks blue,With their caps of darkness hooded!Round and round the house they go,Weaving slowMagic circles to encumberAnd imprison in their ringOlaf the King,As he helpless lies in slumber.Then athwart the vapors dunThe Easter sunStreamed with one broad track of splendor!In their real forms appearedThe warlocks weird,Awful as the Witch of Endor.Blinded by the light that glared,They groped and staredRound about with steps unsteady;From his window Olaf gazed,And, amazed,"Who are these strange people?" said he."Eyvind Kellda and his men!"Answered thenFrom the yard a sturdy farmer;While the men-at-arms apaceFilled the place,Busily buckling on their armor.From the gates they sallied forth,South and north,Scoured the island coast around them,Seizing all the warlock band,Foot and handOn the Skerry's rocks they bound them.And at eve the king againCalled his train,And, with all the candles burning,Silent sat and heard once moreThe sullen roarOf the ocean tides returning.Shrieks and cries of wild despairFilled the air,Growing fainter as they listened;Then the bursting surge aloneSounded on;—Thus the sorcerers were christened!"Sing, O Scald, your song sublime,Your ocean-rhyme,"Cried King Olaf: "it will cheer me!"Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks,"The Skerry of ShrieksSings too loud for you to hear me!"
Now from all King Olaf's farmsHis men-at-armsGathered on the Eve of Easter;To his house at Angvalds-nessFast they press,Drinking with the royal feaster.
Loudly through the wide-flung doorCame the roarOf the sea upon the Skerry;And its thunder loud and nearReached the ear,Mingling with their voices merry.
"Hark!" said Olaf to his Scald,Halfred the Bald,"Listen to that song, and learn it!Half my kingdom would I give,As I live,If by such songs you would earn it!
"For of all the runes and rhymesOf all times,Best I like the ocean's dirges,When the old harper heaves and rocks,His hoary locksFlowing and flashing in the surges!"
Halfred answered: "I am calledThe Unappalled!Nothing hinders me or daunts me.Hearken to me, then, O King,While I singThe great Ocean Song that haunts me."
"I will hear your song sublimeSome other time,"Says the drowsy monarch, yawning,And retires; each laughing guestApplauds the jest;Then they sleep till day is dawning.
Pacing up and down the yard,King Olaf's guardSaw the sea-mist slowly creepingO'er the sands, and up the hill,Gathering stillRound the house where they were sleeping.
It was not the fog he saw,Nor misty flaw,That above the landscape brooded;It was Eyvind Kallda's crewOf warlocks blue,With their caps of darkness hooded!
Round and round the house they go,Weaving slowMagic circles to encumberAnd imprison in their ringOlaf the King,As he helpless lies in slumber.
Then athwart the vapors dunThe Easter sunStreamed with one broad track of splendor!In their real forms appearedThe warlocks weird,Awful as the Witch of Endor.
Blinded by the light that glared,They groped and staredRound about with steps unsteady;From his window Olaf gazed,And, amazed,"Who are these strange people?" said he.
"Eyvind Kellda and his men!"Answered thenFrom the yard a sturdy farmer;While the men-at-arms apaceFilled the place,Busily buckling on their armor.
From the gates they sallied forth,South and north,Scoured the island coast around them,Seizing all the warlock band,Foot and handOn the Skerry's rocks they bound them.
And at eve the king againCalled his train,And, with all the candles burning,Silent sat and heard once moreThe sullen roarOf the ocean tides returning.
Shrieks and cries of wild despairFilled the air,Growing fainter as they listened;Then the bursting surge aloneSounded on;—Thus the sorcerers were christened!
"Sing, O Scald, your song sublime,Your ocean-rhyme,"Cried King Olaf: "it will cheer me!"Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks,"The Skerry of ShrieksSings too loud for you to hear me!"
The guests were loud, the ale was strong,King Olaf feasted late and long;The hoary Scalds together sang;O'erhead the smoky rafters rang.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.The door swung wide, with creak and din;A blast of cold night-air came in,And on the threshold shivering stoodA one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.The King exclaimed, "O graybeard pale!Come warm thee with this cup of ale."The foaming draught the old man quaffed,The noisy guests looked on and laughed.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.Then spake the King: "Be not afraid;Sit here by me." The guest obeyed,And, seated at the table, toldTales of the sea, and Sagas old.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.And ever, when the tale was o'er,The King demanded yet one more;Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said,"'Tis late, O King, and time for bed."Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.The King retired; the stranger guestFollowed and entered with the rest;The lights were out, the pages gone,But still the garrulous guest spake on.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.As one who from a volume reads,He spake of heroes and their deeds,Of lands and cities he had seen,And stormy gulfs that tossed between.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.Then from his lips in music rolledThe Havamal of Odin old,With sounds mysterious as the roarOf billows on a distant shore.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang."Do we not learn from runes and rhymesMade by the gods in elder times,And do not still the great Scalds teachThat silence better is than speech?"Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.Smiling at this, the King replied,"Thy lore is by thy tongue belied;For never was I so enthralledEither by Saga-man or Scald."Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.The Bishop said, "Late hours we keep!Night wanes, O King! 'tis time for sleep!"Then slept the King, and when he wokeThe guest was gone, the morning broke.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.They found the doors securely barred,They found the watch-dog in the yard,There was no footprint in the grass,And none had seen the stranger pass.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.King Olaf crossed himself and said:"I know that Odin the Great is dead;Sure is the triumph of our Faith,The one-eyed stranger was his wraith."Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
The guests were loud, the ale was strong,King Olaf feasted late and long;The hoary Scalds together sang;O'erhead the smoky rafters rang.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
The door swung wide, with creak and din;A blast of cold night-air came in,And on the threshold shivering stoodA one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
The King exclaimed, "O graybeard pale!Come warm thee with this cup of ale."The foaming draught the old man quaffed,The noisy guests looked on and laughed.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
Then spake the King: "Be not afraid;Sit here by me." The guest obeyed,And, seated at the table, toldTales of the sea, and Sagas old.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
And ever, when the tale was o'er,The King demanded yet one more;Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said,"'Tis late, O King, and time for bed."Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
The King retired; the stranger guestFollowed and entered with the rest;The lights were out, the pages gone,But still the garrulous guest spake on.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
As one who from a volume reads,He spake of heroes and their deeds,Of lands and cities he had seen,And stormy gulfs that tossed between.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
Then from his lips in music rolledThe Havamal of Odin old,With sounds mysterious as the roarOf billows on a distant shore.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
"Do we not learn from runes and rhymesMade by the gods in elder times,And do not still the great Scalds teachThat silence better is than speech?"Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
Smiling at this, the King replied,"Thy lore is by thy tongue belied;For never was I so enthralledEither by Saga-man or Scald."Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
The Bishop said, "Late hours we keep!Night wanes, O King! 'tis time for sleep!"Then slept the King, and when he wokeThe guest was gone, the morning broke.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
They found the doors securely barred,They found the watch-dog in the yard,There was no footprint in the grass,And none had seen the stranger pass.Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
King Olaf crossed himself and said:"I know that Odin the Great is dead;Sure is the triumph of our Faith,The one-eyed stranger was his wraith."Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
Olaf the King, one summer morn,Blew a blast on his bugle-horn,Sending his signal through the land of Drontheim.And to the Hus-Ting held at MereGathered the farmers far and near,With their war weapons ready to confront him.Ploughing under the morning star,Old Iron-Beard in YriarHeard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh.He wiped the sweat-drops from his brow,Unharnessed his horses from the plough,And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf.He was the churliest of the churls;Little he cared for king or earls;Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming passions.Hodden-gray was the garb he wore,And by the Hammer of Thor he swore;He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions.But he loved the freedom of his farm,His ale at night, by the fireside warm,Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses.He loved his horses and his herds,The smell of the earth, and the song of birds,His well-filled barns, his brook with its watercresses.Huge and cumbersome was his frame;His beard, from which he took his name,Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant.So at the Hus-Ting he appeared,The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard,On horseback, with an attitude defiant.And to King Olaf he cried aloud,Out of the middle of the crowd,That tossed about him like a stormy ocean:"Such sacrifices shalt thou bring;To Odin and to Thor, O King,As other kings have done in their devotion!"King Olaf answered: "I commandThis land to be a Christian land;Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes!"But if you ask me to restoreYour sacrifices, stained with gore,Then will I offer human sacrifices!"Not slaves and peasants shall they be,But men of note and high degree,Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting!"Then to their Temple strode he in,And loud behind him heard the dinOf his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely fighting.There in the Temple, carved in wood,The image of great Odin stood,And other gods, with Thor supreme among them.King Olaf smote them with the bladeOf his huge war-axe, gold inlaid,And downward shattered to the pavement flung them.At the same moment rose without,From the contending crowd, a shout,A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing.And there upon the trampled plainThe farmer Iron-Beard lay slain,Midway between the assailed and the assailing.King Olaf from the doorway spoke:"Choose ye between two things, my folk,To be baptized or given up to slaughter!"And seeing their leader stark and dead,The people with a murmur said,"O King, baptize us with thy holy water!"So all the Drontheim land becameA Christian land in name and fame,In the old gods no more believing and trusting.And as a blood-atonement, soonKing Olaf wed the fair Gudrun;And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting!
Olaf the King, one summer morn,Blew a blast on his bugle-horn,Sending his signal through the land of Drontheim.
And to the Hus-Ting held at MereGathered the farmers far and near,With their war weapons ready to confront him.
Ploughing under the morning star,Old Iron-Beard in YriarHeard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh.
He wiped the sweat-drops from his brow,Unharnessed his horses from the plough,And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf.
He was the churliest of the churls;Little he cared for king or earls;Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming passions.
Hodden-gray was the garb he wore,And by the Hammer of Thor he swore;He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions.
But he loved the freedom of his farm,His ale at night, by the fireside warm,Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses.
He loved his horses and his herds,The smell of the earth, and the song of birds,His well-filled barns, his brook with its watercresses.
Huge and cumbersome was his frame;His beard, from which he took his name,Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant.
So at the Hus-Ting he appeared,The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard,On horseback, with an attitude defiant.
And to King Olaf he cried aloud,Out of the middle of the crowd,That tossed about him like a stormy ocean:
"Such sacrifices shalt thou bring;To Odin and to Thor, O King,As other kings have done in their devotion!"
King Olaf answered: "I commandThis land to be a Christian land;Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes!
"But if you ask me to restoreYour sacrifices, stained with gore,Then will I offer human sacrifices!
"Not slaves and peasants shall they be,But men of note and high degree,Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting!"
Then to their Temple strode he in,And loud behind him heard the dinOf his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely fighting.
There in the Temple, carved in wood,The image of great Odin stood,And other gods, with Thor supreme among them.
King Olaf smote them with the bladeOf his huge war-axe, gold inlaid,And downward shattered to the pavement flung them.
At the same moment rose without,From the contending crowd, a shout,A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing.
And there upon the trampled plainThe farmer Iron-Beard lay slain,Midway between the assailed and the assailing.
King Olaf from the doorway spoke:"Choose ye between two things, my folk,To be baptized or given up to slaughter!"
And seeing their leader stark and dead,The people with a murmur said,"O King, baptize us with thy holy water!"
So all the Drontheim land becameA Christian land in name and fame,In the old gods no more believing and trusting.
And as a blood-atonement, soonKing Olaf wed the fair Gudrun;And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting!
On King Olaf's bridal nightShines the moon with tender light,And across the chamber streamsIts tide of dreams.At the fatal midnight hour,When all evil things have power,In the glimmer of the moonStands Gudrun.Close against her heaving breast,Something in her hand is pressed;Like an icicle, its sheenIs cold and keen.On the cairn are fixed her eyesWhere her murdered father lies,And a voice remote and drearShe seems to hear.What a bridal night is this!Cold will be the dagger's kiss;Laden with the chill of deathIs its breath.Like the drifting snow she sweepsTo the couch where Olaf sleeps;Suddenly he wakes and stirs,His eyes meet hers."What is that," King Olaf said,"Gleams so bright above thy head?Wherefore standest thou so whiteIn pale moonlight?""'Tis the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair;It woke me falling on the floor;'Tis nothing more.""Forests have ears, and fields have eyes;Often treachery lurking liesUnderneath the fairest hair!Gudrun beware!"Ere the earliest peep of mornBlew King Olaf's bugle-horn;And forever sundered rideBridegroom and bride!
On King Olaf's bridal nightShines the moon with tender light,And across the chamber streamsIts tide of dreams.
At the fatal midnight hour,When all evil things have power,In the glimmer of the moonStands Gudrun.
Close against her heaving breast,Something in her hand is pressed;Like an icicle, its sheenIs cold and keen.
On the cairn are fixed her eyesWhere her murdered father lies,And a voice remote and drearShe seems to hear.
What a bridal night is this!Cold will be the dagger's kiss;Laden with the chill of deathIs its breath.
Like the drifting snow she sweepsTo the couch where Olaf sleeps;Suddenly he wakes and stirs,His eyes meet hers.
"What is that," King Olaf said,"Gleams so bright above thy head?Wherefore standest thou so whiteIn pale moonlight?"
"'Tis the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair;It woke me falling on the floor;'Tis nothing more."
"Forests have ears, and fields have eyes;Often treachery lurking liesUnderneath the fairest hair!Gudrun beware!"
Ere the earliest peep of mornBlew King Olaf's bugle-horn;And forever sundered rideBridegroom and bride!
Short of stature, large of limb,Burly face and russet beard,All the women stared at him,When in Iceland he appeared."Look!" they said,With nodding head,"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."All the prayers he knew by rote,He could preach like Chrysostome,From the Fathers he could quote,He had even been at Rome.A learned clerk,A man of mark,Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.He was quarrelsome and loud,And impatient of control,Boisterous in the market crowd,Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,EverywhereWould drink and swear,Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.In his house this malecontentCould the King no longer bear,So to Iceland he was sentTo convert the heathen there,And awayOne summer daySailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.There in Iceland, o'er their booksPored the people day and night,But he did not like their looks,Nor the songs they used to write."All this rhymeIs waste of time!"Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.To the alehouse, where he sat,Came the Scalds and Saga-men;Is it to be wondered at,That they quarrelled now and then,When o'er his beerBegan to leerDrunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?All the folk in AltafiordBoasted of their island grand;Saying in a single word,"Iceland is the finest landThat the sunDoth shine upon!"Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.And he answered: "What's the useOf this bragging up and down,When three women and one gooseMake a market in your town!"Every ScaldSatires scrawledOn poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.Something worse they did than that;And what vexed him most of allWas a figure in shovel hat,Drawn in charcoal on the wall;With words that goSprawling below,"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."Hardly knowing what he did,Then he smote them might and main,Thorvald Veile and VeterlidLay there in the alehouse slain."To-day we are gold,To-morrow mould!"Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.Much in fear of axe and rope,Back to Norway sailed he then."O, King Olaf! little hopeIs there of these Iceland men!"Meekly said,With bending head,Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Short of stature, large of limb,Burly face and russet beard,All the women stared at him,When in Iceland he appeared."Look!" they said,With nodding head,"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."
All the prayers he knew by rote,He could preach like Chrysostome,From the Fathers he could quote,He had even been at Rome.A learned clerk,A man of mark,Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
He was quarrelsome and loud,And impatient of control,Boisterous in the market crowd,Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,EverywhereWould drink and swear,Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
In his house this malecontentCould the King no longer bear,So to Iceland he was sentTo convert the heathen there,And awayOne summer daySailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
There in Iceland, o'er their booksPored the people day and night,But he did not like their looks,Nor the songs they used to write."All this rhymeIs waste of time!"Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
To the alehouse, where he sat,Came the Scalds and Saga-men;Is it to be wondered at,That they quarrelled now and then,When o'er his beerBegan to leerDrunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?
All the folk in AltafiordBoasted of their island grand;Saying in a single word,"Iceland is the finest landThat the sunDoth shine upon!"Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
And he answered: "What's the useOf this bragging up and down,When three women and one gooseMake a market in your town!"Every ScaldSatires scrawledOn poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Something worse they did than that;And what vexed him most of allWas a figure in shovel hat,Drawn in charcoal on the wall;With words that goSprawling below,"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."
Hardly knowing what he did,Then he smote them might and main,Thorvald Veile and VeterlidLay there in the alehouse slain."To-day we are gold,To-morrow mould!"Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Much in fear of axe and rope,Back to Norway sailed he then."O, King Olaf! little hopeIs there of these Iceland men!"Meekly said,With bending head,Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
"All the old gods are dead,All the wild warlocks fled;But the White Christ lives and reigns,And throughout my wide domainsHis Gospel shall be spread!"On the EvangelistsThus swore King Olaf.But still in dreams of the nightBeheld he the crimson light,And heard the voice that defiedHim who was crucified,And challenged him to the fight.To Sigurd the BishopKing Olaf confessed it.And Sigurd the Bishop said,"The old gods are not dead,For the great Thor still reigns,And among the Jarls and ThanesThe old witchcraft still is spread."Thus to King OlafSaid Sigurd the Bishop."Far north in the Salten Fiord,By rapine, fire, and sword,Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong;All the Godoe Isles belongTo him and his heathen horde."Thus went on speakingSigurd the Bishop."A warlock, a wizard is he,And lord of the wind and the sea;And whichever way he sails,He has ever favoring gales,By his craft in sorcery."Here the sign of the cross madeDevoutly King Olaf."With rites that we both abhor,He worships Odin and Thor;So it cannot yet be said,That all the old gods are dead,And the warlocks are no more,"Flushing with angerSaid Sigurd the Bishop.Then King Olaf cried aloud:"I will talk with this mighty Raud,And along the Salten FiordPreach the Gospel with my sword,Or be brought back in my shroud!"So northward from DrontheimSailed King Olaf!
"All the old gods are dead,All the wild warlocks fled;But the White Christ lives and reigns,And throughout my wide domainsHis Gospel shall be spread!"On the EvangelistsThus swore King Olaf.
But still in dreams of the nightBeheld he the crimson light,And heard the voice that defiedHim who was crucified,And challenged him to the fight.To Sigurd the BishopKing Olaf confessed it.
And Sigurd the Bishop said,"The old gods are not dead,For the great Thor still reigns,And among the Jarls and ThanesThe old witchcraft still is spread."Thus to King OlafSaid Sigurd the Bishop.
"Far north in the Salten Fiord,By rapine, fire, and sword,Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong;All the Godoe Isles belongTo him and his heathen horde."Thus went on speakingSigurd the Bishop.
"A warlock, a wizard is he,And lord of the wind and the sea;And whichever way he sails,He has ever favoring gales,By his craft in sorcery."Here the sign of the cross madeDevoutly King Olaf.
"With rites that we both abhor,He worships Odin and Thor;So it cannot yet be said,That all the old gods are dead,And the warlocks are no more,"Flushing with angerSaid Sigurd the Bishop.
Then King Olaf cried aloud:"I will talk with this mighty Raud,And along the Salten FiordPreach the Gospel with my sword,Or be brought back in my shroud!"So northward from DrontheimSailed King Olaf!