"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.IVQUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTYQueen 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 lay Between 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 rune Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun.And through it, and round it, and over it all Sounded incessant the waterfall.The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, From the door of Lade'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?VTHE SKERRY OF SHRIEKSNow 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.Facing 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 blueWith 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 Kallda 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!"VITHE WRAITH OF ODINThe 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,"'T is 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! 't is 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.VIIIRON-BEARDOlaf 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 water-cresses.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, in 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!VIIIGUDRUNOn 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 breastSomething in her hand is pressedLike 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?""'T is the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair;It woke me falling on the floor;'T is 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!IXTHANGBRAND THE PRIESTShort 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 PriestIn his house this malcontentCould 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 satCame 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.XRAUD THE STRONG"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 crossMade devoutly 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!XIBISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORDLoud the angry wind was wailingAs King Olaf's ships came sailingNorthward out of Drontheim havenTo the mouth of Salten Fiord.Though the flying sea-spray drenchesFore and aft the rowers' benches,Not a single heart is cravenOf the champions there on board.All without the Fiord was quietBut within it storm and riot,Such as on his Viking cruisesRaud the Strong was wont to ride.And the sea through all its tide-waysSwept the reeling vessels sideways,As the leaves are swept through sluices,When the flood-gates open wide."'T is the warlock! 't is the demonRaud!" cried Sigurd to the seamen;"But the Lord is not affrightedBy the witchcraft of his foes."To the ship's bow he ascended,By his choristers attended,Round him were the tapers lighted,And the sacred incense rose.On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd,In his robes, as one transfigured,And the Crucifix he plantedHigh amid the rain and mist.Then with holy water sprinkledAll the ship; the mass-bells tinkled;Loud the monks around him chanted,Loud he read the Evangelist.As into the Fiord they darted,On each side the water parted;Down a path like silver moltenSteadily rowed King Olaf's ships;Steadily burned all night the tapers,And the White Christ through the vaporsGleamed across the Fiord of Salten,As through John's Apocalypse,—Till at last they reached Raud's dwellingOn the little isle of Gelling;Not a guard was at the doorway,Not a glimmer of light was seen.But at anchor, carved and gilded,Lay the dragon-ship he builded;'T was the grandest ship in Norway,With its crest and scales of green.Up the stairway, softly creeping,To the loft where Raud was sleeping,With their fists they burst asunderBolt and bar that held the door.Drunken with sleep and ale they found him,Dragged him from his bed and bound him,While he stared with stupid wonder,At the look and garb they wore.Then King Olaf said: "O Sea-King!Little time have we for speaking,Choose between the good and evil;Be baptized, or thou shalt die!But in scorn the heathen scofferAnswered: "I disdain thine offer;Neither fear I God nor Devil;Thee and thy Gospel I defy!"Then between his jaws distended,When his frantic struggles ended,Through King Olaf's horn an adder,Touched by fire, they forced to glide.Sharp his tooth was as an arrow,As he gnawed through bone and marrow;But without a groan or shudder,Raud the Strong blaspheming died.Then baptized they all that region,Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian,Far as swims the salmon, leaping,Up the streams of Salten Fiord.In their temples Thor and OdinLay in dust and ashes trodden,As King Olaf, onward sweeping,Preached the Gospel with his sword.Then he took the carved and gildedDragon-ship that Raud had builded,And the tiller single-handed,Grasping, steered into the main.Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him,Southward sailed the ship that bore him,Till at Drontheim haven landedOlaf and his crew again.XIIKING OLAF'S CHRISTMASAt Drontheim, Olaf the KingHeard the bells of Yule-tide ring,As he sat in his banquet-hall,Drinking the nut-brown ale,With his bearded Berserks haleAnd tall.Three days his Yule-tide feastsHe held with Bishops and Priests,And his horn filled up to the brim;But the ale was never too strong,Nor the Saga-man's tale too long,For him.O'er his drinking-horn, the signHe made of the cross divine,As he drank, and muttered his prayers;But the Berserks evermoreMade the sign of the Hammer of ThorOver theirs.The gleams of the fire-light danceUpon helmet and hauberk and lance,And laugh in the eyes of the King;And he cries to Halfred the Scald,Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald,"Sing!""Sing me a song divine,With a sword in every line,And this shall be thy reward."And he loosened the belt at his waist,And in front of the singer placedHis sword."Quern-biter of Hakon the Good,Wherewith at a stroke he hewedThe millstone through and through,And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong,Were neither so broad nor so long,Nor so true."Then the Scald took his harp and sang,And loud though the music rangThe sound of that shining word;And the harp-strings a clangor made,As if they were struck with the bladeOf a sword.And the Berserks round aboutBroke forth into a shoutThat made the rafters ring:They smote with their fists on the board,And shouted, "Long live the Sword,And the King!"But the King said, "O my son,I miss the bright word in oneOf thy measures and thy rhymes."And Halfred the Scald replied,"In another 't was multipliedThree times."Then King Olaf raised the hiltOf iron, cross-shaped and gilt,And said, "Do not refuse;Count well the gain and the loss,Thor's hammer or Christ's cross:Choose!"And Halfred the Scald said, "ThisIn the name of the Lord I kiss,Who on it was crucified!"And a shout went round the board,"In the name of Christ the Lord,Who died!"Then over the waste of snowsThe noonday sun uprose,Through the driving mists revealed,Like the lifting of the Host,By incense-clouds almostConcealed.On the shining wall a vastAnd shadowy cross was castFrom the hilt of the lifted sword,And in foaming cups of aleThe Berserks drank "Was-hael!To the Lord!"XIIITHE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENTThorberg Skafting, master-builder,In his ship-yard by the sea,Whistling, said, "It would bewilderAny man but Thorberg Skafting,Any man but me!"Near him lay the Dragon stranded,Built of old by Raud the Strong,And King Olaf had commandedHe should build another Dragon,Twice as large and long.Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,As he sat with half-closed eyes,And his head turned sideways, draftingThat new vessel for King OlafTwice the Dragon's size.Round him busily hewed and hammeredMallet huge and heavy axe;Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;Whirred the wheels, that into riggingSpun the shining flax!All this tumult heard the master,—It was music to his ear;Fancy whispered all the faster,"Men shall hear of Thorberg SkaftingFor a hundred year!"Workmen sweating at the forgesFashioned iron bolt and bar,Like a warlock's midnight orgiesSmoked and bubbled the black caldronWith the boiling tar.Did the warlocks mingle in it,Thorberg Skafting, any curse?Could you not be gone a minuteBut some mischief must be doing,Turning bad to worse?'T was an ill wind that came wafting,From his homestead words of woeTo his farm went Thorberg Skafting,Oft repeating to his workmen,Build ye thus and so.After long delays returningCame the master back by nightTo his ship-yard longing, yearning,Hurried he, and did not leave itTill the morning's light."Come and see my ship, my darling"On the morrow said the King;"Finished now from keel to carling;Never yet was seen in NorwaySuch a wondrous thing!"In the ship-yard, idly talking,At the ship the workmen stared:Some one, all their labor balking,Down her sides had cut deep gashes,Not a plank was spared!"Death be to the evil-doer!"With an oath King Olaf spoke;"But rewards to his pursuerAnd with wrath his face grew redderThan his scarlet cloak.Straight the master-builder, smiling,Answered thus the angry King:"Cease blaspheming and reviling,Olaf, it was Thorberg SkaftingWho has done this thing!"Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,Till the King, delighted, swore,With much lauding and much thanking,"Handsomer is now my DragonThan she was before!"Seventy ells and four extendedOn the grass the vessel's keel;High above it, gilt and splendid,Rose the figure-head ferociousWith its crest of steel.Then they launched her from the tressels,In the ship-yard by the sea;She was the grandest of all vessels,Never ship was built in NorwayHalf so fine as she!The Long Serpent was she christened,'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!They who to the Saga listenedHeard the name of Thorberg SkaftingFor a hundred year!XIVTHE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENTSafe at anchor in Drontheim bayKing Olaf's fleet assembled lay,And, striped with white and blue,Downward fluttered sail and banner,As alights the screaming lanner;Lustily cheered, in their wild manner,The Long Serpent's crewHer forecastle man was Ulf the Red,Like a wolf's was his shaggy head,His teeth as large and white;His beard, of gray and russet blended,Round as a swallow's nest descended;As standard-bearer he defendedOlaf's flag in the fight.Near him Kolbiorn had his place,Like the King in garb and face,So gallant and so hale;Every cabin-boy and varletWondered at his cloak of scarlet;Like a river, frozen and star-lit,Gleamed his coat of mail.By the bulkhead, tall and dark, Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, A figure gaunt and grand; On his hairy arm imprinted Was an anchor, azure-tinted; Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted Was his brawny hand.Einar Tamberskelver, bareTo the winds his golden hair,By the mainmast stood;Graceful was his form, and slender,And his eyes were deep and tenderAs a woman's, in the splendorOf her maidenhood.In the fore-hold Biorn and BorkWatched the sailors at their work:Heavens! how they swore!Thirty men they each commanded,Iron-sinewed, horny-handed,Shoulders broad, and chests expanded.Tugging at the oar.These, and many more like these,With King Olaf sailed the seas,Till the waters vastFilled them with a vague devotion,With the freedom and the motion,With the roll and roar of oceanAnd the sounding blast.When they landed from the fleet,How they roared through Drontheim's street,Boisterous as the gale!How they laughed and stamped and pounded,Till the tavern roof resounded,And the host looked on astoundedAs they drank the ale!Never saw the wild North SeaSuch a gallant companySail its billows blue!Never, while they cruised and quarrelled,Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald,Owned a ship so well apparelled,Boasted such a crew!XVA LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIRA little bird in the airIs singing of Thyri the fair,The sister of Svend the Dane;And the song of the garrulous birdIn the streets of the town is heard,And repeated again and again.Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.To King Burislaf, it is said,Was the beautiful Thyri wed,And a sorrowful bride went she;And after a week and a day,She has fled away and away,From his town by the stormy sea.Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.They say, that through heat and through cold,Through weald, they say, and through wold,By day and by night, they say,She has fled; and the gossips reportShe has come to King Olaf's court,And the town is all in dismay.Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.It is whispered King Olaf has seen,Has talked with the beautiful Queen;And they wonder how it will end;For surely, if here she remain,It is war with King Svend the Dane,And King Burislaf the Vend!Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.O, greatest wonder of all!It is published in hamlet and hall,It roars like a flame that is fanned!The King—yes, Olaf the King—Has wedded her with his ring,And Thyri is Queen in the land!Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.XVIQUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKSNorthward over Drontheim,Flew the clamorous sea-gulls,Sang the lark and linnetFrom the meadows green;Weeping in her chamber,Lonely and unhappy,Sat the Drottning Thyri,Sat King Olaf's Queen.In at all the windowsStreamed the pleasant sunshine,On the roof above herSoftly cooed the dove;But the sound she heard not,Nor the sunshine heeded,For the thoughts of ThyriWere not thoughts of love,Then King Olaf entered,Beautiful as morning,Like the sun at EasterShone his happy face;In his hand he carriedAngelicas uprooted,With delicious fragranceFilling all the place.Like a rainy midnightSat the Drottning Thyri,Even the smile of OlafCould not cheer her gloom;Nor the stalks he gave herWith a gracious gesture,And with words as pleasantAs their own perfume.In her hands he placed them,And her jewelled fingersThrough the green leaves glistenedLike the dews of morn;But she cast them from her,Haughty and indignant,On the floor she threw themWith a look of scorn."Richer presents," said she,"Gave King Harald GormsonTo the Queen, my mother,Than such worthless weeds;"When he ravaged Norway,Laying waste the kingdom,Seizing scatt and treasureFor her royal needs."But thou darest not ventureThrough the Sound to Vendland,My domains to rescueFrom King Burislaf;"Lest King Svend of Denmark,Forked Beard, my brother,Scatter all thy vesselsAs the wind the chaff."Then up sprang King Olaf,Like a reindeer bounding,With an oath he answeredThus the luckless Queen:"Never yet did OlafFear King Svend of Denmark;This right hand shall hale himBy his forked chin!"Then he left the chamber,Thundering through the doorway,Loud his steps resoundedDown the outer stair.Smarting with the insult,Through the streets of DrontheimStrode he red and wrathful,With his stately air.All his ships he gathered,Summoned all his forces,Making his war levyIn the region round;Down the coast of Norway,Like a flock of sea-gulls,Sailed the fleet of OlafThrough the Danish Sound.With his own hand fearless,Steered he the Long Serpent,Strained the creaking cordage,Bent each boom and gaff;Till in Venland landing,The domains of ThyriHe redeemed and rescuedFrom King Burislaf.Then said Olaf, laughing,"Not ten yoke of oxenHave the power to draw usLike a woman's hair!"Now will I confess it,Better things are jewelsThan angelica stalks areFor a Queen to wear."XVIIKING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARLoudly the sailors cheeredSvend of the Forked Beard,As with his fleet he steeredSouthward to Vendland;Where with their courses hauledAll were together called,Under the Isle of SvaldNear to the mainland.After Queen Gunhild's death,So the old Saga saith,Plighted King Svend his faithTo Sigrid the Haughty;And to avenge his bride,Soothing her wounded pride,Over the waters wideKing Olaf sought he.
"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 lay Between 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 rune Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun.
And through it, and round it, and over it all Sounded incessant the waterfall.
The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, From the door of Lade'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.
Facing 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 blueWith 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 Kallda 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,"'T is 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! 't is 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 water-cresses.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, in 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 breastSomething in her hand is pressedLike 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?"
"'T is the bodkin that I wearWhen at night I bind my hair;It woke me falling on the floor;'T is 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 malcontentCould 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 satCame 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 crossMade devoutly 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!
Loud the angry wind was wailingAs King Olaf's ships came sailingNorthward out of Drontheim havenTo the mouth of Salten Fiord.
Though the flying sea-spray drenchesFore and aft the rowers' benches,Not a single heart is cravenOf the champions there on board.
All without the Fiord was quietBut within it storm and riot,Such as on his Viking cruisesRaud the Strong was wont to ride.
And the sea through all its tide-waysSwept the reeling vessels sideways,As the leaves are swept through sluices,When the flood-gates open wide.
"'T is the warlock! 't is the demonRaud!" cried Sigurd to the seamen;"But the Lord is not affrightedBy the witchcraft of his foes."
To the ship's bow he ascended,By his choristers attended,Round him were the tapers lighted,And the sacred incense rose.
On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd,In his robes, as one transfigured,And the Crucifix he plantedHigh amid the rain and mist.
Then with holy water sprinkledAll the ship; the mass-bells tinkled;Loud the monks around him chanted,Loud he read the Evangelist.
As into the Fiord they darted,On each side the water parted;Down a path like silver moltenSteadily rowed King Olaf's ships;
Steadily burned all night the tapers,And the White Christ through the vaporsGleamed across the Fiord of Salten,As through John's Apocalypse,—
Till at last they reached Raud's dwellingOn the little isle of Gelling;Not a guard was at the doorway,Not a glimmer of light was seen.
But at anchor, carved and gilded,Lay the dragon-ship he builded;'T was the grandest ship in Norway,With its crest and scales of green.
Up the stairway, softly creeping,To the loft where Raud was sleeping,With their fists they burst asunderBolt and bar that held the door.
Drunken with sleep and ale they found him,Dragged him from his bed and bound him,While he stared with stupid wonder,At the look and garb they wore.
Then King Olaf said: "O Sea-King!Little time have we for speaking,Choose between the good and evil;Be baptized, or thou shalt die!
But in scorn the heathen scofferAnswered: "I disdain thine offer;Neither fear I God nor Devil;Thee and thy Gospel I defy!"
Then between his jaws distended,When his frantic struggles ended,Through King Olaf's horn an adder,Touched by fire, they forced to glide.
Sharp his tooth was as an arrow,As he gnawed through bone and marrow;But without a groan or shudder,Raud the Strong blaspheming died.
Then baptized they all that region,Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian,Far as swims the salmon, leaping,Up the streams of Salten Fiord.
In their temples Thor and OdinLay in dust and ashes trodden,As King Olaf, onward sweeping,Preached the Gospel with his sword.
Then he took the carved and gildedDragon-ship that Raud had builded,And the tiller single-handed,Grasping, steered into the main.
Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him,Southward sailed the ship that bore him,Till at Drontheim haven landedOlaf and his crew again.
At Drontheim, Olaf the KingHeard the bells of Yule-tide ring,As he sat in his banquet-hall,Drinking the nut-brown ale,With his bearded Berserks haleAnd tall.
Three days his Yule-tide feastsHe held with Bishops and Priests,And his horn filled up to the brim;But the ale was never too strong,Nor the Saga-man's tale too long,For him.
O'er his drinking-horn, the signHe made of the cross divine,As he drank, and muttered his prayers;But the Berserks evermoreMade the sign of the Hammer of ThorOver theirs.
The gleams of the fire-light danceUpon helmet and hauberk and lance,And laugh in the eyes of the King;And he cries to Halfred the Scald,Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald,"Sing!"
"Sing me a song divine,With a sword in every line,And this shall be thy reward."And he loosened the belt at his waist,And in front of the singer placedHis sword.
"Quern-biter of Hakon the Good,Wherewith at a stroke he hewedThe millstone through and through,And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong,Were neither so broad nor so long,Nor so true."
Then the Scald took his harp and sang,And loud though the music rangThe sound of that shining word;And the harp-strings a clangor made,As if they were struck with the bladeOf a sword.
And the Berserks round aboutBroke forth into a shoutThat made the rafters ring:They smote with their fists on the board,And shouted, "Long live the Sword,And the King!"
But the King said, "O my son,I miss the bright word in oneOf thy measures and thy rhymes."And Halfred the Scald replied,"In another 't was multipliedThree times."
Then King Olaf raised the hiltOf iron, cross-shaped and gilt,And said, "Do not refuse;Count well the gain and the loss,Thor's hammer or Christ's cross:Choose!"
And Halfred the Scald said, "ThisIn the name of the Lord I kiss,Who on it was crucified!"And a shout went round the board,"In the name of Christ the Lord,Who died!"
Then over the waste of snowsThe noonday sun uprose,Through the driving mists revealed,Like the lifting of the Host,By incense-clouds almostConcealed.
On the shining wall a vastAnd shadowy cross was castFrom the hilt of the lifted sword,And in foaming cups of aleThe Berserks drank "Was-hael!To the Lord!"
Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,In his ship-yard by the sea,Whistling, said, "It would bewilderAny man but Thorberg Skafting,Any man but me!"
Near him lay the Dragon stranded,Built of old by Raud the Strong,And King Olaf had commandedHe should build another Dragon,Twice as large and long.
Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting,As he sat with half-closed eyes,And his head turned sideways, draftingThat new vessel for King OlafTwice the Dragon's size.
Round him busily hewed and hammeredMallet huge and heavy axe;Workmen laughed and sang and clamored;Whirred the wheels, that into riggingSpun the shining flax!
All this tumult heard the master,—It was music to his ear;Fancy whispered all the faster,"Men shall hear of Thorberg SkaftingFor a hundred year!"
Workmen sweating at the forgesFashioned iron bolt and bar,Like a warlock's midnight orgiesSmoked and bubbled the black caldronWith the boiling tar.
Did the warlocks mingle in it,Thorberg Skafting, any curse?Could you not be gone a minuteBut some mischief must be doing,Turning bad to worse?
'T was an ill wind that came wafting,From his homestead words of woeTo his farm went Thorberg Skafting,Oft repeating to his workmen,Build ye thus and so.
After long delays returningCame the master back by nightTo his ship-yard longing, yearning,Hurried he, and did not leave itTill the morning's light.
"Come and see my ship, my darling"On the morrow said the King;"Finished now from keel to carling;Never yet was seen in NorwaySuch a wondrous thing!"
In the ship-yard, idly talking,At the ship the workmen stared:Some one, all their labor balking,Down her sides had cut deep gashes,Not a plank was spared!
"Death be to the evil-doer!"With an oath King Olaf spoke;"But rewards to his pursuerAnd with wrath his face grew redderThan his scarlet cloak.
Straight the master-builder, smiling,Answered thus the angry King:"Cease blaspheming and reviling,Olaf, it was Thorberg SkaftingWho has done this thing!"
Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,Till the King, delighted, swore,With much lauding and much thanking,"Handsomer is now my DragonThan she was before!"
Seventy ells and four extendedOn the grass the vessel's keel;High above it, gilt and splendid,Rose the figure-head ferociousWith its crest of steel.
Then they launched her from the tressels,In the ship-yard by the sea;She was the grandest of all vessels,Never ship was built in NorwayHalf so fine as she!
The Long Serpent was she christened,'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!They who to the Saga listenedHeard the name of Thorberg SkaftingFor a hundred year!
Safe at anchor in Drontheim bayKing Olaf's fleet assembled lay,And, striped with white and blue,Downward fluttered sail and banner,As alights the screaming lanner;Lustily cheered, in their wild manner,The Long Serpent's crew
Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red,Like a wolf's was his shaggy head,His teeth as large and white;His beard, of gray and russet blended,Round as a swallow's nest descended;As standard-bearer he defendedOlaf's flag in the fight.
Near him Kolbiorn had his place,Like the King in garb and face,So gallant and so hale;Every cabin-boy and varletWondered at his cloak of scarlet;Like a river, frozen and star-lit,Gleamed his coat of mail.
By the bulkhead, tall and dark, Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, A figure gaunt and grand; On his hairy arm imprinted Was an anchor, azure-tinted; Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted Was his brawny hand.
Einar Tamberskelver, bareTo the winds his golden hair,By the mainmast stood;Graceful was his form, and slender,And his eyes were deep and tenderAs a woman's, in the splendorOf her maidenhood.
In the fore-hold Biorn and BorkWatched the sailors at their work:Heavens! how they swore!Thirty men they each commanded,Iron-sinewed, horny-handed,Shoulders broad, and chests expanded.Tugging at the oar.
These, and many more like these,With King Olaf sailed the seas,Till the waters vastFilled them with a vague devotion,With the freedom and the motion,With the roll and roar of oceanAnd the sounding blast.
When they landed from the fleet,How they roared through Drontheim's street,Boisterous as the gale!How they laughed and stamped and pounded,Till the tavern roof resounded,And the host looked on astoundedAs they drank the ale!
Never saw the wild North SeaSuch a gallant companySail its billows blue!Never, while they cruised and quarrelled,Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald,Owned a ship so well apparelled,Boasted such a crew!
A little bird in the airIs singing of Thyri the fair,The sister of Svend the Dane;And the song of the garrulous birdIn the streets of the town is heard,And repeated again and again.Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.
To King Burislaf, it is said,Was the beautiful Thyri wed,And a sorrowful bride went she;And after a week and a day,She has fled away and away,From his town by the stormy sea.Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.
They say, that through heat and through cold,Through weald, they say, and through wold,By day and by night, they say,She has fled; and the gossips reportShe has come to King Olaf's court,And the town is all in dismay.Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.
It is whispered King Olaf has seen,Has talked with the beautiful Queen;And they wonder how it will end;For surely, if here she remain,It is war with King Svend the Dane,And King Burislaf the Vend!Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.
O, greatest wonder of all!It is published in hamlet and hall,It roars like a flame that is fanned!The King—yes, Olaf the King—Has wedded her with his ring,And Thyri is Queen in the land!Hoist up your sails of silk,And flee away from each other.
Northward over Drontheim,Flew the clamorous sea-gulls,Sang the lark and linnetFrom the meadows green;
Weeping in her chamber,Lonely and unhappy,Sat the Drottning Thyri,Sat King Olaf's Queen.
In at all the windowsStreamed the pleasant sunshine,On the roof above herSoftly cooed the dove;
But the sound she heard not,Nor the sunshine heeded,For the thoughts of ThyriWere not thoughts of love,
Then King Olaf entered,Beautiful as morning,Like the sun at EasterShone his happy face;
In his hand he carriedAngelicas uprooted,With delicious fragranceFilling all the place.
Like a rainy midnightSat the Drottning Thyri,Even the smile of OlafCould not cheer her gloom;
Nor the stalks he gave herWith a gracious gesture,And with words as pleasantAs their own perfume.
In her hands he placed them,And her jewelled fingersThrough the green leaves glistenedLike the dews of morn;
But she cast them from her,Haughty and indignant,On the floor she threw themWith a look of scorn.
"Richer presents," said she,"Gave King Harald GormsonTo the Queen, my mother,Than such worthless weeds;
"When he ravaged Norway,Laying waste the kingdom,Seizing scatt and treasureFor her royal needs.
"But thou darest not ventureThrough the Sound to Vendland,My domains to rescueFrom King Burislaf;
"Lest King Svend of Denmark,Forked Beard, my brother,Scatter all thy vesselsAs the wind the chaff."
Then up sprang King Olaf,Like a reindeer bounding,With an oath he answeredThus the luckless Queen:
"Never yet did OlafFear King Svend of Denmark;This right hand shall hale himBy his forked chin!"
Then he left the chamber,Thundering through the doorway,Loud his steps resoundedDown the outer stair.
Smarting with the insult,Through the streets of DrontheimStrode he red and wrathful,With his stately air.
All his ships he gathered,Summoned all his forces,Making his war levyIn the region round;
Down the coast of Norway,Like a flock of sea-gulls,Sailed the fleet of OlafThrough the Danish Sound.
With his own hand fearless,Steered he the Long Serpent,Strained the creaking cordage,Bent each boom and gaff;
Till in Venland landing,The domains of ThyriHe redeemed and rescuedFrom King Burislaf.
Then said Olaf, laughing,"Not ten yoke of oxenHave the power to draw usLike a woman's hair!
"Now will I confess it,Better things are jewelsThan angelica stalks areFor a Queen to wear."
Loudly the sailors cheeredSvend of the Forked Beard,As with his fleet he steeredSouthward to Vendland;Where with their courses hauledAll were together called,Under the Isle of SvaldNear to the mainland.
After Queen Gunhild's death,So the old Saga saith,Plighted King Svend his faithTo Sigrid the Haughty;And to avenge his bride,Soothing her wounded pride,Over the waters wideKing Olaf sought he.