334 And there in the mist overhead The sun hung red As a drop of blood. Drifting down on the Danish fleet King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, And in many a fold On the forecastle Ulf the Red On his bearded lips. King Olaf laid an arrow on string, "Have I a coward on board?" said he. "Shoot it another way, O King!" Sullenly answered Ulf, The old sea-wolf; "You have need of me!" In front came Svend, the King of the Danes, Sweeping down with his fifty rowers; To the right, the Swedish king with his thanes; And on board of the Iron-Beard On the left with his oars. "These soft Danes and Swedes," said the King, "At home with their wives had better stay, Than come within reach of my Serpent's sting: But where Eric the Norseman leads Will be done to-day!" Then as together the vessels crashed, And left them to drive and drift With the currents swift Of the outward tide. Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, XX. EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. From his yew bow, tipped with silver, Aimed at Eric unavailing, Half behind the quarter-railing, First an arrow struck the tiller 'Šing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller," Sing the song of Hakon dying, Grazed his coat of mail. Turning to a Lapland yeoman, Said Earl Eric, "Shoot that bowman "What was that?" said Olaf, standing On the quarter-deck. "Something heard I like the stranding Of a shattered wreck." Einar then, the arrow taking From the loosened string, Answered, "That was Norway breaking From thy hand, O King!" "Thou art but a poor diviner," Straightway Olaf said; "Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, Of his bows the fairest choosing, But the bow was thin and narrow; At the first assay, O'er its head he drew the arrow, Said, with hot and angry temper Then, with smile of joy defiant Loose his golden locks were flowing, XXI.-KING OLAF'S DEATH-DRINK. The vengeance of Eric the Earl. The shouts are feeble and few. Ah! never shall Norway again See her sailors come back o'er the main; They all lie wounded or slain, Or asleep in the billows blue! And the stones they hurl with their In the midst of the stones and the spears,. Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, His lips with anger are pale; As a hunter into the den Of the bear, when he stands at bay. "Remember Jarl Hakon!" he cries; When lo! on his wondering eyes, Two kingly figures arise, Two Olafs in warlike array! Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear Of King Olaf a word of cheer, In a whisper that none may hear, With a smile on his tremulous lip; Two shields raised high in the air, Two flashes of golden hair, Two scarlet meteors' glare, And both have leaped from the ship. As he swam beneath the main ; XXII. THE NUN OF NIDAROS. In the convent of Drontheim, She heard in the silence She could not distinguish. The voice of Saint John, The angry defiance, But not with the weapons ! "Cross against corslet, As torrents in summer, "So hearts that are fainting Is the sword of the Spirit ; Day dawns and thou art not! "The dawn is not distant, Nor is the night starless; Love is eternal ! God is still God, and His faith shall not fail us; INTERLUDE. A STRAIN of music closed the tale, I hear the prayer, with words that scorch Like sparks from an inverted torch, Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, And as the Sermon on the Mount. The Christian Church the year embalms With evergreens and boughs of palms, And fills the air with litanies? "I know that yonder Pharisee Thanks God that he is not like me; I only stand and beat my breast, And pray for human charity. "Not to one church alone, but seven, The voice prophetic spake from heaven; And unto each the promise came, Diversified, but still the same; For him that overcometh are The new name written on the stone, The raiment white, the crown, the throne, And I will give him the Morning Star! "Ah! to how many Faith has been The Holy Ghost came from above. THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. IN the heroic days when Ferdinand In a great castle near Valladolid, Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid, There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn, An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn, Whose name has perished, with his towers of stone, And all his actions save this one alone; This one, so terrible, perhaps 'twere best If it, too, were forgotten with the rest : Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin: A double picture, with its gloom and glow, The splendour overhead, the death below. This sombre man counted each day as lost On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed; And when he chanced the passing Host to meet, He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street; Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous thought, As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent, Walked in processions, with his head down bent, At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green. His only pastime was to hunt the boar Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar, Or with his jingling mules to hurry down To some grand bull-fight in the neighbouring town, Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, When Jews were burned, or banished from the land. Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy; The demon whose delight is to destroy Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet Were all the dream had left him as it fled. A joy at first, and then a growing care, As if a voice within him cried, "Beware!" A vague presentiment of impending doom, Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, Haunted him day and night; a formless fear That death to some one of his house was near, With dark surmises of a hidden crime, Made life itself a death before its time. Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame, A spy upon his daughters he became ; With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors, He glided softly through half-opened doors; Now in the room, and now upon the stair, He stood beside them ere they were And the ancestral glories of the past; All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, A turret rent from battlement to base. His daughters talking in the dead of night In their own chamber, and without a light, Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, And learned the dreadful secret, word by word; And hurrying from his castle, with a cry He raised his hands to the unpitying sky, Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree Caught it, and shuddering answered, 'Heresy!" Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o'er his face, Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace, He walked all night the alleys of his park, With one unseen companion in the dark, The Demon who within him lay in wait, And by his presence turned his love to hate, Forever muttering in an undertone, "Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!" Upon the morrow, after early Mass, While yet the dew was glistening on the grass, And all the woods were musical with birds, The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his room Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom. When questioned, with brief answers they replied, Nor when accused evaded or denied; In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed, In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed; Until at last he said, with haughty mien, "The Holy Office, then, must inter vene! |