diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 02:15:54 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 02:15:54 -0700 |
| commit | 8d08aafacf87c629173e7841d7c509080158a15f (patch) | |
| tree | 322d34dde51bab531b8d901cc526266f0039ccad /old | |
Diffstat (limited to 'old')
256 files changed, 6017 insertions, 0 deletions
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b/old/25153.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1b63262 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/25153.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6017 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Tales of a Wayside Inn, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales of a Wayside Inn + +Author: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + +Release Date: April 24, 2008 [EBook #25153] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN *** + + + + +Produced by Sigal Alon, Lisa Reigel, Michael Zeug, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net +(This book was produced from scanned images of public +domain material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + + [Illustration] + + + + + TALES + + OF A + + WAYSIDE INN + + + BY + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + [Illustration] + + + BOSTON: + TICKNOR AND FIELDS. + 1863. + + + + + Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, + in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of + Massachusetts. + + + UNIVERSITY PRESS: + WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY, + CAMBRIDGE. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. + + PAGE + PRELUDE. + + THE WAYSIDE INN 1 + + THE LANDLORD'S TALE. + + PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 18 + + INTERLUDE 26 + + THE STUDENT'S TALE. + + THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO 30 + + INTERLUDE 46 + + THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. + + THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI 49 + + INTERLUDE 53 + + THE SICILIAN'S TALE. + + KING ROBERT OF SICILY 55 + + INTERLUDE 69 + + THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. + + THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 71 + + I. The Challenge of Thor 71 + II. King Olaf's Return 74 + III. Thora of Rimol 79 + IV. Queen Sigrid the Haughty 83 + V. The Skerry of Shrieks 88 + VI. The Wraith of Odin 94 + VII. Iron-Beard 98 + VIII. Gudrun 103 + IX. Thangbrand the Priest 106 + X. Raud the Strong 111 + XI. Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord 114 + XII. King Olaf's Christmas 120 + XIII. The Building of the Long Serpent 125 + XIV. The Crew of the Long Serpent 130 + XV. A Little Bird in the Air 134 + XVI. Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks 137 + XVII. King Svend of the Forked Beard 144 + XVIII. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald 149 + XIX. King Olaf's War-Horns 152 + XX. Einar Tamberskelver 156 + XXI. King Olaf's Death-drink 160 + XXII. The Nun of Nidaros 165 + + INTERLUDE 169 + + THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. + + TORQUEMADA 173 + + INTERLUDE 187 + + THE POET'S TALE. + + THE BIRDS OR KILLINGWORTH 189 + + FINALE 205 + + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE. + +FLIGHT THE SECOND. + + THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 209 + + ENCELADUS 212 + + THE CUMBERLAND 215 + + SNOW-FLAKES 218 + + A DAY OF SUNSHINE 220 + + SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE 222 + + WEARINESS 224 + + + + +TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. + + + + +PRELUDE. + + +THE WAYSIDE INN. + + One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, + Across the meadows bare and brown, + The windows of the wayside inn + Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves + Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves + Their crimson curtains rent and thin. + + As ancient is this hostelry + As any in the land may be, + Built in the old Colonial day, + When men lived in a grander way, + With ampler hospitality; + A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, + Now somewhat fallen to decay, + With weather-stains upon the wall, + And stairways worn, and crazy doors, + And creaking and uneven floors, + And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. + + A region of repose it seems, + A place of slumber and of dreams, + Remote among the wooded hills! + For there no noisy railway speeds, + Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; + But noon and night, the panting teams + Stop under the great oaks, that throw + Tangles of light and shade below, + On roofs and doors and window-sills. + Across the road the barns display + Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, + Through the wide doors the breezes blow, + The wattled cocks strut to and fro, + And, half effaced by rain and shine, + The Red Horse prances on the sign. + + Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode + Deep silence reigned, save when a gust + Went rushing down the county road, + And skeletons of leaves, and dust, + A moment quickened by its breath, + Shuddered and danced their dance of death, + And through the ancient oaks o'erhead + Mysterious voices moaned and fled. + + But from the parlor of the inn + A pleasant murmur smote the ear, + Like water rushing through a weir; + Oft interrupted by the din + Of laughter and of loud applause, + And, in each intervening pause, + The music of a violin. + The fire-light, shedding over all + The splendor of its ruddy glow, + Filled the whole parlor large and low; + It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, + It touched with more than wonted grace + Fair Princess Mary's pictured face; + It bronzed the rafters overhead, + On the old spinet's ivory keys + It played inaudible melodies, + It crowned the sombre clock with flame, + The hands, the hours, the maker's name, + And painted with a livelier red + The Landlord's coat-of-arms again; + And, flashing on the window-pane, + Emblazoned with its light and shade + The jovial rhymes, that still remain, + Writ near a century ago, + By the great Major Molineaux, + Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. + + Before the blazing fire of wood + Erect the rapt musician stood; + And ever and anon he bent + His head upon his instrument, + And seemed to listen, till he caught + Confessions of its secret thought,-- + The joy, the triumph, the lament, + The exultation and the pain; + Then, by the magic of his art, + He soothed the throbbings of its heart, + And lulled it into peace again. + + Around the fireside at their ease + There sat a group of friends, entranced + With the delicious melodies; + Who from the far-off noisy town + Had to the wayside inn come down, + To rest beneath its old oak-trees. + The fire-light on their faces glanced, + Their shadows on the wainscot danced, + And, though of different lands and speech, + Each had his tale to tell, and each + Was anxious to be pleased and please. + And while the sweet musician plays, + Let me in outline sketch them all, + Perchance uncouthly as the blaze + With its uncertain touch portrays + Their shadowy semblance on the wall. + + But first the Landlord will I trace; + Grave in his aspect and attire; + A man of ancient pedigree, + A Justice of the Peace was he, + Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire." + Proud was he of his name and race, + Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, + And in the parlor, full in view, + His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, + Upon the wall in colors blazed; + He beareth gules upon his shield, + A chevron argent in the field, + With three wolf's heads, and for the crest + A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed + Upon a helmet barred; below + The scroll reads, "By the name of Howe." + And over this, no longer bright, + Though glimmering with a latent light, + Was hung the sword his grandsire bore, + In the rebellious days of yore, + Down there at Concord in the fight. + + A youth was there, of quiet ways, + A Student of old books and days, + To whom all tongues and lands were known, + And yet a lover of his own; + With many a social virtue graced, + And yet a friend of solitude; + A man of such a genial mood + The heart of all things he embraced, + And yet of such fastidious taste, + He never found the best too good. + Books were his passion and delight, + And in his upper room at home + Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, + In vellum bound, with gold bedight, + Great volumes garmented in white, + Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. + He loved the twilight that surrounds + The border-land of old romance; + Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, + And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, + And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, + And mighty warriors sweep along, + Magnified by the purple mist, + The dusk of centuries and of song. + The chronicles of Charlemagne, + Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, + Mingled together in his brain + With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, + Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, + Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, + Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. + + A young Sicilian, too, was there;-- + In sight of Etna born and bred, + Some breath of its volcanic air + Was glowing in his heart and brain, + And, being rebellious to his liege, + After Palermo's fatal siege, + Across the western seas he fled, + In good King Bomba's happy reign. + His face was like a summer night, + All flooded with a dusky light; + His hands were small; his teeth shone white + As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke; + His sinews supple and strong as oak; + Clean shaven was he as a priest, + Who at the mass on Sunday sings, + Save that upon his upper lip + His beard, a good palm's length at least, + Level and pointed at the tip, + Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. + The poets read he o'er and o'er, + And most of all the Immortal Four + Of Italy; and next to those, + The story-telling bard of prose, + Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales + Of the Decameron, that make + Fiesole's green hills and vales + Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. + Much too of music was his thought; + The melodies and measures fraught + With sunshine and the open air, + Of vineyards and the singing sea + Of his beloved Sicily; + And much it pleased him to peruse + The songs of the Sicilian muse,-- + Bucolic songs by Meli sung + In the familiar peasant tongue, + That made men say, "Behold! once more + The pitying gods to earth restore + Theocritus of Syracuse!" + + A Spanish Jew from Alicant + With aspect grand and grave was there; + Vender of silks and fabrics rare, + And attar of rose from the Levant. + Like an old Patriarch he appeared, + Abraham or Isaac, or at least + Some later Prophet or High-Priest; + With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, + And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, + The tumbling cataract of his beard. + His garments breathed a spicy scent + Of cinnamon and sandal blent, + Like the soft aromatic gales + That meet the mariner, who sails + Through the Moluccas, and the seas + That wash the shores of Celebes. + All stories that recorded are + By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, + And it was rumored he could say + The Parables of Sandabar, + And all the Fables of Pilpay, + Or if not all, the greater part! + Well versed was he in Hebrew books, + Talmud and Targum, and the lore + Of Kabala; and evermore + There was a mystery in his looks; + His eyes seemed gazing far away, + As if in vision or in trance + He heard the solemn sackbut play, + And saw the Jewish maidens dance. + + A Theologian, from the school + Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; + Skilful alike with tongue and pen, + He preached to all men everywhere + The Gospel of the Golden Rule, + The New Commandment given to men, + Thinking the deed, and not the creed, + Would help us in our utmost need. + With reverent feet the earth he trod, + Nor banished nature from his plan, + But studied still with deep research + To build the Universal Church, + Lofty as is the love of God, + And ample as the wants of man. + + A Poet, too, was there, whose verse + Was tender, musical, and terse; + The inspiration, the delight, + The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, + Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem + The revelations of a dream, + All these were his; but with them came + No envy of another's fame; + He did not find his sleep less sweet + For music in some neighboring street, + Nor rustling hear in every breeze + The laurels of Miltiades. + Honor and blessings on his head + While living, good report when dead, + Who, not too eager for renown, + Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown! + + Last the Musician, as he stood + Illumined by that fire of wood; + Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, + His figure tall and straight and lithe, + And every feature of his face + Revealing his Norwegian race; + A radiance, streaming from within, + Around his eyes and forehead beamed, + The Angel with the violin, + Painted by Raphael, he seemed. + He lived in that ideal world + Whose language is not speech, but song; + Around him evermore the throng + Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; + The Stroemkarl sang, the cataract hurled + Its headlong waters from the height; + And mingled in the wild delight + The scream of sea-birds in their flight, + The rumor of the forest trees, + The plunge of the implacable seas, + The tumult of the wind at night, + Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, + Old ballads, and wild melodies + Through mist and darkness pouring forth, + Like Elivagar's river flowing + Out of the glaciers of the North. + + The instrument on which he played + Was in Cremona's workshops made, + By a great master of the past, + Ere yet was lost the art divine; + Fashioned of maple and of pine, + That in Tyrolian forests vast + Had rocked and wrestled with the blast: + Exquisite was it in design, + Perfect in each minutest part, + A marvel of the lutist's art; + And in its hollow chamber, thus, + The maker from whose hands it came + Had written his unrivalled name,-- + "Antonius Stradivarius." + + And when he played, the atmosphere + Was filled with magic, and the ear + Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, + Whose music had so weird a sound, + The hunted stag forgot to bound, + The leaping rivulet backward rolled, + The birds came down from bush and tree, + The dead came from beneath the sea, + The maiden to the harper's knee! + + The music ceased; the applause was loud, + The pleased musician smiled and bowed; + The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, + The shadows on the wainscot stirred, + And from the harpsichord there came + A ghostly murmur of acclaim, + A sound like that sent down at night + By birds of passage in their flight, + From the remotest distance heard. + + Then silence followed; then began + A clamor for the Landlord's tale,-- + The story promised them of old, + They said, but always left untold; + And he, although a bashful man, + And all his courage seemed to fail, + Finding excuse of no avail, + Yielded; and thus the story ran. + + + + +THE LANDLORD'S TALE. + + +PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. + + Listen, my children, and you shall hear + Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, + On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; + Hardly a man is now alive + Who remembers that famous day and year. + + He said to his friend, "If the British march + By land or sea from the town to-night, + Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch + Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- + One, if by land, and two, if by sea; + And I on the opposite shore will be, + Ready to ride and spread the alarm + Through every Middlesex village and farm, + For the country-folk to be up and to arm." + + Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar + Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, + Just as the moon rose over the bay, + Where swinging wide at her moorings lay + The Somerset, British man-of-war; + A phantom ship, with each mast and spar + Across the moon like a prison bar, + And a huge black hulk, that was magnified + By its own reflection in the tide. + + Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, + Wanders and watches with eager ears, + Till in the silence around him he hears + The muster of men at the barrack door, + The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, + And the measured tread of the grenadiers, + Marching down to their boats on the shore. + + Then he climbed to the tower of the church, + Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, + To the belfry-chamber overhead, + And startled the pigeons from their perch + On the sombre rafters, that round him made + Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- + Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, + To the highest window in the wall, + Where he paused to listen and look down + A moment on the roofs of the town, + And the moonlight flowing over all. + + Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, + In their night-encampment on the hill, + Wrapped in silence so deep and still + That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, + The watchful night-wind, as it went + Creeping along from tent to tent, + And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" + A moment only he feels the spell + Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread + Of the lonely belfry and the dead; + For suddenly all his thoughts are bent + On a shadowy something far away, + Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- + A line of black that bends and floats + On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. + + Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, + Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride + On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. + Now he patted his horse's side, + Now gazed at the landscape far and near, + Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, + And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; + But mostly he watched with eager search + The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, + As it rose above the graves on the hill, + Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. + And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height + A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! + He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, + But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight + A second lamp in the belfry burns! + + A hurry of hoofs in a village street, + A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, + And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark + Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; + That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, + The fate of a nation was riding that night; + And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, + Kindled the land into flame with its heat. + + He has left the village and mounted the steep, + And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, + Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; + And under the alders, that skirt its edge, + Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, + Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + + It was twelve by the village clock + When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. + He heard the crowing of the cock, + And the barking of the farmer's dog, + And felt the damp of the river fog, + That rises after the sun goes down. + + It was one by the village clock, + When he galloped into Lexington. + He saw the gilded weathercock + Swim in the moonlight as he passed, + And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, + Gaze at him with a spectral glare, + As if they already stood aghast + At the bloody work they would look upon. + + It was two by the village clock, + When he came to the bridge in Concord town. + He heard the bleating of the flock, + And the twitter of birds among the trees, + And felt the breath of the morning breeze + Blowing over the meadows brown. + And one was safe and asleep in his bed + Who at the bridge would be first to fall, + Who that day would be lying dead, + Pierced by a British musket-ball. + + You know the rest. In the books you have read, + How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- + How the farmers gave them ball for ball, + From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, + Chasing the red-coats down the lane, + Then crossing the fields to emerge again + Under the trees at the turn of the road, + And only pausing to fire and load. + + So through the night rode Paul Revere; + And so through the night went his cry of alarm + To every Middlesex village and farm,-- + A cry of defiance and not of fear, + A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, + And a word that shall echo forevermore! + For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, + Through all our history, to the last, + In the hour of darkness and peril and need, + The people will waken and listen to hear + The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, + And the midnight message of Paul Revere. + + + + +INTERLUDE. + + + The Landlord ended thus his tale, + Then rising took down from its nail + The sword that hung there, dim with dust, + And cleaving to its sheath with rust, + And said, "This sword was in the fight." + The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, + "It is the sword of a good knight, + Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; + What matter if it be not named + Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, + Excalibar, or Aroundight, + Or other name the books record? + Your ancestor, who bore this sword + As Colonel of the Volunteers, + Mounted upon his old gray mare, + Seen here and there and everywhere, + To me a grander shape appears + Than old Sir William, or what not, + Clinking about in foreign lands + With iron gauntlets on his hands, + And on his head an iron pot!" + + All laughed; the Landlord's face grew red + As his escutcheon on the wall; + He could not comprehend at all + The drift of what the Poet said; + For those who had been longest dead + Were always greatest in his eyes; + And he was speechless with surprise + To see Sir William's plumed head + Brought to a level with the rest, + And made the subject of a jest. + + And this perceiving, to appease + The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, + The Student said, with careless ease, + "The ladies and the cavaliers, + The arms, the loves, the courtesies, + The deeds of high emprise, I sing! + Thus Ariosto says, in words + That have the stately stride and ring + Of armed knights and clashing swords. + Now listen to the tale I bring; + Listen! though not to me belong + The flowing draperies of his song, + The words that rouse, the voice that charms. + The Landlord's tale was one of arms, + Only a tale of love is mine, + Blending the human and divine, + A tale of the Decameron, told + In Palmieri's garden old, + By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, + While her companions lay around, + And heard the intermingled sound + Of airs that on their errands sped, + And wild birds gossiping overhead, + And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, + And her own voice more sweet than all, + Telling the tale, which, wanting these, + Perchance may lose its power to please." + + + + +THE STUDENT'S TALE. + + +THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. + + One summer morning, when the sun was hot, + Weary with labor in his garden-plot, + On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, + Ser Federigo sat among the leaves + Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, + Hung its delicious clusters overhead. + Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed + The river Arno, like a winding road, + And from its banks were lifted high in air + The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair: + To him a marble tomb, that rose above + His wasted fortunes and his buried love. + For there, in banquet and in tournament, + His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, + To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, + Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, + Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, + The ideal woman of a young man's dream. + + Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, + To this small farm, the last of his domain, + His only comfort and his only care + To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear; + His only forester and only guest + His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, + Whose willing hands had found so light of yore + The brazen knocker of his palace door. + Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch, + That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. + Companion of his solitary ways, + Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, + On him this melancholy man bestowed + The love with which his nature overflowed. + And so the empty-handed years went round, + Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound, + And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused + With folded, patient hands, as he was used, + And dreamily before his half-closed sight + Floated the vision of his lost delight. + Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird + Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard + The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare + The headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of air, + Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, + Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, + And, looking at his master, seemed to say, + "Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?" + + Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; + The tender vision of her lovely face, + I will not say he seems to see, he sees + In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, + Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child + With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, + Coming undaunted up the garden walk, + And looking not at him, but at the hawk. + "Beautiful falcon!" said he, "would that I + Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!" + The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start + Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, + As an aeolian harp through gusty doors + Of some old ruin its wild music pours. + + "Who is thy mother, my fair boy?" he said, + His hand laid softly on that shining head. + "Monna Giovanna.--Will you let me stay + A little while, and with your falcon play? + We live there, just beyond your garden wall, + In the great house behind the poplars tall." + + So he spake on; and Federigo heard + As from afar each softly uttered word, + And drifted onward through the golden gleams + And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, + As mariners becalmed through vapors drift, + And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, + And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, + And voices calling faintly from the shore! + Then, waking from his pleasant reveries, + He took the little boy upon his knees, + And told him stories of his gallant bird, + Till in their friendship he became a third. + + Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, + Had come with friends to pass the summer time + In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, + O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still; + With iron gates, that opened through long lines + Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, + And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, + And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown, + And fountains palpitating in the heat, + And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet. + Here in seclusion, as a widow may, + The lovely lady whiled the hours away, + Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, + Herself the stateliest statue among all, + And seeing more and more, with secret joy, + Her husband risen and living in her boy, + Till the lost sense of life returned again, + Not as delight, but as relief from pain. + Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, + Stormed down the terraces from length to length; + The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, + And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. + But his chief pastime was to watch the flight + Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, + Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, + Then downward stooping at some distant call; + And as he gazed full often wondered he + Who might the master of the falcon be, + Until that happy morning, when he found + Master and falcon in the cottage ground. + + And now a shadow and a terror fell + On the great house, as if a passing-bell + Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious room + With secret awe, and preternatural gloom; + The petted boy grew ill, and day by day + Pined with mysterious malady away. + The mother's heart would not be comforted; + Her darling seemed to her already dead, + And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, + "What can I do to comfort thee?" she cried. + At first the silent lips made no reply, + But, moved at length by her importunate cry, + "Give me," he answered, with imploring tone, + "Ser Federigo's falcon for my own!" + + No answer could the astonished mother make; + How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake, + Such favor at a luckless lover's hand, + Well knowing that to ask was to command? + Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, + In all the land that falcon was the best, + The master's pride and passion and delight, + And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. + But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less + Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness, + So promised, and then promising to keep + Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. + + The morrow was a bright September morn; + The earth was beautiful as if new-born; + There was that nameless splendor everywhere, + That wild exhilaration in the air, + Which makes the passers in the city street + Congratulate each other as they meet. + Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, + Passed through the garden gate into the wood, + Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen + Of dewy sunshine showering down between. + + The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace + Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face; + Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll + From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul; + The other with her hood thrown back, her hair + Making a golden glory in the air, + Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, + Her young heart singing louder than the thrush. + So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade, + Each by the other's presence lovelier made, + Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, + Intent upon their errand and its end. + + They found Ser Federigo at his toil, + Like banished Adam, delving in the soil; + And when he looked and these fair women spied, + The garden suddenly was glorified; + His long-lost Eden was restored again, + And the strange river winding through the plain + No longer was the Arno to his eyes, + But the Euphrates watering Paradise! + + Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, + And with fair words of salutation said: + "Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, + Hoping in this to make some poor amends + For past unkindness. I who ne'er before + Would even cross the threshold of your door, + I who in happier days such pride maintained, + Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained, + This morning come, a self-invited guest, + To put your generous nature to the test, + And breakfast with you under your own vine." + To which he answered: "Poor desert of mine, + Not your unkindness call it, for if aught + Is good in me of feeling or of thought, + From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs + All sorrows, all regrets of other days." + + And after further compliment and talk, + Among the dahlias in the garden walk + He left his guests; and to his cottage turned, + And as he entered for a moment yearned + For the lost splendors of the days of old, + The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, + And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, + By want embittered and intensified. + He looked about him for some means or way + To keep this unexpected holiday; + Searched every cupboard, and then searched again, + Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain; + "The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said, + "There's nothing in the house but wine and bread." + + Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook + His little bells, with that sagacious look, + Which said, as plain as language to the ear, + "If anything is wanting, I am here!" + Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird! + The master seized thee without further word, + Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me! + The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, + The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, + The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood, + All these forevermore are ended now; + No longer victor, but the victim thou! + + Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, + Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, + Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot, + The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; + Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed, + And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. + Ser Federigo, would not these suffice + Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice? + + When all was ready, and the courtly dame + With her companion to the cottage came, + Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell + The wild enchantment of a magic spell; + The room they entered, mean and low and small, + Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, + With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown; + The rustic chair she sat on was a throne; + He ate celestial food, and a divine + Flavor was given to his country wine, + And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, + A peacock was, or bird of paradise! + + When the repast was ended, they arose + And passed again into the garden-close. + Then said the lady, "Far too well I know, + Remembering still the days of long ago, + Though you betray it not, with what surprise + You see me here in this familiar wise. + You have no children, and you cannot guess + What anguish, what unspeakable distress + A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, + Nor how her heart anticipates his will. + And yet for this, you see me lay aside + All womanly reserve and check of pride, + And ask the thing most precious in your sight, + Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight, + Which if you find it in your heart to give, + My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live." + + Ser Federigo listens, and replies, + With tears of love and pity in his eyes: + "Alas, dear lady! there can be no task + So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. + One little hour ago, if I had known + This wish of yours, it would have been my own. + But thinking in what manner I could best + Do honor to the presence of my guest, + I deemed that nothing worthier could be + Than what most dear and precious was to me, + And so my gallant falcon breathed his last + To furnish forth this morning our repast." + + In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, + The gentle lady turned her eyes away, + Grieving that he such sacrifice should make, + And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, + Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, + That nothing she could ask for was denied; + Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate + With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. + + Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bell + Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; + Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, + Breathing a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead!" + Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime + Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time; + The cottage was deserted, and no more + Ser Federigo sat beside its door, + But now, with servitors to do his will, + In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, + Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side + Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, + Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, + Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, + High-perched upon the back of which there stood + The image of a falcon carved in wood, + And underneath the inscription, with a date, + "All things come round to him who will but wait." + + + + +INTERLUDE. + + + Soon as the story reached its end, + One, over eager to commend, + Crowned it with injudicious praise; + And then the voice of blame found vent, + And fanned the embers of dissent + Into a somewhat lively blaze. + + The Theologian shook his head; + "These old Italian tales," he said, + "From the much-praised Decameron down + Through all the rabble of the rest, + Are either trifling, dull, or lewd; + The gossip of a neighborhood + In some remote provincial town, + A scandalous chronicle at best! + They seem to me a stagnant fen, + Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, + Where a white lily, now and then, + Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds + And deadly nightshade on its banks." + + To this the Student straight replied, + "For the white lily, many thanks! + One should not say, with too much pride, + Fountain, I will not drink of thee! + Nor were it grateful to forget, + That from these reservoirs and tanks + Even imperial Shakspeare drew + His Moor of Venice and the Jew, + And Romeo and Juliet, + And many a famous comedy." + + Then a long pause; till some one said, + "An Angel is flying overhead!" + At these words spake the Spanish Jew, + And murmured with an inward breath: + "God grant, if what you say is true + It may not be the Angel of Death!" + + And then another pause; and then, + Stroking his beard, he said again: + "This brings back to my memory + A story in the Talmud told, + That book of gems, that book of gold, + Of wonders many and manifold, + A tale that often comes to me, + And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, + And never wearies nor grows old." + + + + +THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. + + +THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. + + Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read + A volume of the Law, in which it said, + "No man shall look upon my face and live." + And as he read, he prayed that God would give + His faithful servant grace with mortal eye + To look upon His face and yet not die. + + Then fell a sudden shadow on the page + And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age, + He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, + Holding a naked sword in his right hand. + Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, + Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. + + With trembling voice he said, "What wilt thou here?" + The angel answered, "Lo! the time draws near + When thou must die; yet first, by God's decree, + Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee." + Replied the Rabbi, "Let these living eyes + First look upon my place in Paradise." + + Then said the Angel, "Come with me and look." + Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, + And rising, and uplifting his gray head, + "Give me thy sword," he to the Angel said, + "Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way." + The Angel smiled and hastened to obey, + Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, + And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down, + Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, + Might look upon his place in Paradise. + + Then straight into the city of the Lord + The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's sword, + And through the streets there swept a sudden breath + Of something there unknown, which men call death. + Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried, + "Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice replied, + "No! in the name of God, whom I adore, + I swear that hence I will depart no more!" + + Then all the Angels cried, "O Holy One, + See what the son of Levi here has done! + The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, + And in Thy name refuses to go hence!" + The Lord replied, "My Angels, be not wroth; + Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath? + Let him remain; for he with mortal eye + Shall look upon my face and yet not die." + + Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death + Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath, + "Give back the sword, and let me go my way." + Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, "Nay! + Anguish enough already has it caused + Among the sons of men." And while he paused + He heard the awful mandate of the Lord + Resounding through the air, "Give back the sword!" + + The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer; + Then said he to the dreadful Angel, "Swear, + No human eye shall look on it again; + But when thou takest away the souls of men, + Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, + Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord." + + The Angel took the sword again, and swore, + And walks on earth unseen forevermore. + + + + +INTERLUDE. + + + He ended: and a kind of spell + Upon the silent listeners fell. + His solemn manner and his words + Had touched the deep, mysterious chords, + That vibrate in each human breast + Alike, but not alike confessed. + The spiritual world seemed near; + And close above them, full of fear, + Its awful adumbration passed, + A luminous shadow, vague and vast. + They almost feared to look, lest there, + Embodied from the impalpable air, + They might behold the Angel stand, + Holding the sword in his right hand. + + At last, but in a voice subdued, + Not to disturb their dreamy mood, + Said the Sicilian: "While you spoke, + Telling your legend marvellous, + Suddenly in my memory woke + The thought of one, now gone from us,-- + An old Abate, meek and mild, + My friend and teacher, when a child, + Who sometimes in those days of old + The legend of an Angel told, + Which ran, if I remember, thus." + + + + +THE SICILIAN'S TALE. + + +KING ROBERT OF SICILY. + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Apparelled in magnificent attire, + With retinue of many a knight and squire, + On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat + And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. + And as he listened, o'er and o'er again + Repeated, like a burden or refrain, + He caught the words, "_Deposuit potentes + De sede, et exaltavit humiles_"; + And slowly lifting up his kingly head + He to a learned clerk beside him said, + "What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet, + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree." + Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, + "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung + Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; + For unto priests and people be it known, + There is no power can push me from my throne!" + And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, + Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. + + When he awoke, it was already night; + The church was empty, and there was no light, + Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, + Lighted a little space before some saint. + He started from his seat and gazed around, + But saw no living thing and heard no sound. + He groped towards the door, but it was locked; + He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, + And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, + And imprecations upon men and saints. + The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls + As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls! + + At length the sexton, hearing from without + The tumult of the knocking and the shout, + And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, + Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?" + Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, + "Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?" + The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, + "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" + Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; + A man rushed by him at a single stride, + Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, + Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, + But leaped into the blackness of the night, + And vanished like a spectre from his sight. + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Despoiled of his magnificent attire, + Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, + With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, + Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; + Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage + To right and left each seneschal and page, + And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, + His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. + From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; + Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, + Until at last he reached the banquet-room, + Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. + + There on the dais sat another king, + Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, + King Robert's self in features, form, and height, + But all transfigured with angelic light! + It was an Angel; and his presence there + With a divine effulgence filled the air, + An exaltation, piercing the disguise, + Though none the hidden Angel recognize. + + A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, + The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, + Who met his looks of anger and surprise + With the divine compassion of his eyes; + Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?" + To which King Robert answered, with a sneer, + "I am the King, and come to claim my own + From an impostor, who usurps my throne!" + And suddenly, at these audacious words, + Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; + The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, + "Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou + Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, + And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; + Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, + And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" + + Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, + They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; + A group of tittering pages ran before, + And as they opened wide the folding-door, + His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, + The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, + And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring + With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!" + + Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, + He said within himself, "It was a dream!" + But the straw rustled as he turned his head, + There were the cap and bells beside his bed, + Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, + Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, + And in the corner, a revolting shape, + Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. + It was no dream; the world he loved so much + Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! + + Days came and went; and now returned again + To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; + Under the Angel's governance benign + The happy island danced with corn and wine, + And deep within the mountain's burning breast + Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. + + Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, + Sullen and silent and disconsolate. + Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, + With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, + Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, + By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, + His only friend the ape, his only food + What others left,--he still was unsubdued. + And when the Angel met him on his way, + And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, + Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel + The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, + "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe + Burst from him in resistless overflow, + And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling + The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!" + + Almost three years were ended; when there came + Ambassadors of great repute and name + From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane + By letter summoned them forthwith to come + On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. + The Angel with great joy received his guests, + And gave them presents of embroidered vests, + And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, + And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. + Then he departed with them o'er the sea + Into the lovely land of Italy, + Whose loveliness was more resplendent made + By the mere passing of that cavalcade, + With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir + Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. + + And lo! among the menials, in mock state, + Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, + His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, + The solemn ape demurely perched behind, + King Robert rode, making huge merriment + In all the country towns through which they went. + + The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare + Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, + Giving his benediction and embrace, + Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. + While with congratulations and with prayers + He entertained the Angel unawares, + Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, + Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, + "I am the King! Look, and behold in me + Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! + This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, + Is an impostor in a king's disguise. + Do you not know me? does no voice within + Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" + The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, + Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; + The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport + To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!" + And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace + Was hustled back among the populace. + + In solemn state the Holy Week went by, + And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; + The presence of the Angel, with its light, + Before the sun rose, made the city bright, + And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, + Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. + Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, + With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, + He felt within a power unfelt before, + And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, + He heard the rushing garments of the Lord + Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. + + And now the visit ending, and once more + Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, + Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again + The land was made resplendent with his train, + Flashing along the towns of Italy + Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. + And when once more within Palermo's wall, + And, seated on the throne in his great hall, + He heard the Angelus from convent towers, + As if the better world conversed with ours, + He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, + And with a gesture bade the rest retire; + And when they were alone, the Angel said, + "Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his head, + King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, + And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best! + My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, + And in some cloister's school of penitence, + Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, + Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!" + The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face + A holy light illumined all the place, + And through the open window, loud and clear, + They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, + Above the stir and tumult of the street: + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree!" + And through the chant a second melody + Rose like the throbbing of a single string: + "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!" + + King Robert, who was standing near the throne, + Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! + But all apparelled as in days of old, + With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; + And when his courtiers came, they found him there + Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. + + + + +INTERLUDE. + + + And then the blue-eyed Norseman told + A Saga of the days of old. + "There is," said he, "a wondrous book + Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, + Of the dead kings of Norroway,-- + Legends that once were told or sung + In many a smoky fireside nook + Of Iceland, in the ancient day, + By wandering Saga-man or Scald; + Heimskringla is the volume called; + And he who looks may find therein + The story that I now begin." + + And in each pause the story made + Upon his violin he played, + As an appropriate interlude, + Fragments of old Norwegian tunes + That bound in one the separate runes, + And held the mind in perfect mood, + Entwining and encircling all + The strange and antiquated rhymes + With 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. + + + + +THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. + + +THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. + + +I. + +THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. + + 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 icebergs + Rule I the nations; + This is my hammer, + Mioelner the mighty; + Giants and sorcerers + Cannot withstand it! + + These are the gauntlets + Wherewith I wield it, + And hurl it afar off; + This is my girdle; + Whenever I brace it, + Strength is redoubled! + + The light thou beholdest + Stream through the heavens, + In flashes of crimson, + Is but my red beard + Blown by the night-wind, + Affrighting the nations! + + Jove is my brother; + Mine eyes are the lightning; + The wheels of my chariot + Roll in the thunder, + The blows of my hammer + Ring in the earthquake! + + Force rules the world still, + Has ruled it, shall rule it; + Meekness is weakness, + Strength is triumphant, + Over the whole earth + Still is it Thor's-Day! + + Thou art a God too, + O Galilean! + And thus single-handed + Unto the combat, + Gauntlet or Gospel, + Here I defy thee! + + +II. + +KING OLAF'S RETURN. + + 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, sailing + Northward into Drontheim fiord. + + There he stood as one who dreamed; + And the red light glanced and gleamed + On the armor that he wore; + And he shouted, as the rifted + Streamers 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 name + Of his mother Astrid came, + And the tale she oft had told + Of her flight by secret passes + Through the mountains and morasses, + To the home of Hakon old. + + Then strange memories crowded back + Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, + And a hurried flight by sea; + Of grim Vikings, and their rapture + In the sea-fight, and the capture, + And the life of slavery. + + How a stranger watched his face + In 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 strife + Glimmered through his lurid life, + As the stars' intenser light + Through 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 oars + Outside of his ship could run. + He the Smalsor Horn ascended, + And his shining shield suspended + On 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 strongest + Sat the merry monarch longest, + First to come and last to go. + + Norway never yet had seen + One 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 blown + Passed that cry along the shore; + And he answered, while the rifted + Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, + "I accept thy challenge, Thor!" + + +III. + +THORA OF RIMOL. + + "Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me! + Danger and shame and death betide me! + For Olaf the King is hunting me down + Through field and forest, through thorp and town!" + Thus cried Jarl Hakon + To Thora, the fairest of women. + + "Hakon Jarl! for the love I bear thee + Neither shall shame nor death come near thee! + But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie + Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty." + Thus to Jarl Hakon + Said Thora, the fairest of women. + + So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker + Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker, + As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, + Through the forest roads into Orkadale, + Demanding Jarl Hakon + Of Thora, the fairest of women. + + "Rich and honored shall be whoever + The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever!" + Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, + Through the breathing-holes of the darksome cave. + Alone in her chamber + Wept 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 faithful + Was 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 finger + Gazed 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 weeping + Sat 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 chamber + Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. + + +IV. + +QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. + + Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft + In 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? + + +V. + +THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. + + Now from all King Olaf's farms + His men-at-arms + Gathered on the Eve of Easter; + To his house at Angvalds-ness + Fast they press, + Drinking with the royal feaster. + + Loudly through the wide-flung door + Came the roar + Of the sea upon the Skerry; + And its thunder loud and near + Reached 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 rhymes + Of all times, + Best I like the ocean's dirges, + When the old harper heaves and rocks, + His hoary locks + Flowing and flashing in the surges!" + + Halfred answered: "I am called + The Unappalled! + Nothing hinders me or daunts me. + Hearken to me, then, O King, + While I sing + The great Ocean Song that haunts me." + + "I will hear your song sublime + Some other time," + Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, + And retires; each laughing guest + Applauds the jest; + Then they sleep till day is dawning. + + Pacing up and down the yard, + King Olaf's guard + Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping + O'er the sands, and up the hill, + Gathering still + Round 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 crew + Of warlocks blue, + With their caps of darkness hooded! + + Round and round the house they go, + Weaving slow + Magic circles to encumber + And imprison in their ring + Olaf the King, + As he helpless lies in slumber. + + Then athwart the vapors dun + The Easter sun + Streamed with one broad track of splendor! + In their real forms appeared + The warlocks weird, + Awful as the Witch of Endor. + + Blinded by the light that glared, + They groped and stared + Round about with steps unsteady; + From his window Olaf gazed, + And, amazed, + "Who are these strange people?" said he. + + "Eyvind Kellda and his men!" + Answered then + From the yard a sturdy farmer; + While the men-at-arms apace + Filled 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 hand + On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. + + And at eve the king again + Called his train, + And, with all the candles burning, + Silent sat and heard once more + The sullen roar + Of the ocean tides returning. + + Shrieks and cries of wild despair + Filled the air, + Growing fainter as they listened; + Then the bursting surge alone + Sounded 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 Shrieks + Sings too loud for you to hear me!" + + +VI. + +THE WRAITH OF ODIN. + + 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 stood + A 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, told + Tales 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 guest + Followed 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 rolled + The Havamal of Odin old, + With sounds mysterious as the roar + Of billows on a distant shore. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + "Do we not learn from runes and rhymes + Made by the gods in elder times, + And do not still the great Scalds teach + That 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 enthralled + Either 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 woke + The 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. + + +VII. + +IRON-BEARD. + + 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 Mere + Gathered the farmers far and near, + With their war weapons ready to confront him. + + Ploughing under the morning star, + Old Iron-Beard in Yriar + Heard 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 command + This land to be a Christian land; + Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes! + + "But if you ask me to restore + Your 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 din + Of 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 blade + Of 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 plain + The 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 became + A Christian land in name and fame, + In the old gods no more believing and trusting. + + And as a blood-atonement, soon + King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun; + And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting! + + +VIII. + +GUDRUN. + + On King Olaf's bridal night + Shines the moon with tender light, + And across the chamber streams + Its tide of dreams. + + At the fatal midnight hour, + When all evil things have power, + In the glimmer of the moon + Stands Gudrun. + + Close against her heaving breast, + Something in her hand is pressed; + Like an icicle, its sheen + Is cold and keen. + + On the cairn are fixed her eyes + Where her murdered father lies, + And a voice remote and drear + She seems to hear. + + What a bridal night is this! + Cold will be the dagger's kiss; + Laden with the chill of death + Is its breath. + + Like the drifting snow she sweeps + To 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 white + In pale moonlight?" + + "'Tis the bodkin that I wear + When 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 lies + Underneath the fairest hair! + Gudrun beware!" + + Ere the earliest peep of morn + Blew King Olaf's bugle-horn; + And forever sundered ride + Bridegroom and bride! + + +IX. + +THANGBRAND THE 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, + Everywhere + Would drink and swear, + Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + + In his house this malecontent + Could the King no longer bear, + So to Iceland he was sent + To convert the heathen there, + And away + One summer day + Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + + There in Iceland, o'er their books + Pored the people day and night, + But he did not like their looks, + Nor the songs they used to write. + "All this rhyme + Is 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 beer + Began to leer + Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest? + + All the folk in Altafiord + Boasted of their island grand; + Saying in a single word, + "Iceland is the finest land + That the sun + Doth shine upon!" + Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + + And he answered: "What's the use + Of this bragging up and down, + When three women and one goose + Make a market in your town!" + Every Scald + Satires scrawled + On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + + Something worse they did than that; + And what vexed him most of all + Was a figure in shovel hat, + Drawn in charcoal on the wall; + With words that go + Sprawling below, + "This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." + + Hardly knowing what he did, + Then he smote them might and main, + Thorvald Veile and Veterlid + Lay 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 hope + Is there of these Iceland men!" + Meekly said, + With bending head, + Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + + +X. + +RAUD THE STRONG. + + "All the old gods are dead, + All the wild warlocks fled; + But the White Christ lives and reigns, + And throughout my wide domains + His Gospel shall be spread!" + On the Evangelists + Thus swore King Olaf. + + But still in dreams of the night + Beheld he the crimson light, + And heard the voice that defied + Him who was crucified, + And challenged him to the fight. + To Sigurd the Bishop + King 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 Thanes + The old witchcraft still is spread." + Thus to King Olaf + Said Sigurd the Bishop. + + "Far north in the Salten Fiord, + By rapine, fire, and sword, + Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong; + All the Godoe Isles belong + To him and his heathen horde." + Thus went on speaking + Sigurd 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 made + 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 anger + Said Sigurd the Bishop. + + Then King Olaf cried aloud: + "I will talk with this mighty Raud, + And along the Salten Fiord + Preach the Gospel with my sword, + Or be brought back in my shroud!" + So northward from Drontheim + Sailed King Olaf! + + +XI. + +BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD. + + Loud the angry wind was wailing + As King Olaf's ships came sailing + Northward out of Drontheim haven + To the mouth of Salten Fiord. + + Though the flying sea-spray drenches + Fore and aft the rowers' benches, + Not a single heart is craven + Of the champions there on board. + + All without the Fiord was quiet, + But within it storm and riot, + Such as on his Viking cruises + Raud the Strong was wont to ride. + + And the sea through all its tide-ways + Swept the reeling vessels sideways, + As the leaves are swept through sluices, + When the flood-gates open wide. + + "'Tis the warlock! 'tis the demon + Raud!" cried Sigurd to the seamen; + "But the Lord is not affrighted + By 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 planted + High amid the rain and mist. + + Then with holy water sprinkled + All 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 molten + Steadily rowed King Olaf's ships; + + Steadily burned all night the tapers, + And the White Christ through the vapors + Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, + As through John's Apocalypse,-- + + Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling + On 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; + 'Twas 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 asunder + Bolt 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 scoffer + Answered: "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 Odin + Lay in dust and ashes trodden, + As King Olaf, onward sweeping, + Preached the Gospel with his sword. + + Then he took the carved and gilded + Dragon-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 landed + Olaf and his crew again. + + +XII. + +KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS. + + At Drontheim, Olaf the King + Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, + As he sat in his banquet-hall, + Drinking the nut-brown ale, + With his bearded Berserks hale + And tall. + + Three days his Yule-tide feasts + He 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 sign + He made of the cross divine, + As he drank, and muttered his prayers; + But the Berserks evermore + Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor + Over theirs. + + The gleams of the fire-light dance + Upon 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 placed + His sword. + + "Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, + Wherewith at a stroke he hewed + The 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 through the music rang + The sound of that shining word; + And the harp-strings a clangor made, + As if they were struck with the blade + Of a sword. + + And the Berserks round about + Broke forth into a shout + That 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 one + Of thy measures and thy rhymes." + And Halfred the Scald replied, + "In another 'twas multiplied + Three times." + + Then King Olaf raised the hilt + Of 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, "This + In 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 snows + The noonday sun uprose, + Through the driving mists revealed, + Like the lifting of the Host, + By incense-clouds almost + Concealed. + + On the shining wall a vast + And shadowy cross was cast + From the hilt of the lifted sword, + And in foaming cups of ale + The Berserks drank "Was-hael! + To the Lord!" + + +XIII. + +THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. + + Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, + In his ship-yard by the sea, + Whistled, saying, "'Twould bewilder + Any 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 commanded + He 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, drafting + That new vessel for King Olaf + Twice the Dragon's size. + + Round him busily hewed and hammered + Mallet huge and heavy axe; + Workmen laughed and sang and clamored; + Whirred the wheels, that into rigging + Spun 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 Skafting + For a hundred year!" + + Workmen sweating at the forges + Fashioned iron bolt and bar, + Like a warlock's midnight orgies + Smoked and bubbled the black caldron + With the boiling tar. + + Did the warlocks mingle in it, + Thorberg Skafting, any curse? + Could you not be gone a minute + But some mischief must be doing, + Turning bad to worse? + + 'Twas an ill wind that came wafting, + From his homestead words of woe; + To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, + Oft repeating to his workmen, + Build ye thus and so. + + After long delays returning + Came the master back by night; + To his ship-yard longing, yearning, + Hurried he, and did not leave it + Till 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 Norway + Such 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 pursuer!" + And with wrath his face grew redder + Than his scarlet cloak. + + Straight the master-builder, smiling, + Answered thus the angry King: + "Cease blaspheming and reviling, + Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting + Who 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 Dragon + Than she was before!" + + Seventy ells and four extended + On the grass the vessel's keel; + High above it, gilt and splendid, + Rose the figure-head ferocious + With 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 Norway + Half so fine as she! + + The Long Serpent was she christened, + 'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer! + They who to the Saga listened + Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting + For a hundred year! + + +XIV. + +THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT. + + Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay + King 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 defended + Olaf'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 varlet + Wondered 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, bare + To the winds his golden hair, + By the mainmast stood; + Graceful was his form, and slender, + And his eyes were deep and tender + As a woman's, in the splendor + Of her maidenhood. + + In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork + Watched 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 vast + Filled them with a vague devotion, + With the freedom and the motion, + With the roll and roar of ocean + And 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 astounded + As they drank the ale! + + Never saw the wild North Sea + Such a gallant company + Sail 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! + + +XV. + +A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. + + A little bird in the air + Is singing of Thyri the fair, + The sister of Svend the Dane; + And the song of the garrulous bird + In 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 report + She 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. + + +XVI. + +QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKS. + + Northward over Drontheim, + Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, + Sang the lark and linnet + From the meadows green; + + Weeping in her chamber, + Lonely and unhappy, + Sat the Drottning Thyri, + Sat King Olaf's Queen. + + In at all the windows + Streamed the pleasant sunshine, + On the roof above her + Softly cooed the dove; + + But the sound she heard not, + Nor the sunshine heeded, + For the thoughts of Thyri + Were not thoughts of love. + + Then King Olaf entered, + Beautiful as morning, + Like the sun at Easter + Shone his happy face; + + In his hand he carried + Angelicas uprooted, + With delicious fragrance + Filling all the place. + + Like a rainy midnight + Sat the Drottning Thyri, + Even the smile of Olaf + Could not cheer her gloom; + + Nor the stalks he gave her + With a gracious gesture, + And with words as pleasant + As their own perfume. + + In her hands he placed them, + And her jewelled fingers + Through the green leaves glistened + Like the dews of morn; + + But she cast them from her, + Haughty and indignant, + On the floor she threw them + With a look of scorn. + + "Richer presents," said she, + "Gave King Harald Gormson + To the Queen, my mother, + Than such worthless weeds; + + "When he ravaged Norway, + Laying waste the kingdom, + Seizing scatt and treasure + For her royal needs. + + "But thou darest not venture + Through the Sound to Vendland, + My domains to rescue + From King Burislaf; + + "Lest King Svend of Denmark, + Forked Beard, my brother, + Scatter all thy vessels + As the wind the chaff." + + Then up sprang King Olaf, + Like a reindeer bounding, + With an oath he answered + Thus the luckless Queen: + + "Never yet did Olaf + Fear King Svend of Denmark; + This right hand shall hale him + By his forked chin!" + + Then he left the chamber, + Thundering through the doorway, + Loud his steps resounded + Down the outer stair. + + Smarting with the insult, + Through the streets of Drontheim + Strode he red and wrathful, + With his stately air. + + All his ships he gathered, + Summoned all his forces, + Making his war levy + In the region round; + + Down the coast of Norway, + Like a flock of sea-gulls, + Sailed the fleet of Olaf + Through the Danish Sound. + + With his own hand fearless, + Steered he the Long Serpent, + Strained the creaking cordage, + Bent each boom and gaff; + + Till in Vendland landing, + The domains of Thyri + He redeemed and rescued + From King Burislaf. + + Then said Olaf, laughing, + "Not ten yoke of oxen + Have the power to draw us + Like a woman's hair! + + "Now will I confess it, + Better things are jewels + Than angelica stalks are + For a Queen to wear." + + +XVII. + +KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD. + + Loudly the sailors cheered + Svend of the Forked Beard, + As with his fleet he steered + Southward to Vendland; + Where with their courses hauled + All were together called, + Under the Isle of Svald + Near to the mainland. + + After Queen Gunhild's death, + So the old Saga saith, + Plighted King Svend his faith + To Sigrid the Haughty; + And to avenge his bride, + Soothing her wounded pride, + Over the waters wide + King Olaf sought he. + + Still on her scornful face, + Blushing with deep disgrace, + Bore she the crimson trace + Of Olaf's gauntlet; + Like a malignant star, + Blazing in heaven afar, + Red shone the angry scar + Under her frontlet. + + Oft to King Svend she spake, + "For thine own honor's sake + Shalt thou swift vengeance take + On the vile coward!" + Until the King at last, + Gusty and overcast, + Like a tempestuous blast + Threatened and lowered. + + Soon as the Spring appeared, + Svend of the Forked Beard + High his red standard reared, + Eager for battle; + While every warlike Dane, + Seizing his arms again, + Left all unsown the grain, + Unhoused the cattle. + + Likewise the Swedish King + Summoned in haste a Thing, + Weapons and men to bring + In aid of Denmark; + Eric the Norseman, too, + As the war-tidings flew, + Sailed with a chosen crew + From Lapland and Finmark. + + So upon Easter day + Sailed the three kings away, + Out of the sheltered bay, + In the bright season; + With them Earl Sigvald came, + Eager for spoil and fame; + Pity that such a name + Stooped to such treason! + + Safe under Svald at last, + Now were their anchors cast, + Safe from the sea and blast, + Plotted the three kings; + While, with a base intent, + Southward Earl Sigvald went, + On a foul errand bent, + Unto the Sea-kings. + + Thence to hold on his course, + Unto King Olaf's force, + Lying within the hoarse + Mouths of Stet-haven; + Him to ensnare and bring, + Unto the Danish king, + Who his dead corse would fling + Forth to the raven! + + +XVIII. + +KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD. + + On the gray sea-sands + King Olaf stands, + Northward and seaward + He points with his hands. + + With eddy and whirl + The sea-tides curl, + Washing the sandals + Of Sigvald the Earl. + + The mariners shout, + The ships swing about, + The yards are all hoisted, + The sails flutter out. + + The war-horns are played, + The anchors are weighed, + Like moths in the distance + The sails flit and fade. + + The sea is like lead, + The harbor lies dead, + As a corse on the sea-shore, + Whose spirit has fled! + + On that fatal day, + The histories say, + Seventy vessels + Sailed out of the bay. + + But soon scattered wide + O'er the billows they ride, + While Sigvald and Olaf + Sail side by side. + + Cried the Earl: "Follow me! + I your pilot will be, + For I know all the channels + Where flows the deep sea!" + + So into the strait + Where his foes lie in wait, + Gallant King Olaf + Sails to his fate! + + Then the sea-fog veils + The ships and their sails; + Queen Sigrid the Haughty, + Thy vengeance prevails! + + +XIX. + +KING OLAF'S WAR-HORNS. + + "Strike the sails!" King Olaf said; + "Never shall men of mine take flight; + Never away from battle I fled, + Never away from my foes! + Let God dispose + Of my life in the fight!" + + "Sound the horns!" said Olaf the King; + And suddenly through the drifting brume + The blare of the horns began to ring, + Like the terrible trumpet shock + Of Regnarock, + On the Day of Doom! + + Louder and louder the war-horns sang + Over the level floor of the flood; + All the sails came down with a clang, + And there in the mist overhead + The sun hung red + As a drop of blood. + + Drifting down on the Danish fleet + Three together the ships were lashed, + So that neither should turn and retreat; + In the midst, but in front of the rest + The burnished crest + Of the Serpent flashed. + + King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, + With bow of ash and arrows of oak, + His gilded shield was without a fleck, + His helmet inlaid with gold, + And in many a fold + Hung his crimson cloak. + + On the forecastle Ulf the Red + Watched the lashing of the ships; + "If the Serpent lie so far ahead, + We shall have hard work of it here," + Said he with a sneer + 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 + Earl Eric steered + 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 + Heroic deeds + Will be done to-day!" + + Then as together the vessels crashed, + Eric severed the cables of hide, + With which King Olaf's ships were lashed, + And left them to drive and drift + With the currents swift + Of the outward tide. + + Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, + Sharper the dragons bite and sting! + Eric the son of Hakon Jarl + A death-drink salt as the sea + Pledges to thee, + Olaf the King! + + +XX. + +EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. + + It was Einar Tamberskelver + Stood beside the mast; + From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, + Flew the arrows fast; + Aimed at Eric unavailing, + As he sat concealed, + Half behind the quarter-railing, + Half behind his shield. + + First an arrow struck the tiller, + Just above his head; + "Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller," + Then Earl Eric said. + "Sing the song of Hakon dying, + Sing his funeral wail!" + And another arrow flying + Grazed his coat of mail. + + Turning to a Lapland yeoman, + As the arrow passed, + Said Earl Eric, "Shoot that bowman + Standing by the mast." + Sooner than the word was spoken + Flew the yeoman's shaft; + Einar's bow in twain was broken, + Einar only laughed. + + "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, + Let thy shafts be sped." + Of his bows the fairest choosing, + Reached he from above; + Einar saw the blood-drops oozing + Through his iron glove. + + But the bow was thin and narrow; + At the first assay, + O'er its head he drew the arrow, + Flung the bow away; + Said, with hot and angry temper + Flushing in his cheek, + "Olaf! for so great a Kaemper + Are thy bows too weak!" + + Then, with smile of joy defiant + On his beardless lip, + Scaled he, light and self-reliant, + Eric's dragon-ship. + Loose his golden locks were flowing, + Bright his armor gleamed; + Like Saint Michael overthrowing + Lucifer he seemed. + + +XXI. + +KING OLAF'S DEATH-DRINK. + + All day has the battle raged, + All day have the ships engaged, + But not yet is assuaged + The vengeance of Eric the Earl. + + The decks with blood are red, + The arrows of death are sped, + The ships are filled with the dead, + And the spears the champions hurl. + + They drift as wrecks on the tide, + The grappling-irons are plied, + The boarders climb up the side, + 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! + + On the deck stands Olaf the King, + Around him whistle and sing + The spears that the foemen fling, + And the stones they hurl with their hands. + + In the midst of the stones and the spears, + Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, + His shield in the air he uprears, + By the side of King Olaf he stands. + + Over the slippery wreck + Of the Long Serpent's deck + Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, + His lips with anger are pale; + + He hews with his axe at the mast, + Till it falls, with the sails overcast, + Like a snow-covered pine in the vast + Dim forests of Orkadale. + + Seeking King Olaf then, + He rushes aft with his men, + 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. + + Earl Eric's men in the boats + Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, + And cry, from their hairy throats, + "See! it is Olaf the King!" + + While far on the opposite side + Floats another shield on the tide, + Like a jewel set in the wide + Sea-current's eddying ring. + + There is told a wonderful tale, + How the King stripped off his mail, + Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, + As he swam beneath the main; + + But the young grew old and gray, + And never, by night or by day, + In his kingdom of Norroway + Was King Olaf seen again! + + +XXII. + +THE NUN OF NIDAROS. + + In the convent of Drontheim, + Alone in her chamber + Knelt Astrid the Abbess, + At midnight, adoring, + Beseeching, entreating + The Virgin and Mother. + + She heard in the silence + The voice of one speaking, + Without in the darkness, + In gusts of the night-wind + Now louder, now nearer, + Now lost in the distance. + + The voice of a stranger + It seemed as she listened, + Of some one who answered, + Beseeching, imploring, + A cry from afar off + She could not distinguish. + + The voice of Saint John, + The beloved disciple, + Who wandered and waited + The Master's appearance, + Alone in the darkness, + Unsheltered and friendless. + + "It is accepted + The angry defiance, + The challenge of battle! + It is accepted, + But not with the weapons + Of war that thou wieldest! + + "Cross against corslet, + Love against hatred, + Peace-cry for war-cry! + Patience is powerful; + He that o'ercometh + Hath power o'er the nations! + + "As torrents in summer, + Half dried in their channels, + Suddenly rise, though the + Sky is still cloudless, + For rain has been falling + Far off at their fountains; + + "So hearts that are fainting + Grow full to o'erflowing, + And they that behold it + Marvel, and know not + That God at their fountains + Far off has been raining! + + "Stronger than steel + Is the sword of the Spirit; + Swifter than arrows + The light of the truth is, + Greater than anger + Is love, and subdueth! + + "Thou art a phantom, + A shape of the sea-mist, + A shape of the brumal + Rain, and the darkness + Fearful and formless; + 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; + Christ is eternal!" + + + + +INTERLUDE. + + + A strain of music closed the tale, + A low, monotonous, funeral wail, + That with its cadence, wild and sweet, + Made the long Saga more complete. + + "Thank God," the Theologian said, + "The reign of violence is dead, + Or dying surely from the world; + While Love triumphant reigns instead, + And in a brighter sky o'erhead + His blessed banners are unfurled. + And most of all thank God for this: + The war and waste of clashing creeds + Now end in words, and not in deeds, + And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, + For thoughts that men call heresies. + + "I stand without here in the porch, + I hear the bell's melodious din, + I hear the organ peal within, + I hear the prayer, with words that scorch + Like sparks from an inverted torch, + I hear the sermon upon sin, + With threatenings of the last account. + And all, translated in the air, + Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, + And as the Sermon on the Mount. + + "Must it be Calvin, and not Christ? + Must it be Athanasian creeds, + Or holy water, books, and beads? + Must struggling souls remain content + With councils and decrees of Trent? + And can it be enough for these + 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; + In my humiliation dressed, + 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 + No evidence of things unseen, + But a dim shadow, that recasts + The creed of the Phantasiasts, + For whom no Man of Sorrows died, + For whom the Tragedy Divine + Was but a symbol and a sign, + And Christ a phantom crucified! + + "For others a diviner creed + Is living in the life they lead. + The passing of their beautiful feet + Blesses the pavement of the street, + And all their looks and words repeat + Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, + Not as a vulture, but a dove, + The Holy Ghost came from above. + + "And this brings back to me a tale + So sad the hearer well may quail, + And question if such things can be; + Yet in the chronicles of Spain + Down the dark pages runs this stain, + And naught can wash them white again, + So fearful is the tragedy." + + + + +THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. + + +TORQUEMADA. + + In the heroic days when Ferdinand + And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, + And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, + Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, + 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 splendor 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 neighboring 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 tone, + "Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!" + + And now, in that old castle in the wood, + His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood, + Returning from their convent school, had made + Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade, + Reminding him of their dead mother's face, + When first she came into that gloomy place,-- + A memory in his heart as dim and sweet + As moonlight in a solitary street, + Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown + Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. + + These two fair daughters of a mother dead + 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-open doors; + Now in the room, and now upon the stair, + He stood beside them ere they were aware; + He listened in the passage when they talked, + He watched them from the casement when they walked, + He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side, + He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide; + And, tortured by the mystery and the doubt + Of some dark secret, past his finding out, + Baffled he paused; then reassured again + Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. + He watched them even when they knelt in church; + And then, descending lower in his search, + Questioned the servants, and with eager eyes + Listened incredulous to their replies; + The gypsy? none had seen her in the wood! + The monk? a mendicant in search of food! + + At length the awful revelation came, + Crushing at once his pride of birth and name, + The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast, + 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; + Expostulations, passionate appeals, + All that the human heart most fears or feels, + 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 intervene!" + + And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, + With all the fifty horsemen of his train, + His awful name resounding, like the blast + Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, + Came to Valladolid, and there began + To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. + To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate + Demanded audience on affairs of state, + And in a secret chamber stood before + A venerable graybeard of fourscore, + Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar; + Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, + And in his hand the mystic horn he held, + Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. + He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale, + Then answered in a voice that made him quail: + "Son of the Church! when Abraham of old + To sacrifice his only son was told, + He did not pause to parley nor protest, + But hastened to obey the Lord's behest. + In him it was accounted righteousness; + The Holy Church expects of thee no less!" + + A sacred frenzy seized the father's brain, + And Mercy from that hour implored in vain. + Ah! who will e'er believe the words I say? + His daughters he accused, and the same day + They both were cast into the dungeon's gloom, + That dismal antechamber of the tomb, + Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame, + The secret torture and the public shame. + + Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more + The Hidalgo went, more eager than before, + And said: "When Abraham offered up his son, + He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. + By his example taught, let me too bring + Wood from the forest for my offering!" + And the deep voice, without a pause, replied: + "Son of the Church! by faith now justified, + Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt; + The Church absolves thy conscience from all guilt!" + + Then this most wretched father went his way + Into the woods, that round his castle lay, + Where once his daughters in their childhood played + With their young mother in the sun and shade. + Now all the leaves had fallen; the branches bare + Made a perpetual moaning in the air, + And screaming from their eyries overhead + The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. + With his own hands he lopped the boughs and bound + Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound, + And on his mules, caparisoned and gay + With bells and tassels, sent them on their way. + + Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, + Again to the Inquisitor he went, + And said: "Behold, the fagots I have brought, + And now, lest my atonement be as naught, + Grant me one more request, one last desire,-- + With my own hand to light the funeral fire!" + And Torquemada answered from his seat, + "Son of the Church! Thine offering is complete; + Her servants through all ages shall not cease + To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace!" + + Upon the market-place, builded of stone + The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his own. + At the four corners, in stern attitude, + Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood, + Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes + Upon this place of human sacrifice, + Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd, + With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, + And every roof and window was alive + With restless gazers, swarming like a hive. + + The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew near, + Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of fear, + A line of torches smoked along the street, + There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, + And, with its banners floating in the air, + Slowly the long procession crossed the square, + And, to the statues of the Prophets bound, + The victims stood, with fagots piled around. + Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, + And louder sang the monks with bell and book, + And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, + Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, + Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, + Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead! + + O pitiless skies! why did your clouds retain + For peasants' fields their floods of hoarded rain? + O pitiless earth! why opened no abyss + To bury in its chasm a crime like this? + + That night, a mingled column of fire and smoke + From the dark thickets of the forest broke, + And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues away, + Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day. + Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed, + And as the villagers in terror gazed, + They saw the figure of that cruel knight + Lean from a window in the turret's height, + His ghastly face illumined with the glare, + His hands upraised above his head in prayer, + Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell + Down the black hollow of that burning well. + + Three centuries and more above his bones + Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones; + His name has perished with him, and no trace + Remains on earth of his afflicted race; + But Torquemada's name, with clouds o'ercast, + Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, + Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath, + Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath! + + + + +INTERLUDE. + + + Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, + That cast upon each listener's face + Its shadow, and for some brief space + Unbroken silence filled the room. + The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; + Upon his memory thronged and pressed + The persecution of his race, + Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace; + His head was sunk upon his breast, + And from his eyes alternate came + Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. + + The student first the silence broke, + As one who long has lain in wait, + With purpose to retaliate, + And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. + "In such a company as this, + A tale so tragic seems amiss, + That by its terrible control + O'ermasters and drags down the soul + Into a fathomless abyss. + The Italian Tales that you disdain, + Some merry Night of Straparole, + Or Machiavelli's Belphagor, + Would cheer us and delight us more, + Give greater pleasure and less pain + Than your grim tragedies of Spain!" + + And here the Poet raised his hand, + With such entreaty and command, + It stopped discussion at its birth, + And said: "The story I shall tell + Has meaning in it, if not mirth; + Listen, and hear what once befell + The merry birds of Killingworth!" + + + + +THE POET'S TALE. + + +THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. + + It was the season, when through all the land + The merle and mavis build, and building sing + Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, + Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart King; + When on the boughs the purple buds expand, + The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, + And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, + And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. + + The robin and the blue-bird, piping loud, + Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; + The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud + Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; + And hungry crows assembled in a crowd, + Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, + Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: + "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!" + + Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, + Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet + Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed + The village with the cheers of all their fleet; + Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed + Like foreign sailors, landed in the street + Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise + Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. + + Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, + In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; + And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, + Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, + That mingled with the universal mirth, + Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; + They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words + To swift destruction the whole race of birds. + + And a town-meeting was convened straightway + To set a price upon the guilty heads + Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, + Levied black-mail upon the garden beds + And corn-fields, and beheld without dismay + The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; + The skeleton that waited at their feast, + Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. + + Then from his house, a temple painted white, + With fluted columns, and a roof of red, + The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! + Slowly descending, with majestic tread, + Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, + Down the long street he walked, as one who said, + "A town that boasts inhabitants like me + Can have no lack of good society!" + + The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, + The instinct of whose nature was to kill; + The wrath of God he preached from year to year, + And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will; + His favorite pastime was to slay the deer + In Summer on some Adirondac hill; + E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, + He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. + + From the Academy, whose belfry crowned + The hill of Science with its vane of brass, + Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, + Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, + And all absorbed in reveries profound + Of fair Almira in the upper class, + Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, + As pure as water, and as good as bread. + + And next the Deacon issued from his door, + In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; + A suit of sable bombazine he wore; + His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; + There never was so wise a man before; + He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so!" + And to perpetuate his great renown + There was a street named after him in town. + + These came together in the new town-hall, + With sundry farmers from the region round. + The Squire presided, dignified and tall, + His air impressive and his reasoning sound; + Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small; + Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, + But enemies enough, who every one + Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. + + When they had ended, from his place apart, + Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, + And, trembling like a steed before the start, + Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; + Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart + To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, + Alike regardless of their smile or frown, + And quite determined not to be laughed down. + + "Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, + From his Republic banished without pity + The Poets; in this little town of yours, + You put to death, by means of a Committee, + The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, + The street-musicians of the heavenly city, + The birds, who make sweet music for us all + In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. + + "The thrush that carols at the dawn of day + From the green steeples of the piny wood; + The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, + Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; + The blue-bird balanced on some topmost spray, + Flooding with melody the neighborhood; + Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng + That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. + + "You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain + Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, + Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, + Scratched up at random by industrious feet, + Searching for worm or weevil after rain! + Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet + As are the songs these uninvited guests + Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. + + "Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? + Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught + The dialect they speak, where melodies + Alone are the interpreters of thought? + Whose household words are songs in many keys, + Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! + Whose habitations in the tree-tops even + Are half-way houses on the road to heaven! + + "Think, every morning when the sun peeps through + The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, + How jubilant the happy birds renew + Their old, melodious madrigals of love! + And when you think of this, remember too + 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above + The awakening continents, from shore to shore, + Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. + + "Think of your woods and orchards without birds! + Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams + As in an idiot's brain remembered words + Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams! + Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds + Make up for the lost music, when your teams + Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more + The feathered gleaners follow to your door? + + "What! would you rather see the incessant stir + Of insects in the windrows of the hay, + And hear the locust and the grasshopper + Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? + Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr + Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, + Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take + Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? + + "You call them thieves and pillagers; but know + They are the winged wardens of your farms, + Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, + And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; + Even the blackest of them all, the crow, + Renders good service as your man-at-arms, + Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, + And crying havoc on the slug and snail. + + "How can I teach your children gentleness, + And mercy to the weak, and reverence + For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, + Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, + Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less + The selfsame light, although averted hence, + When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, + You contradict the very things I teach?" + + With this he closed; and through the audience went + A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; + The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent + Their yellow heads together like their sheaves; + Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment + Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. + The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows, + A bounty offered for the heads of crows. + + There was another audience out of reach, + Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, + But in the papers read his little speech, + And crowned his modest temples with applause; + They made him conscious, each one more than each, + He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. + Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, + O fair Almira at the Academy! + + And so the dreadful massacre began; + O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests, + The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. + Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, + Or wounded crept away from sight of man, + While the young died of famine in their nests; + A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, + The very St. Bartholomew of Birds! + + The Summer came, and all the birds were dead; + The days were like hot coals; the very ground + Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed + Myriads of caterpillars, and around + The cultivated fields and garden beds + Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found + No foe to check their march, till they had made + The land a desert without leaf or shade. + + Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, + Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly + Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down + The canker-worms upon the passers-by, + Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, + Who shook them off with just a little cry; + They were the terror of each favorite walk, + The endless theme of all the village talk. + + The farmers grew impatient, but a few + Confessed their error, and would not complain, + For after all, the best thing one can do + When it is raining, is to let it rain. + Then they repealed the law, although they knew + It would not call the dead to life again; + As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, + Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. + + That year in Killingworth the Autumn came + Without the light of his majestic look, + The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, + The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. + A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, + And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, + While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, + Lamenting the dead children of the air! + + But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, + A sight that never yet by bard was sung, + As great a wonder as it would have been + If some dumb animal had found a tongue! + A wagon, overarched with evergreen, + Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, + All full of singing birds, came down the street, + Filling the air with music wild and sweet. + + From all the country round these birds were brought, + By order of the town, with anxious quest, + And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought + In woods and fields the places they loved best, + Singing loud canticles, which many thought + Were satires to the authorities addressed, + While others, listening in green lanes, averred + Such lovely music never had been heard! + + But blither still and louder carolled they + Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know + It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, + And everywhere, around, above, below, + When the Preceptor bore his bride away, + Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, + And a new heaven bent over a new earth + Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. + + + + +FINALE. + + + The hour was late; the fire burned low, + The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, + And near the story's end a deep + Sonorous sound at times was heard, + As when the distant bagpipes blow. + At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred, + As one awaking from a swound, + And, gazing anxiously around, + Protested that he had not slept, + But only shut his eyes, and kept + His ears attentive to each word. + + Then all arose, and said "Good Night." + Alone remained the drowsy Squire + To rake the embers of the fire, + And quench the waning parlor light; + While from the windows, here and there, + The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, + And the illumined hostel seemed + The constellation of the Bear, + Downward, athwart the misty air, + Sinking and setting toward the sun. + Far off the village clock struck one. + + + + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE. + +FLIGHT THE SECOND. + + + + +THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. + + + Between the dark and the daylight, + When the night is beginning to lower, + Comes a pause in the day's occupations, + That is known as the Children's Hour. + + I hear in the chamber above me + The patter of little feet, + The sound of a door that is opened, + And voices soft and sweet. + + From my study I see in the lamplight, + Descending the broad hall stair, + Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, + And Edith with golden hair. + + A whisper, and then a silence: + Yet I know by their merry eyes + They are plotting and planning together + To take me by surprise. + + A sudden rush from the stairway, + A sudden raid from the hall! + By three doors left unguarded + They enter my castle wall! + + They climb up into my turret + O'er the arms and back of my chair; + If I try to escape, they surround me; + They seem to be everywhere. + + They almost devour me with kisses, + Their arms about me entwine, + Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen + In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! + + Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, + Because you have scaled the wall, + Such an old moustache as I am + Is not a match for you all! + + I have you fast in my fortress, + And will not let you depart, + But put you down into the dungeon + In the round-tower of my heart. + + And there will I keep you forever, + Yes, forever and a day, + Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, + And moulder in dust away! + + + + +ENCELADUS. + + + Under Mount Etna he lies, + It is slumber, it is not death; + For he struggles at times to arise, + And above him the lurid skies + Are hot with his fiery breath. + + The crags are piled on his breast, + The earth is heaped on his head; + But the groans of his wild unrest, + Though smothered and half suppressed, + Are heard, and he is not dead. + + And the nations far away + Are watching with eager eyes; + They talk together and say, + "To-morrow, perhaps to-day, + Enceladus will arise!" + + And the old gods, the austere + Oppressors in their strength, + Stand aghast and white with fear + At the ominous sounds they hear, + And tremble, and mutter, "At length!" + + Ah me! for the land that is sown + With the harvest of despair! + Where the burning cinders, blown + From the lips of the overthrown + Enceladus, fill the air. + + Where ashes are heaped in drifts + Over vineyard and field and town, + Whenever he starts and lifts + His head through the blackened rifts + Of the crags that keep him down. + + See, see! the red light shines! + 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! + And the storm-wind shouts through the pines + Of Alps and of Apennines, + "Enceladus, arise!" + + + + +THE CUMBERLAND. + + + At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, + On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; + And at times from the fortress across the bay + The alarum of drums swept past, + Or a bugle blast + From the camp on the shore. + + Then far away to the south uprose + A little feather of snow-white smoke, + And we knew that the iron ship of our foes + Was steadily steering its course + To try the force + Of our ribs of oak. + + Down upon us heavily runs, + Silent and sullen, the floating fort; + Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, + And leaps the terrible death, + With fiery breath, + From each open port. + + We are not idle, but send her straight + Defiance back in a full broadside! + As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, + Rebounds our heavier hail + From each iron scale + Of the monster's hide. + + "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, + In his arrogant old plantation strain. + "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; + "It is better to sink than to yield!" + And the whole air pealed + With the cheers of our men. + + Then, like a kraken huge and black, + She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! + Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, + With a sudden shudder of death, + And the cannon's breath + For her dying gasp. + + Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, + Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. + Lord, how beautiful was thy day! + Every waft of the air + Was a whisper of prayer, + Or a dirge for the dead. + + Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! + Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, + Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, + Thy flag, that is rent in twain, + Shall be one again, + And without a seam! + + + + +SNOW-FLAKES. + + + Out of the bosom of the Air, + Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, + Over the woodlands brown and bare + Over the harvest-fields forsaken, + Silent, and soft, and slow + Descends the snow. + + Even as our cloudy fancies take + Suddenly shape in some divine expression, + Even as the troubled heart doth make + In the white countenance confession, + The troubled sky reveals + The grief it feels. + + This is the poem of the air, + Slowly in silent syllables recorded; + This is the secret of despair, + Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, + Now whispered and revealed + To wood and field. + + + + +A DAY OF SUNSHINE. + + + O gift of God! O perfect day: + Whereon shall no man work, but play; + Whereon it is enough for me, + Not to be doing, but to be! + + Through every fibre of my brain, + Through every nerve, through every vein, + I feel the electric thrill, the touch + Of life, that seems almost too much. + + I hear the wind among the trees + Playing celestial symphonies; + I see the branches downward bent, + Like keys of some great instrument. + + And over me unrolls on high + The splendid scenery of the sky, + Where through a sapphire sea the sun + Sails like a golden galleon, + + Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, + Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, + Whose steep sierra far uplifts + Its craggy summits white with drifts. + + Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms + The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! + Blow, winds! and bend within my reach + The fiery blossoms of the peach! + + O Life and Love! O happy throng + Of thoughts, whose only speech is song! + O heart of man! canst thou not be + Blithe as the air is, and as free? + + 1860. + + + + +SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. + + + Labor with what zeal we will, + Something still remains undone, + Something uncompleted still + Waits the rising of the sun. + + By the bedside, on the stair, + At the threshold, near the gates, + With its menace or its prayer, + Like a mendicant it waits; + + Waits, and will not go away; + Waits, and will not be gainsaid; + By the cares of yesterday + Each to-day is heavier made; + + Till at length the burden seems + Greater than our strength can bear, + Heavy as the weight of dreams, + Pressing on us everywhere. + + And we stand from day to day, + Like the dwarfs of times gone by, + Who, as Northern legends say, + On their shoulders held the sky. + + + + +WEARINESS. + + + O little feet! that such long years + Must wander on through hopes and fears, + Must ache and bleed beneath your load; + I, nearer to the wayside inn + Where toil shall cease and rest begin, + Am weary, thinking of your road! + + O little hands! that, weak or strong, + Have still to serve or rule so long, + Have still so long to give or ask; + I, who so much with book and pen + Have toiled among my fellow-men, + Am weary, thinking of your task. + + O little hearts! that throb and beat + With such impatient, feverish heat, + Such limitless and strong desires; + Mine that so long has glowed and burned, + With passions into ashes turned + Now covers and conceals its fires. + + O little souls! as pure and white + And crystalline as rays of light + Direct from heaven, their source divine; + Refracted through the mist of years, + How red my setting sun appears, + How lurid looks this soul of mine! + + +THE END. + + +Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. + + + + +[Illustration] + +135, Washington St., Boston, +NOVEMBER, 1863. + + +A List of Books + +PUBLISHED BY + +MESSRS. 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