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Held because it prints Paul Revere's Ride two decades before the collection this archive's own telling was lifted from.","text_extract":"Google \n\n\n\nThis is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project \n\nto make the world's books discoverable online. \n\nIt has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject \n\nto copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books \n\nare our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. \n\nMarks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the \n\npublisher to a library and finally to you. \n\nUsage guidelines \n\nGoogle is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the \npublic and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to \nprevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. \nWe also ask that you: \n\n+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for \npersonal, non-commercial purposes. \n\n+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine \ntranslation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the \nuse of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. \n\n+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt \"watermark\" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find \nadditional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. \n\n+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just \nbecause we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other \ncountries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of \nany specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner \nanywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. \n\nAbout Google Book Search \n\nGoogle's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers \ndiscover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web \n\nat |http: //books .google .com/I \n\n\n\n\nA- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA%V \n\n\n\nI , \n\n\n\nA \n\n\n\n/r \n\n\n\nT-' ...^ \n\n\n\ni.V \n\n\n\nT/)k \n\n\n\nTALES OP A \nWAYSIDE INN \n\n\n\nTHE NEW YORK \nPUBLIC LIBRARY \n\n\n\nA8TOR, LENOX AND \nTU.DEN FOUMDATfONS. \n\n\n\nli. \n\n\n\nPUBLIC \n\n\n\nLIBRARX \n\n\n\n653015 \n\n1913 L \n\n\n\n••• • \n\n• 4 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n• • t \n• •• • \n\n\n\nC fc » \n\n\n\n• •• \n\n•• • \n\n\n\n\n\n\n• ••••.•••• • \n\n\n\nTHC DC VINNt PfieM \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\nPage \n\nTales of a Wayside Inn .... 1 \n\nThe Wayside Inn 8 \n\nThe Landlord's Tale 17 \n\nPaul Revere 's Ride 19 \n\nInterlude 26 \n\nThe Studfnt'sTaie it \n\nThe Falcon Of Seik Federiqo . 31 \n\nInterlude 45 \n\nThe Spanish Jew's Tale .... 49 \n\nTheLegeni'Of K\\wxj BrN Levi M \n\nInterlude 55 \n\nThe Sicilian's Tale 57 \n\nKing Robert of Sicily .... 59 \n\nInterlude 71 \n\nV \n\n\n\nPage \n\nThe Musician's Talk 73 \n\nThe Challenqb op Thor ... 75 \n\nKing Olaf's Return 78 \n\nThora of Rimoii 83 \n\nQueen Siqrid the Haughtv . . 88 \n\nThe Skerrt of Shrieks ... 91 \n\nThe Wraith of Odin 96 \n\nIron-Beard lOO \n\nGUDRUN 105 \n\nThangbrand the Priest ... 108 \n\nRaud the Strong 112 \n\nBishop Sigurd at Salten \n\nFiord 115 \n\nKing Olaf's Christmas . . .120 \n\n^ w--TKK.BUIbDrNGOFcTa»LaNG \n\n. \" .^ : w Serj'ENT- -. s .--.^•.!.- ... 124 \n\nThe Crew of\" the £6nq \n• ..^RpaifTj ^. ^^•\\^ 129 \n\nAJjiT'T^«ELDi5a whose verse \n\nWas tender, musical, and terse ; \n\nThe inspiration, the delight. \n\nThe gleam, the glory, the swift flight, \n\nOf thoughts so sudden, that they seem \n\nThe revelations of a dream, \n\nAll these were his ; but with them \n\ncame \nNo envy of another's fame ; \n\nHe did not find his sleep less sweet \n\nFor music in some neighboring street. \n\nNor rustling hear in every breeze \n\nThe laurels of Miltiades. \n\nHonor and blessings on his head \n\nWhile living, good report when dead. \n\nWho, not too eager for renown. \n\nAccepts, but does not clutch, the crown ! \n\nLast the Musician, as he stood \nIllumined by that fire of wood ; \nFair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect \n\nblithe, \nHis figure tall and straight and lithe, \nAnd every feature of his face \nRevealing his Norwegian race ; \n\n13 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nA radiance, streaming from within, \n\nAround his eyes and forehead beamed, \n\nThe Angel with the violin, \n\nPainted by Raphael, he seemed. \n\nHe lived in that ideal world \n\nWhose language is not speech, but song ; \n\nAround him evermore the throng \n\nOf elves and sprites their dances \n\nwhirled ; \nThe Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled \nIts headlong waters from the height ; \nAnd mingled in the wild delight \nThe scream of sea-birds in their flight, \nThe rumor of the forest trees, \nThe plunge of the implacable seas. \nThe tumult of the wind at night. \nVoices of eld, like trumpets blowing, \nOld ballads, and wild melodies \nThrough mist and darkness pouring \n\nforth. \nLike Elivagar's river flowing \nOut of the glaciers of the North. \n\nThe instrument on which he played \nWas in Cremona's workshops made, \n\n14 \n\n\n\nTHE WAYSIDE INN \n\nBy a great master of the pa8t» \nEre yet was lost the art divine ; \nFashioned of maple and of pine, \nThat in Tyrolian forests vast \nHad rocked and wrestled with the blast : \nExquisite was it in design, \nPerfect in each minutest part, \nA marvel of the lutisVs art ; \nAnd in its hollow chamber, thus. \nThe maker from whose hands it came \nHad written his unrivalled name,— \n\" Antonius Stradivarius.'' \n\nAnd when he played, the atmosphere \nWas filled with magic, and the ear \nCaught echoes of that Harp of Gold, \nWhose music had so weird a sound, \nThe hunted stag forgot to bound, \nThe leaping rivulet backward rolled. \nThe birds came down from bush and tree, \nThe dead came from beneath the sea, \nThe maiden to the harper's knee ! \n\nThe music ceased ; the applause was loud, \nThe pleased musician smiled and bowed ; \n\n15 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nThe wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, \nThe shadows on the wainscot stirred, \nAnd from the harpsichord there came \nA ghostly murmur of acclaim, \nA sound like that sent down at night \nBy birds of passage in their flight, \nFrom the remotest distance heard. \n\nThen silence followed ; then began \nA clamor for the Landlord's tale, — \nThe story promised them of old. \nThey said, but always left untold ; \nAnd he, although a bashful man, \nAnd all his courage seemed to fail, \nFinding excuse of no avail, \nYielded ; and thus the story ran. \n\n\n\n16 \n\n\n\nTHE LANDLORD'S TALE \n\n\n\nPAUL REVEREfS RIDE \n\nLISTEN, my children, and you shall hear \nOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere, \nOn the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ; \nHardly a man is now alive \nWho remembers that famous day and year. \n\nHe said to his friend, ** If the British march \nBy land or sea from the town to-night, \nHang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch \nOf the'North Church tower as a signal light,— \nOne, if by land, and two, if by sea ; \nAnd I on the opposite shore will be. \nReady to ride and spread the alarm \nThrough every Middlesex village and farm. \nFor the country-folk to be up and to arm.\" \n\nThen he said, \" Good night ! \" and with muffled oar \nSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore, \n\n19 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nJust as the moon rose over the bay, \n\nWhere swinging wide at her moorings lay \n\nThe Somerset, British man-of-war ; \n\nA phantom ship, with each mast and spar \n\nAcross the moon like a prison bar, \n\nAnd a hnge black hulk, that was magnified \n\nBy its own reflection in the tide. \n\nMeanwhile, his friend, through alley and \n\nstreet. \nWanders and watches with eager ears. \nTill in the silence around him he hears \nThe muster of men at the barrack door. \nThe sound of arms, and the tr^^mp of feet. \nAnd the measured tread of the grenadiers, \nMarching down to theii boats on the shore. \n\nThen he climbed to the tower of the church. \nBy the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, \nTo the belfry-chamber overhead. \nAnd startled the pigeons from their perch \nOn the sombre rafters, that round him made \nMasses and moving shapes of shade,— \nUp the trembling ladder, steep and tall. \nTo the highest window in the wall, \n\n20 \n\n\n\nPAUL REVERETS RffiE \n\nWhere he paused to listen and look down \nA moment on the roofs of the town, \nAnd the moonlight flowing over all. \n\nBeneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, \n\nIn their night encampment on the hill. \n\nWrapped in silence so deep and still \n\nThat he conld hear, like a sentinel's tread, \n\nThe watchful night-wind, as it went \n\nCreeping along from tent to tent, \n\nAnd seeming to whisper, \" All is well ! ** \n\nA moment only he feels the spell \n\nOf the place and the hour, and the secret dread \n\nOf the lonely b^ry and the dead ; \n\nFor suddenly all his thoughts are bent \n\nOn a shadowy something far away, \n\nWhere the river widens to meet the bay, — \n\nA line of black that bends and floats \n\nOn the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. \n\nMeanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. \nBooted and spurred, with a heavy stride \nOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. \nNow he patted his horse's side. \nNow gazed at the landscape far and near, \n\n21 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nThen, impetaous, stamped the earth, \nAnd turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; \nBut mostly he watched with eager search \nThe belfry tower of the Old North Church, \nAs it rose above the graves on the hill, \nLonely and spectral^and sombre and*still. \nAnd lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height \nA glimmer, and then a gleam of light I \nHe springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. \nBut lingers and gazes, till full on his sight \nA second lamp in the belfry bums ! \n\nA hurry of hoofs in a village street, \n\nA shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, \n\nAnd beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a \n\nspark \nStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : • \nThat was all ! And yet, through the gloom and \n\nthe light, \nThe fate of a nation was riding that night ; \nAnd the spark struck out by that steed, in his \n\nflight, \nKindled the land into flame with its heat. \nHe has left the village and mounted the steep. \nAnd beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, \n\n22 \n\n\n\nPAUL REVERETS RIDE \n\nIs the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; \nAnd under the alders, that skirt its edge, \nNow soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, \nIs heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. \n\nIt was twelve by the village clock \nWhen he crossed the bridge into Medf ord \n\ntown. \nHe heard the crowing of the cock. \nAnd the barking of the farmer's dog. \nAnd felt the damp of the river fog, \nThat rises after the snn goes down. \n\nIt was one by the village clock. \n\nWhen he galloped into Lexington. \n\nHe saw the gilded weathercock \n\nSwim in the moonlight as he passed, \n\nAnd the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, \n\nGaze at him with a spectral glare, \n\nAs if they already stood aghast \n\nAt the bloody work they would look upon. \n\nIt was two by the village clock, \n\nWhen he came to the bridge in Concord town. \n\nHe heard the bleating of the flock, \n\n23 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nAnd twitter of birds among the trees. \nAnd felt the breath of the morning breeze \nBlowing over the meadoWs brown. \nAnd one was safe and asleep in his bed \nWho at the bridge would be first to fall. \nWho that day would be lying dead, \nPierced by a British musket-ball. \n\nYou know the rest. In the books you have read, \nHow the British Regulars fired and fled, — \nHow the farmers gave them ball for ball. \nFrom behind each fence and farm-yard wall. \nChasing the red-coats down the lane, \nThen crossing the fields to emerge again \nUnder the trees at the turn of the road. \nAnd only pausing to fire and load. \n\nSo through the night rode Paul Revere ; \n\nAnd 80 through the night went his cry of alarm \n\nTo every Middlesex village and farm,— \n\nA cry of defiance and not of fear, \n\nA voice in the darkness, a knock at the door. \n\nAnd a word that shall echo forevermore ! \n\nFor, borne on the night-wind of the Past, \n\nThrough all our history, to the last, \n\n24 \n\n\n\nPAUL REVERirS RmE \n\nIn the hour of darkness and peril and need, \nThe people will waken and listen to hear \nThe hurrying hoof -beats of that steed, \nAnd the midnight message of Paul Revere. \n\n\n\n25 \n\n\n\nINTERLUDE \n\nr[E Landlord ended thns his tale, \nThen rising took down from its nail \nThe sword that hung there, dim with dost, \nAnd cleaving to its sheath with rust, \nAnd said, ''This sword was in the fight.\" \nIlie Poet seized it, and exclaimed, \n^ It is the sword of a good knight. \nThough homespun was his coat-of-mail ; \nWhat matter if it be not named \nJoyeuse, Colada, Durindale, \nExcalibar, or Aroundight, \nOr other name the books record ? \nYour ancestor, who bore this sword \nAs Colonel of the Volunteers, \nMounted upon his old gray mare. \nSeen here and there and everywhere. \nTo me a grander shape appears \nThan old Sir William, or what not, \nClinking about in foreign lands \nWith iron gauntlets on his hands, \nAnd on his head an iron pot ! \" \n\n26 \n\n\n\nINTERLUDE \n\nAll laughed ; the Landlord's face grew rea \nAs his escutcheon on the wall ; \nHe could not comprehend at all \nThe drift of what the Poet said ; \nFor those who had been longest dead \nWere always greatest in his eyes ; \nAnd he was speechless with surprise \nTo see Sir William's plumed head \nBrought to a level with the rest, \nAnd made the subject of a jest \n\nAnd this perceiving, to appease \nThe Landlord's wrath, the other's fears. \nThe Student said, with careless ease, \n\"The ladies.and the cavaliers, \nThe arms, the loves, the courtesies, \nThe deeds of high emprise, I sing ! \nThus Ariosto says, in words \nThat have the stately stride and ring \nOf armed knights and clashing swords. \nNow listen to the tale I bring ; \nListen ! though not to me belong \nThe flowing draperies of his song, \nThe words that rouse, the voice that charms. \nThe Landlord's tale was one of arms, \n\n27 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nOnly a tale of love is mine, \nBlending the human and divine, \nA tale of the Decameron, told \nIn Palmieri's garden old, \nBy Fiametta, laurel-crowned, \nWhile her companions lay around, \nAnd heard the intermingled sound \nOf airs that on their errands sped, \nAnd wild birds gossiping overhead. \nAnd lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall. \nAnd her own voice more sweet than all. \nTelling the tale, which, wanting these. \nPerchance may lose its power to please. \n\n\n\n28 \n\n\n\nTHE STUDENTS TALE \n\n\n\nTHE FALCON OP SER PEDERIGO \n\nONE sinnmer momingi when the sun was hot, \nWeary with labor in his garden-plot, \nOn a mde bench beneath his cottage eaves, \nSer Federigo sat among the leaves \nOf a hnge vine, that, with its arms outspread, \nHnng its delicious cluster overhead. \nBelow him, through the lovely valley, flowed \nThe river Amo, like a winding road, \nAnd from its banks were lifted high in air \nThe spires and roofs of Florence called the \n\nFair; \nTo him a marble tomb, that rose above \nHis wasted fortunes and his buried love. \nFor there, in banquet and in tournament. \nHis wealth had lavished been, his substance \n\nspent. \nTo woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, \nMonna Giovanna, who his rival wed, \n\n31 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nYet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, \nThe ideal woman of a young man's dream. \n\nThen he withdrew, in poverty and pain, \nTo this small farm, the last of his domain, \nHis only comfort and his only care \nTo prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear ; \nHis only forester and only guest \nHis falcon, faithful to him, when the rest» \nWhose willing hands had found so light of yore \nThe brazen knocker of his palace door, \nHad now no strength to lift the wooden latch, \nThat entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. \nCompanion of his solitary ways, \nPurveyor of his feasts on holidays, \nOn him this melancholy man bestowed \nThe love with which his nature overflowed. \nAnd so the empty-handed years went round, \nVacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound, \nAnd so, that summer mom, he sat and mused \nWith folded, patient hands, as he was used, \nAnd dreamily before his half -closed sight \nFloated the vision of his lost delight. \nBeside him, motionless, the drowsy bird \nDreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard \n\n32 \n\n\n\nTHE FALOON OF SER FEDERIGO \n\nThe sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that \n\ndare \nThe headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of \n\nair. \nThen, starting broad awake upon his perch. \nTinkled his bells like mass-bells in a church, \nAnd, looking at his master, seemed to say, \n\"Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day ?** \n\nSer Federigo thought not oi the chase : \nThe tender vision of her lovely face, \nI will not say he seems to see, he sees \nIn the leaf-shadows of the trellises. \nHerself, yet not herself ; a lovely child \nWith flowing tresses, and eyes wide and \n\nwild, \nComing undaunted up the garden walk. \nAnd looking not at him, but at the hawk. \n** Beautiful falcon ! ** said he, \" would that I \nMight hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly T' \nThe voice was hers, and made strange echoes \n\nstart \nThrough all the haunted chambers of his heart, \nAs an solian harp through gusty doors \nOf some old ruin i)» wild music pours. \n\n3 33 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\n\" Who is thy mother, my fair boy ? \" he said, i \nHis hand laid softly on that shining head. \n\n\" Monna Giovanna.— Will you let me stay \nA little while, and with your falcon play ? \nWe live there, just beyond your garden wall, \nIn the great house behind the poplars tall.\" \n\nSo he spake on ; and Federigo heard \nAs from afar each softly uttered word. \nAnd drifted onward through the golden gleams \nAnd shadows of the misty sea of dreams. \nAs mariners becalmed through vapors drift, \nAnd feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, \nAnd hear far off the mournful breakers roar. \nAnd voices calling faintly from the shore ! \nThen, waking from his pleasant reveries, \nHe took the little boy upon his knees, \nAnd told him stories of his gallant bird, \nTill in their friendship he became a third. \n\nMonna Giovanna, widowed in her prime. \nHad come with friends to pass the summer- \ntime \nIn her grand villa, half-way up the hill, \nOverlooking Florence, but retired and stiU ; \n\n34 \n\n\n\nTHE FALCON OP SBR FEDERIGO \n\nWith iron gates, that opened through long lines \nOf sacred ilex and centennial pines. \nAnd terraced gardens, and broad steps of \n\nstone, \nAnd sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown, \nAnd fountains palpitating in the heat, \nAnd all Val d'Amo stretched beneath its feet. \n\nHere in seclusion, as a widow may, \nThe lovely lady whiled the hours away, \nFacing in sable robes the statued hall. \nHerself the stateliest statue among all, \nAnd seeing more and more, with secret joy. \nHer husband risen and living in her boy, \nTill the lost sense of life returned again. \nNot as delight, but as relief from pain. \nMeanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, \nStormed down the terraces from length to \n\nlength ; \nThe screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, \nAnd climbed the garden trellises for fruit. \nBut his chief pastime was to watch the flight \nOf a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, \nBeyond the trees that fringed the garden wall. \nThen downward stooping at some distant call : \n\n36 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nAnd as he gazed full often wondered he \nWho might the master of the falcon be. \nUntil that happy moming, when he found \nMaster and falcon in the cottage ground. \n\nAnd now a shadow and a terror fell \nOn the great house, as if a passing-bell \nTolled from the tower, and filled each spacious \n\nroom \nWith secret awe, and preternatural gloom ; \nThe petted boy grew ill, and day by day \nPined with mysterious malady away. \nThe mother's heart would not be comforted - \nHer darling seemed to her already dead. \nAnd often, sitting by the sufferer's side, \n\n\"What can I do to comfort thee?\" she cried. \nAt first the silent lips made no reply, \nBut, moved at length by her importunate cry, \nGive me,'' he answered, with imploring tone, \n\n\"Ser Federigo's falcon for my own I\" \n\nNo answer could the astonished mother make ; \nHow could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake, \nSuch favor at a luckless lover's hand, \nWell knowing that to ask was to command ? \n\n36 \n\n\n\n*t \n\n\n\nTHE FALCON OP SER FEDE3UG0 \n\nWell knowing, what all falconers confessed, \nIn all the land that falcon was the best, \nThe master's pride and passion and delight, \nAnd the sole pnrsnivant of this poor knight \nBnt yet, for her child's sake, she could no less \nThan give assent, to soothe his restlessness \nSo promised, and then promising to keep \nHer promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. \n\nThe morrow was a bright September mom ; \nThe earth was beantiful as if new-bom ; \nThere was that nameless splendor everywhere, \nThat wild exhilaration in the air, \nWhich makes the passers in the city street \nCongratulate each other as they meet. \nTwo lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, \nPassed through the garden gate into the wood, \nUnder the lustrous leaves- and through the \n\nsheen \nOf dewy sutishine showering down between. \nThe one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace \nWhich sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face ; \nHer dark eyes moistened with the mists that \n\nroll \nFrom the gulf -stream of passion in the soul , \n\n37 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nThe other with her hood thrown back, her hair \nMaking a golden glory in the air, \nHer cheeks suffused with an auroral blush. \nHer young heart singing louder than the \n\nthrush. \nSo walked, that mom, through mingled light \n\nand shade, \nEach by the other's presence lovelier made, \nMonna Giovanna and her bosom friend. \nIntent upon their errand and its end \n\nThey found Ser Federigo at his toil, \nLike banished Adam, delving in the soil ; \nAnd when he looked and these fair women \n\nspied, \nThe garden suddenly was glorified ; \nHis long-lost Eden was restored again. \nAnd the strange river winding through the plain \nNo longer was the Arno to his eyes. \nBut the Euphrates watering Paradise I \n\n' Monna Giovanna raised her stately head. \nAnd with fair words of salutation said : \n\n* Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, \nHoping in this to make some poor amends \n\n38 \n\n\n\nTHE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO \n\nFor past unkindness. I who ne'er before \nWould even cross the threshold of your door, \nI who in happier days such pride maintained, \nRefnsed ycmr banquets, and your gifts \n\ndisdained, \nThis morning come, a self-invited guest. \nTo put your generous nature to the test, \nAnd breakfast with you under your own vine.\" \nTo which he answered : \" Poor desert of mine,* \nNot your unkindness call it, for if aught \nIs good in me of feeling or of thought. \nFrom you it comes, and this last grace out- \nweighs \nAll sorrows, all regrets of other days.\" \n\nAnd after further compliment and talk, \n\nAmong the asters in the garden walk \n\nHe left his guests ; and to his cottage turned, \n\nAnd as he entered for a moment yearned \n\nFor the lost splendors of the days of old, \n\nThe ruby glass, the silver and the gold, \n\nAnd felt how piercing is the sting of pride. \n\nBy want embittered and intensified. \n\nHe looked about him for some means or way \n\nTo keep this unexpected holiday : \n\n39 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nSearched every cupboard, and then searched \n\nagain. \nSummoned the maid, who came, but came in \n\nvain ; \n\" The Signor did not hunt to-day,\" she said, \n\" There 's nothing in the house but wine and \n\nbread/' \nThen suddenly the drowsy falcon shook \nHis little bells, with that sagacious look. \nWhich said, as plain as language to the ear, \n\"If anything is wanting, I am here ! \" \nYes, everything is wanting, gallant bird ! \nThe master seized'thee without further word. \nLike thine own lure, he whirled thee round ; \n\nah me ! \nThe pomp and flutter of brave falconry, \nThe bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood. \nThe flight and the pursuit o*er field and \n\nwood. \nAll these f orevermore are ended now ; \nNo longer victor, but the victim thou ! \n\nThen on the board a snow-white cloth he \n\nspread, \nLaid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, \n\n40 \n\n\n\nTHE FALCON OP SER PEDERIGO \n\nBrought purple grapes with autumn sunshine \n\nhot, \nThe fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot ; \nThen in the midst a flask of wine he placed, \nAnd with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. \nSer Federigo, would not these suffice \nWithout thy falcon stuffed with cloves and \n\nspice? \n\nWhen all was ready, and the courtly dame \nWith her companion to the cottage came. \nUpon Ser Federigo's brain there fell \nThe wild enchantment of a magic spell ! \nThe room they entered, mean and low and \n\nsmall. \nWas changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, \nWith fanfares by aerial trumpets blown ; \nThe rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; \nHe ate celestial food, and a divine \nFlavor was given to his country wine, \nAnd the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, \nA peacock was, or bird of paradise 1 \n\nWhen the repast was ended, they arose \nAnd passed again into the garden-close. \n\nii \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSmE INN \n\nThen said the lady, \" Far too well I know. \nRemembering still the days of long ago. \nThough yon betray it not, with what surprise \nYou see me here in this familiar wise. \nYou have no children, and you cannot guess \nWhat anguish, what xmspeakable distress \nA mother feels, whose child is lying ill, \nNor how her heart anticipates his will. \nAnd yet for this, you see me lay aside \nAll womanly reserve and check of pride, \nAnd ask the thing most precious in your \n\nsight, \nYour falcon, your sole comfort and delight. \nWhich if you find it in your heart to give. \nMy poor, unhappy boy perchance may live.\" \n\nSer Federigo listens, and replies, \n\nWith tears of love and pity in his eyes : \n\nAlas, dear lady ! there can be no task \n\nSo sweet to me, as giving when you ask. \n\nOne little nour ago, if I had known \n\nThis wish of yours, it would have been my \n\nown. \nBut thinking in what manner I could best \nDo honor to the presence of my guest, \n\n42 \n\n\n\nTHE FALCON OF SER FBDERIGO \n\nI deemed that nothing worthier could be \nThan what most dear and precious was to me, \nAnd so my gallant falcon breathed his last \nTo furnish forth this morning onr repasf \n\nIn mute contrition, mingled with dismay, \nThe gentle lady turned her eyes away, \nGrieving that he snch sacrifice should make. \nAnd kill his falcon for a woman's sake, \nTet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, \nThat nothing she could ask for was denied ; \nThen took her leave, and passed out at the gate \nWith footstep slow and soul disconsolate. \n\nThree days went by, and lo ! a passing-bell \nTolled from the little chapel in the dell ; \nTen strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said. \nBreathing a prayer, \" Alas ! her child is dead! '* \nThree months went by ; and lo ! a merrier \n\nchime \nRang from the chapel bells at Christmas time ; \nThe cottage was deserted, and no more \nSer Federigo sat beside its door. \nBut now, with servitors to do his will, \nIn the grand villa, half-way up the hill, \n\n43 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nSat at the Christmas feast, and at his side \nMonna Gioyanna, his beloved bride. \nNever so beautiful, so kind, so fair. \nEnthroned once more in the old rustic chair. \nHigh-perched upon the back of which there \n\nstood \nThe image of a falcon carved in wood. \nAnd underneath the inscription, with a date, \n\" All things come round to him who will but \n\nwait.\" \n\n\n\n44 \n\n\n\nINTERLUDE \n\nSOON as the story reached its end, \nOne, over eager to commend, \nCrowned it with injudicious praise : \nAnd then the voice of hiame found vent, \nAnd fanned the embers of dissent \nInto a somewhat lively blaze. \n\nThe Theologian shook his head ; \n\"These old Italian tales,'* he said, \n\"From the much-praised Decameron down \nThrough all the rabble of the rest. \nAre either trifling, dull, or lewd ; \nThe gossip of a neighborhood \nIn some remote provincial town, \nA scandalous chronicle at best ! \nThey seem to me a stagnant fen. \nGrown rank with rushes and with \n\nreeds, \nWhere a white lily, now and then, \nBlooms in the midst of noxious weeds \nAnd deadly nightshade on its banks/' \n\n45 \n\n\n\nu \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nTo this the Student straight replied \nFor the white lily, many thanks ! \nOne should not say, with too much \n\npride, \nFountain, I will not drink of thee I \nNor were it grateful to forget. \nThat from these reservoirs and \n\ntanks \nEven imperial Shakspeare drew \nHis Moor of Venice and the Jew, \nAnd Romeo and Juliet, \nAnd many a famous comedy .'^ \n\n\n\nThen a long pause ; till some one said, \n\" An Angel is fljring overhead ! \" \n\nAt these words spake the Spanish Jew, \n\nAnd murmured with an inward breath : \n''God grant, if what you say be true \n\nIt may not be the Angel of Death ! \n\n\n\n' >f \n\n\n\nAnd then another pause ; and then. \nStroking his beard, he said again: \n** This brings back to my memory \nA story in the Talmud told. \nThat book of gems, that book of gold, \n\n46 \n\n\n\nINTERLUDE \n\nOf wonders many and manifold, \n\nA tale that often comes to me. \n\nAnd fills my heart, and haunts my brain, \n\nAnd never wearies nor grows old.\" \n\n\n\n47 \n\n\n\nTHE SPANISH JEW'S TALE \n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OP RABBI BEN LEVI \n\nRABBI Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read \nA volmne of the Law, in which it said, \n\"No man shall look upon my face and live.\" \nAnd as he read, he prayed that God would \n\ngive \nHis faithful servant grace with mortal eye \nTo look upon His face and yet not die. \n\nThen fell a sudden shadow on the page. \nAnd, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age, \nHe saw the Angel of Death before him stand, \nHolding a naked sword in his right hand. \nRabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, \nTet through his veins a chill of terror ran. \nWith trembling voice he said, \"What wilt \n\nthou here?\" \nThe angel answered, \" Lo ! the time draws \n\nnear \n\n51 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSTOE INN \n\nWhen thoQ must die; yet first, by God's decree. \nWhatever thou askest shall be granted thee.'' \nReplied the Rabbi, \" Let these living eyes \nFirst look npon m^ place in Paradise.\" \n\nThen said the Angel, ** Gome with me and \n\nlook.\" \nRabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, \nAnd rising, and uplifting his gray head, \n*' Give me thy sword,\" he to the Angel said, \n** Lest thou shonldst fall npon me by the way.\" \nThe Angel smiled and hastened to obey, \nThen led him forth to the Celestial Town, \nAnd set him on the wall, whence, gazing \n\ndown. \nRabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, \nMight look apon his place in Paradise. \n\nfhen straight into the city of the Lord \nThe Rabbi leaped with the Death- Angel's \n\nsword, \nAnd through the streets there swept a sudden \n\nbreath \nOf something there unknown, which men call \n\ndeath. \n\n52 \n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI \n\nMeanwhile the Angel stayed without, and \ncried, \n''Come back \\\" To which the Rabbi's voice \n\nreplied, \n^No ! in the name of God, whom I adore, \nI swear that hence I will depart no more ! \" \n\nThen all the Angels cried, *' Holy One, \nSee what the son of Levi here has done I \nThe kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence. \nAnd in Thy name refuses to go hence ! ** \nThe Lord replied, \"My Angels, be not wroth ; \nDid e'er the son of Levi break his oath ? \nLet him remain ; for he with mortal eye \nShall look upon my face and yet not die.\" \n\nBeyond the enter wall the Angel of Death \nHeard the great voice, and said, with panting \n\nbreath, \n** Give back the sword, and let me go my \n\nway.\" \nWhereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, \n\n\" Nay ! \nAnguish enough already has it caused \nAmong the sons of men.\" And while he paused \n\n53 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nHe heard the awful mandate of the Lord \nResounding through the air, \" Give back the \nsword ! \" \n\nThe Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer; \nThen said he to the dreadful Angel, ''Swear, \nNo human eye shall look on it again ; \nBut when thou takest away the souls of men. \nThyself unseen, and with an unseen sword. \nThou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord.\" \n\nThe Angel took the sword again, and swore, \nAnd walks on earth unseen forevermore. \n\n\n\n54 \n\n\n\nINTERLUDE \n\nHE ended : and a kind of spell \nUpon the silent listeners fell. \nHis solemn manner and his words \nHad touched the deep, mysterious \n\nchords \nThat vibrate in each human breast \nAlike, but not alike confessed. \nThe spiritual world seemed near ; \nAnd close above them, full of fear, \nIts awful adumbration passed, \nA luminous shadow, vague and vast. \nThey afenost feared to look, lest there, \nEmbodied from the impalpable air, \nThey might behold the Angel stand. \nHolding the sword in his right hand. \nAt last, but in a voice subdued. \nNot to disturb their dreamy mood. \nSaid the Sicilian : \" While you spoke, \nTelling your legend marvellous. \nSuddenly in my memory woke \nThe thought of one now gone from us, \n\n55 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nAn old Abate, meek and mild. \nMy friend and teacher when a child, \nWho sometimes in those days of old \nThe legend of an Angel told, \nWhich ran, as I remember, thus.** \n\n\n\n56 \n\n\n\nTHE SICILIAN'S TALE \n\n\n\nKING ROBERT OP SICILY \n\nROBERT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane \nAnd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, \nApparelled in magnificent attire, \nWith retinae of many a knight and squire, \nOn St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat \nAnd heard the priests chant the Magnificat. \nAnd as he listened, o'er and o'er again \nRepeated, like a burden or refrain, \nHe caught the words, \"Deposuit potentes \nBe sede, et exaltavU humiles **; \nAnd slowly lifting up his kingly head \nHe to a learned clerk beside him said, \n\" What mean these words ? \" The clerk made \n\nanswer meet, \n\" He has put down the mighty from their \nseat. \nAnd has exalted them of low degree.\" \nThereat King Robert muttered scornfully, \n\n59 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\n\n\n« r\\ \n\n\n\nT is well that such seditioos words are sungr \nOnly by priests and in the Latin tongue ; \nFor unto priests and people be it known. \nThere is no power can push me from my \n\nthrone!\" \nAnd leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep. \nLulled by the chant monotonous and deep. \n\nWhen he awoke it was already night ; \n\nThe church was empty, and there was no light, \n\nSave where the lamps, that glimmered few \n\nand faint, \nLighted a little space before some saint. \nHe started from his seat and gazed around. \nBut saw no living thing and heard no Bound. \nHe groped towards the door, but it was locked ; \nHe cried aloud, and listened, and then \n\nknocked. \nAnd uttered awful threatenings and \n\ncomplaints. \nAnd imprecations upon men and saints. \nThe sounds re-echoed from the roof and \n\nwalls \nAs if dead priests were laughing in their \n\nstalls ! \n\n60 \n\n\n\nKING ROBERT OP SICILY \n\nAt lenfi^ the sexton, hearing from without \nThe tonmlt of the knocking and the shout, \nAnd thinking thieves were in the house of \n\nprayer, \nGame with his lantern, asking, ** Who is \n\nthere ? \" \nHalf choked with rage, King Robert fiercely \n\nsaid, \n\"Open : 't is I, the King ! Art thou afraid ? \" \nThe frightened sexton, muttering, with a \n\ncurse, \n\"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse I\" \nTurned the great key and flung the portal \n\nwide ; \nA man rushed by him at a single stride, \nHaggard, half naked, without hat or cloak. \nWho neither turned, nor looked at him, nor \n\nspoke. \nBut leaped into the blackness of the night, \nAnd vanished like a spectre from his sight. \nRobert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane \nAnd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, \nDespoiled of his magnificent attire, \nBare-headed, breathless, and besprent with \n\nmire, \n\n61 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nWith sense of wrong and outrage desperate, \nStrode on and thundered at the palace gate ; \nRushed through the court-yard, thrusting in \n\nhis rage \nTo right and left each seneschal and page, \nAnd hurried up the broad and sounding stair. \nHis white face ghastly in the torches' glare. \nFrom hall to hall he passed with breathless \n\nspeed ; \nVoices and cries he heard, but did not heed. \nUntil at last he reached the banquet-room. \nBlazing with light, and breathing with perfume. \n\nThere on the dais sat another king, \n\nWearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring. \n\nKing Robert's self in features, form and \n\nheight. \nBut all transfigured with angelic light ! \nIt was an Angel ; and his presence there \nWith a divine effulgence filled the air, \nAn exaltation, piercing the disguise. \nThough none the hidden Angel recognize. \n\nA moment speechless, motionless, amazed, \nThe throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, \n\n62 \n\n\n\n« \n\n\n\nKING ROBERT OP SICILY \n\nWho met his looks of anger and surprise \nWith the divine compassion of his eyes ; \nThen said, \" Who art thou ? and why com'st \n\nthou here ? \" \nTo which King Robert answered with a \n\nsneer, \nI am the King, and come to claim my own \nFrom an impostor, who usurps my throne ! ** \nAnd suddenly, at these audacious words, \nUp sprang the angry guests, and drew their \n\nswords ; \nThe Angel answered, with unruffled brow. \nNay not the King, but the King's Jester, thou \nHenceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped \n\ncape, \nAnd for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; \nThou shalt obey my servants when they call, \nAnd wait upon my henchmen in the hall !'' \n\nDeaf to King Robert's threats and cries and \n\nprayers. \nThey thrust him from the hall and down the \n\nstairs ; \nA group of tittering pages ran before. \nAnd as they opened wide the folding-door, \n\n63 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nHis heart failed, for he heard, with strange \n\nalarms, \nThe boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms^ \nAnd all the vaulted chamber roar and ring \nWith the mock plaudits of \" Long live the \n\nKing!\" I \n\nNext morning, waking with the day's first \n\nbeam, \nHe said within himself, ''It was a dream !\" \nBut the straw rustled as he turned his head, \nThere were the cap and bells beside his bed, \nAround him rose the bare, discolored walls, \nClose by, the steeds were champing in their \n\nstalls, \nAnd in the comer, a revolting shape, \nShivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. \nIt was no dream ; the world he loved so much \nHad turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! \n\nDays came and went ; and now returned again \nTo Sicily the old Satumian reign ; \nUnder the AngeFs governance benign \nThe happy island danced with com and wine, \nAnd deep within the mountain's buming breast \nEnceladus, the giant, was at rest. \n\n64 \n\n\n\nKING ROBERT OF SICILY \n\nMeanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, \nSollen and silent and disconsolate. \nDressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, \nWith look bewildered and a vacant stare, \nClose shaven above the ears, as monks are \n\nshorn. \nBy courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to \n\nscorn, \nHis only friend the ape, his only food \nWhat others left,— he still was nnsnbdned. \nAnd when the Angel met him on his way, \nAnd half in earnest, half in jest, would say, \nSternly, though tenderly, that he might feel \nThe velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, \n\" Art thou the King ? \" the passion of his woe \nBurst from him in resistless overflow, \nAnd, lifting high his forehead, he would fling \nThe haughty answer back, \" I am, I am the \n\nKing!\" \n\nAlmost three years were ended ; when there \n\ncame \nAmbassadors of great repute and name \nFrom Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, \nUnto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane \n\nb 65 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nBy letter summoned them forthwith to come \nOn Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. \nThe Angel with great joy received his guests. \nAnd gave them presents of embroidered vests. \nAnd velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, \nAnd rings and jewels of the rarest kind. \nThen he departed with them o'er the sea \nInto the lovely land of Italy, \nWhose loveliness was more resplendent made \nBy the mere passing of that cavalcade, \nWith plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and \n\nthe stir \nOf jewelled bridle and of golden spur. \n\nAnd lo ! among the menials, in mock state, \nUpon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, \nHis cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind. \nThe solemn ape demurely perched behind, \nKing Robert rode, making huge merriment \nIn all the country towns through which they \nwent. \n\nThe Pope received them with great pomp and \n\nblare \nOf bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, \n\n66 \n\n\n\nKING ROBERT QP SICILY \n\nGiving his benediction and embrace, \nFervent, and full of apostolic grace. \nWhile with congratulations and with prayers \nB» entertained the Angel unawares, \nRobert^ the Jester, bursting through the \n\ncrowd. \nInto their presence rushed, and cried aloud, \nI am the King ! Look and behold in me \nRobert, your brother. King of Sicily ! \nThis man, who wears my semblance to your \n\neyes. \nIs an impostor in a king's disguise. \nDo you not know me ? does no voice within \nAnswer my cry, and say we are akin?\" \nThe Pope in silence, but with troubled \n\nmien. \nGazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; \nThe Emperor, laughing, said, ** It is strange \n\nsport \nTo keep a madman for thy Fool at court ! \" \nAnd the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace \nWas hustled back among the populace. \n\nIn solemn state the Holy Week went by, \nAnd Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; \n\n67 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nThe presence of the Angel, with its light, \nBefore the sun rose, made the city bright, \nAnd with new fervor filled the hearts of men, \nWho felt that Christ indeed had risen again. \nEven the Jester, on his bed of straw. \nWith haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw. \nHe felt within a power unf elt before. \nAnd, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor. \nHe heard the rushing garments of the Lord \nSweep through the silent air, ascending \nheavenward. \n\nAnd now the visit ending, and once more \nValmond returning to the Danube's shore. \nHomeward the Angel journeyed, and again \nThe land was made resplendent with his \n\ntrain. \nFlashing along the towns of Italy \nUnto Salerno, and from thence by sea. \nAnd when once more within Palermo's wall. \nAnd, seated on the throne in his great hall. \nHe heard the Angelus from convent towers, \nAs if the better world conversed with ours. \nHe beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher. \nAnd with a gesture bade the rest retire ; \n\n68 \n\n\n\nKING ROBERT OP SICILY \n\nAnd when they were alone, the Angel said, \n\" Art thon the King ? '' Then bowing down his \nhead, \nKing Robert crossed both hands upon his \n\nbreast, \nAnd meekly answered him : \" Thou knowest \n\nbest! \nMy sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, \nAnd in some cloister's school of penitence, \nAcross those stones, that pave the way to \n\nheaven. \nWalk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven ! \" \nThe Angel smiled, and from his radiant face \nA holy light illumined all the place. \nAnd through the open window, loud and clear, \nThey heard the monks chant in the chapel near, \nAbove the stir and tumult of the street : \n\" He has put down the mighty from their seat, \nAnd has exalted them of low degree ! \" \nAnd through the chant a second melody \nRose like the throbbing of a single string :• \n''I am an Angel, and thou art the King ! \" \n\nKmg Robert, who was standing near the throne. \nLifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nBat all apparelled as in days of old, \n\nWith ennined mantle and with cloth of gold ; \n\nAnd when his courtiers came, they found him \n\nthere \nKneeling npon the floor, absorbed in silent \n\nprayer. \n\n\n\n70 \n\n\n\nINTERLUDE \n\nAND then the blae-eyed Norseman told \nA. A Saga of the days of old. \n\"There is,'' said he, ''a wondrous book \nOf Legends in the old Norse tongne, \nOf the dead kings of Norroway,— \nLegends that once were told or \n\nsnng \nIn many a smoky fireside nook \nOf Iceland, in the ancient day, \nBy wandering Saga-man or Scald ; \nHeimskringla is the volnme called ; \nAnd he who looks may find therein \nThe story that I now begin/^ \n\nAnd in each pause the story made \nUpon his violin he played, \nAs an appropriate interlude. \nFragments of old Norwegian tunes \nThat bound in one the separate \n\nrunes, \nAnd held the mind in perfect mood, \n\n71 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nEntwining and encircling all \n\nThe strange and antiquated rhymes \n\nWith melodies of olden times ; \n\nAs over some half -ruined wall» \n\nDisjointed and about to fall. \n\nFresh woodbines climb and interlace, \n\nAnd keep the loosened stones in place. \n\n\n\n72 \n\n\n\nTHE MUSICIAN'S TALE \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAF \n\n\n\nTHE CHALLENGE OF THOR \n\nI AM the God Thor, \nI am the War God, \nI am the Thunderer I \nHere in my Northland, \nMy fastness and fortress, \nReign I forever ! \n\nHere amid icebergs \nRule I the nations ; \nThis is my hammer, \nMiolner the mighty ; \nGiants and sorcerers \nCannot withstand it ! \n\nThese are the gaontlets \nWherewith I wield it, \n\n75 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nAnd hurl it afar off ; \nThis is my girdle ; \nWhenever I brace it, \nStrength is redoubled ! \n\nThe light thou beholdest \nStream through the heavens, \nIn flashes of crimson. \nIs but my red beard \nBlown by the night-wind, \nAffrighting the nations I \n\nJove is my brother; \nMine eyes are the lightning ; \nThe wheels of my chariot \nRoll in the thunder, \nThe blows of my hammer \nRing in the earthquake! \n\nForce rules the world still. \nHas ruled it, shall rule it; \nMeekness is weakness, \nStrength is triumphant, \nOver the whole earth \nStill is it Thor's-Day ! \n76 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAP \n\nThou art a God too, \nGalilean ! \nAnd thus single-handed \nUnto the combat, \nGauntlet or Gospel, \nHere I defy thee! \n\n\n\n77 \n\n\n\nII \n\nKING OLAF'S return \n\nA ND King Olaf heard the cry, \nxx Saw the red light in the sky. \n\nLaid his hand upon his sword, \nAs he leaned upon the railing, \nAnd his ships went sailing, sailing \n\nNorthward into Drontheim fiord. \n\n\n\nThere he stood as one who \n\ndreamed; \nAnd the red light glanced and \ngleamed \nOn the armor that he wore; \nAnd he shouted, as the rifted \nStreamers o'er him shook and \nshifted, \n\"I accept thy challenge, Thor ! \n\n\n\nn \n\n\n\nTo avenge his father slain, \nAnd reconquer realm and reign. \nCame the youthful Olaf home, \n\n73 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAF \n\nThrough the midnight Bailing, sailing, \nLiistening to the wild wind's wailing, \nAnd the dashing of the foam. \n\nTo his thoughts the sacred name \nOf his mother Astrid came, \n\nAnd the tale she oft had told \nOf her flight hy secret passes \nThrough the mountains and morasses, \n\nTo the home of Hakon old. \n\nThen strange memories crowded back \nOf Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, \n\nAnd a hurried flight by sea; \nOf grim Vikings, and the rapture \nOf the sea-fight and the capture, \n\nAnd the life of slavery. \n\nHow a stranger watched his face \nIn the Esthonian market-place. \n\nScanned his features one by one, \nSaying, ''We should know each other; \nI am Sigurd, Astrid's brother, \n\nThou art Olaf, Astrid's son !\"' \n\n79 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nThen as Queen Allogia's page. \nOld in honors, young in age, \n\nChief of all her men-at-arms; \nTill vague whispers, and mysterious. \nReached King Valdemar, the imperious, \n\nFilling him with strange alarms. \n\nThen his cruisings o'er the seas. \nWestward to the Hebrides, \n\nAnd to Scilly's rocky shore; \nAnd the hermit's cavern dismal, \nChrist's great name and rites \nbaptismal, \n\nIn the ocean's rush and roar. \n\nAll these thoughts of love and strife \n\nGlimmered through his lurid life. \n\nAs the stars' intenser light \n\nThrough the red flames o'er him \n\ntrailing, \nAs his ships went sailing, sailing. \n\nNorthward in the summer night. \n\nTrained for either camp or court. \nSkilful in each manly sport, \nYoung and beautiful and tall; \n\n80 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAF \n\nArt of warfare, craft of chases, \nSwimming, skating, snow-shoe races. \nExcellent alike in all. \n\n\n\nWhen at sea, with all his rowers, \nHe along the bending oars \n\nOutside of his ship could run. \nHe the Smalsor Horn ascended. \nAnd his shining shield suspended \n\nOn its summit, like a sun. \n\nOn the ship-rails he could stand, \nWield his sword with either hand, \n\nAnd at once two javelins throw; \nAt all feasts where ale was strongest \nSat the merry monarch longest. \n\nFirst to come, and last to go. \n\nNorway never yet had seen \nOne so beautiful of mien. \n\nOne so royal in attire. \nWhen in arms completely furnished. \nHarness gold-inlaid and burnished, \n\nMantle like a flame of fire* \n« 81 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nThus came Olaf to his own, \nWhen upon the night-wind blown \n\nPassed that cry along the shore; \nAnd he answered, while the rifted \nStreamers o'er him shook and shifted, \n\n\"I accept thy challenge, Thor !\" \n\n\n\n82 \n\n\n\nIll \n\nTHORA OF RIMOL \n\n\"rraoRA of Rimol ! hide me ! hide me ! \nX Danger and shame and death betide me ! \nFor Olaf the King is honting me down \nThrough fields and forest, through thorp and \ntown!\" \nThus cried Jarl Hakon \nTo Thora, the fairest of women. \n\n''Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee \nNeither shall shame nor death come near thee ! \nBnt the hiding-place wherein thou must lie \nIs the cave underneath the swine in the sty.\" \n\nThus to Jarl Hakon \n\nSaid Thora, the fairest of women. \n\nSo Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Earker \nGrouched in the caye, than a dungeon darker, \nAs Olaf came riding, with men in mail, \nThrough the forest roads into Orkadale, \n\n83 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nDemanding Jarl Hakon \n\nOf Thora, the fwreet of women. \n\n'Rich and honored shall be whoever \nThe head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever !\" \nHakon heard him» and Karker the \n\nslave. \nThrough the breathing-holes of the darksome \ncave. \nAlone in her chamber \nWept Thora, the fairest of women. \n\nSaid Karker, the crafty, \" I will not slay thee ! \nFor all the king's gold I will never betray \nthee!\" \n\" Then why dost thou turn so pale, churl. \nAnd then again black as the earth ?\" said the \nEarl. \nMore pale and more faithful \nWas Thora, the fairest of women. \n\nFrom a dream in the night the thrall started, \nsaying, \n\" Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was \nlaying ! \" \n\n84 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OP KING OLAF \n\nAnd Hakon answered, \" Beware of the King I \nHe will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring T \nAt the ring on her finger \nGazed Thora, the fairest of women. \n\nAt daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows \n\nencTunbered, \nBat screamed and drew up his feet as he \n\nslumbered ; \nThe thrall in the darkness plunged with his \n\nknife, \nAnd the Earl awakened no more in this life. \nBut wakeful and weeping \nSat Thora, the fairest of women. \n\nAt Nidarholm the priests are all singing, \nTwo ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging ; \nOne is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thralVs, \nAnd the people are shouting from windows \nand walls ; \nWhile alone in her chamber \nSwoons Thora, the fairest of women. \n\n\n\n85 \n\n\n\nIV \nQUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY \n\nQUEEN Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and \naloft \nIn her chamber, that looked over meadow and \ncroft. \nHeart's dearest, \nWhy dost thou sorrow so ? \n\nThe floor with tassels of fir was besprent^ \nFilling the room with their fragrant \nscent. \n\nShe heard the birds sing, she saw the sun \n\nshine, \nThe air of summer was sweeter than \n\nwine. \n\nLike a sword without scabbard the bright \n\nriver lay \nBetween her own kingdom and Norroway. \n\nm \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OP KING OLAP \n\nBut Olaf the King had sued for her hand, \nThe sword would be sheathed, the river be \nspanned. \n\nHer maidens were seated around her knee.« \nWorking bright figures in tapestry. \n\nAnd one was singing the ancient rune \nOf Brynhilda's love and the wrath of \nGudrun. \n\nAnd through it, and round it, and over \n\nit all \nSounded incessant the waterfall. \n\nThe Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, \nFrom the door of Lade's Temple old. \n\nKing Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, \nBut her thoughts as arrows were keen and \nswift. \n\nShe had given the ring to her goldsmiths \n\ntwain, \nWho smiled, as they handed it back again. \n\n«7 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nAnd Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way. \nSaid, \" Why do yoa smile, my goldsmiths, say? * \n\nAnd they answered : \" Queen ! if the truth \n\nmust be told. \nThe ring is of copper, and not of gold ! \" \n\nThe lightning flashed o'er her forehead and \n\ncheek. \nShe only murmured, she did not speak : \n\n'If in his gifts he can faithless be, \nThere will be no gold in his love to me.\" \n\nA footstep was heard on the outer stair, \nAnd in strode King Olaf with royal air. \n\nHe kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered \n\nof love, \nAnd swore to be true as the stars are above. \n\nBut she smiled with contempt as she answered: \n\n\"OKing, \nWill you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the \n\n\n\nring ? \" \n\n\n\n88 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OP KING OLAP \n\nAnd the King : ** speak not of Odin to me, \nThe wife of King Olaf a Christian most be.\" \n\nLooking straight at the King, with her level \nbrows, \nI She said, ^* I keep true to my faith and my \nL vows.\" \n\nThen the face of King Olaf was darkened with \n\ngloom. \nHe rose in his anger and strode through the \n\nroom. \n\n\n\nu \n\n\n\nWhy, then, should I care to have thee ? \" he \nsaid,— \n\" A faded old woman, a heathenish jade ! \" \n\nHis zeal was stronger than fear or love. \nAnd he struck the Queen in the face with his \nglove. \n\nThen forth from the chamber in anger he \n\nfled, \nAnd the wooden stairway shook with his \n\ntread. \n\n89 \n\n\n\nu \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nQueen Sigrid the Haughty said under her \n\nbreath, \nThis insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death ! \n\nHeart's dearest, \n\nWhy dost thou sorrow so ? \n\n\n\n90 \n\n\n\nTHE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS \n\nNOW from all King Olaf s farms \nHis men-at-arms \nGathered on the Eve of Easter ; \nTo his house at Angvalds-ness \n\nFast they press, \nDrinking with the royal feaster. \n\nLondly through the wide-flung door \n\nCame the roar \nOf the sea upon the Skerry ; \nAnd its thnnder loud and near \n\nReached the ear, \nMingling with their voices merry. \n\n\" Hark ! \"* said Olaf to his Scald, \n\nHalfred the Bald, \nListen to that song, and learn it ! \nHalf my kingdom would I give. \n\nAs I live. \nIf by such songs you would earn it ! \n\n91 \n\n\n\n« \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\n\" For of all the runes and rhymes \n\nOf all times, \nBest I like the ocean's dirges, \nWhen the old harper heaves and rocks. \n\nHis hoary locks \nFlowing and flashing in the surges ! ** \n\nHalfred answered : \" I am called \n\nThe Unappalled ! \nNothing hinders me or daunts me. \nHearken to me, then, King, \n\nWhile I sing \nThe great Ocean Song that haunts \nme.\" \n\n\" I will hear your song sublime \n\nSome other time,\" \nSays the drowsy monarch, yawning. \nAnd retires ; each laughing guest \n\nApplauds the jest ; \nThen they sleep till day is dawning. \n\nPacing up and down the yard, \n\nKing Olaf s guard \nSaw the sea-mist slowly creeping \n\n92 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OP KING OLAP \n\n(Xer the sands, and up the hill, \n\nGathering still \nBound the house where they were sleeping \n\nIt was not the fog he saw, \n\nNor misty flaw, \nThat above the landscape brooded ; \nIt was Eyvind Eallda's crew \n\nOf warlocks bine, \nWith their caps of darkness hooded I \n\nRound and round the house they go, \n\nWeaving slow \nliagic circles to encumber \nAnd imprison in their ring \n\nOlaf the King, \nAs he helpless lies in slumber. \n\nThen athwart the vapors dun \n\nThe Easter sun \nStreamed with one broad track of \n\nsplendor. \nIn their real forms appeared \n\nThe warlocks weird. \nAwful as the Witch of Endor. \n\n93 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSIDE INN \n\nBlinded by the light that glared. \n\nThey groped and stared \nRound about with steps unsteady ; \nFrom his window Olaf gazed, \nAnd, amazed, \n\" Who are these strange people ?\" said \nhe. \n\n** Eyvind Eallda and his men ! ** \nAnswered then \nFrom the yard a sturdy farmer ; \nWhile the men-at-arms apace \n\nFilled the place, \nBusily buckling on their armor. \n\nFrom the gates they sallied forth, \n\nSouth and north. \nScoured the island coast around them. \nSeizing all the warlock band, \n\nFoot and hand \nOn the Skerry's rocks they bound them. \n\nAnd at eve the King again \n\nCalled his train, \nAnd, with all the candles burning, \n\n94 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OP KING OLAP \n\nSilent sat and heard once more \n\nThe sullen roar \nOf the ocean tides returning. \n\nShrieks and cries of wild despair \n\nFilled the air, \nGrowing fainter as they listened ; \nThen the bursting surge alone \n\nSounded on ;— \nThus the sorcerers were christened ! \n\n\n\nSing, Scald, your song sublime, \n\nYour ocean-rhyme,\" \nCried King Olaf : \" it will cheer me 1 \"* \nSaid the Scald with pallid cheeks, \n\n\"The Skerry of Shrieks \nSings too loud for you to hear me !\" \n\n\n\n96 \n\n\n\nTALES OF A WAYSmE INN \n\nVI \nTHE WRAITH OP ODIN \n\nTHE guests were loud, the ale was strong. \nKing Olaf feasted late and long ; \nThe hoary Scalds together sang ; \nOverhead the smoky rafters rang. \n\nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang^. \n\nThe door swung wide, with creak and din ; \nA blast of cold night-air came in, \nAnd on the threshold shivering stood \nA one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. \nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\nThe King exclaimed, \" graybeard pale ! \nCome warm thee with this cup of ale.\" \nThe foaming draught the old man quaffed. \nThe noisy guests looked on and laughed. \nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\nThen spake the King : *' Be not afraid ; \nSit here by me.\" The guest obeyed, \n\n96 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAF \n\nAnd, seated at the table, told \nTales of the sea, and Sagas old. \n\nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\nAnd ever, when the tale was o'er, \nThe King demanded yet one more ; \nfill Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, \n\" T is late, King, and time for bed.** \n\nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\nThe King retired ; the stranger guest \nFollowed and entered with the rest ; \nThe lights were out, the pages gone, \nBut still the garrulous guest spake on. \nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\nAs one who from a volume reads. \nHe spake of heroes and their deed^. \nOf lands and cities he had seen, \nAnd stormy gulfs that tossed \nbetween. \nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\nThen from his lips in music rolled \nThe Havamal of Odin old, \n\n7 97 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSroE INN \n\nWith sounds mysterions as the roar \nOf billows on a distant shore. \n\nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\n\" Do we not learn from runes and rhymes \nMade by the gods in elder times. \nAnd do not still the great Scalds teach \nThat silence better is than speech ? ** \nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\n\n\nSmiling at this, the King replied, \nThy lore is by thy tongue belied ; \nFor never was I so enthralled \nEither by Saga-man or Scald.'' \n\nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\n\n\nit \n\n\n\nThe Bishop said, \" Late hours we keep ! \nNight wanes, King ! 't is time for \n\nsleep ! \" \nThen slept the King, and when he woke \nThe guest was gone, the morning broke. \n\nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\nThey found the doors securely barred, \nThey found the watch-dog in the yard, \n\n98 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAP \n\nThere was no footprint in the grass, \nAnd none had seen the stranger pass. \nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\nKing Olaf crossed himself and said : \n'* I know that Odin the Great is dead ; \nSure is the triumph of our Faith. \nThe one-eyed stranger was his wraith.\" \nDead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. \n\n\n\n99 \n\n\n\n653015 \n\n\n\nvn \n\nIRON-BEARD \n\nOLAF the King, one summer morn, \nBlew a blast on his bugle-horn. \nSending his signal through the land of Dront- \nheim. \n\nAnd to the Hns-Ting held at Mdre \nGathered the farmers far and near, \nWith their war weapons ready to confront \nhim. \n\nPloughing under the morning star, \nOld Iron-Beard in Yriar \nHeard the summons, chuckling with a low \nlaugh. \n\nHe wiped the sweat-drops from his brow, \nUnharnessed his horses from the plough, \nAnd clattering came on horseback to King \nOlaf. \n\n100 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAF \n\nHe was the chnrlieet of the churls ; \nLittle he cared for king or earls ; \nBitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming \npassions. \n\nHodden-gray was the garb he wore, \nAnd by the Hammer of Thor he swore ; \nHe hated the narrow town, and all its fashions. \n\nBut he loved the freedom of his farm, \nHis ale at night, by the fireside warm, \nGndrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses. \n\nHe loved his horses and his herds, \nThe smell of the earth, and the song of birds, \nHis well-filled bams, his brook with its water- \ncresses. \n\nHuge and cumbersome was his frame ; \nHis beard, from which he took his name, \nFrosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant \n\nSo at the Hos-Ting he appeared. \nThe farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, \nOn horseback, with an attitude defiant. \n\n101 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nAnd to King Olaf he cried aloud, \nOut of the middle of the crowd, \nThat tossed about him like a stormy ocean : \n\nSuch sacrifices shalt thou bring ; \nTo Odin and to Thor, King, \nAs other kings have done in their devotion ! ' \n\nKing Olaf answered : \" I command \nThis land to be a Christian land ; \nHere is my Bishop who the folk baptizes ! \n\n\" But if you ask me to restore \n\nYour sacrifices, stained with gore, \nThen will I offer human sacrifices I \n\n\" Not slaves and peasants shall they be. \n\nBut men of note and high degree, \nSuch men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of \nGryting ! \" \n\nThen to their Temple strode he in. \nAnd loud behind him heard the din \nOf his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely \nfighting. \n\n102 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OP KING OLAF \n\nThere in the Temple, carved in wood, \nThe image of great Odin stood. \nAnd other gods, with Thor supreme among \nthem. \n\nKing Olaf smote them with the blade \nOf his huge war-axe, gold inlaid. \nAnd downward shattered to the pavement \nflung them. \n\nAt the same moment rose without, \nFrom the contending crowd, a shout, \nA mingled sound of triumph and of wailing. \n\nAnd there upon the trampled plain \nThe farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, \nMidway between the assailed and the assailing. \n\nKing Olaf from the doorway spoke : \n\" Choose ye between two things, my folk. \nTo be baptized or given up to slaughter !\" \n\nAnd seeing their leader stark and dead. \nThe people with a murmur said, \n** King, baptize us with thy holy water ! \" \n\n103 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nSo all the Drontheim land became \nA Christian land in name and fame. \nIn the old gods no more believing and tmsting. \n\nAnd as a blood-atonement» soon \nKing Olaf wed the fair Gndnm ; \nAnd thus in peace ended the Drontheim \nHns-Ting ! \n\n\n\nlOi \n\n\n\nVIII \nGUDRUN \n\nON King Olaf 8 bridal night \nShines the moon with tender light, \nAnd across the chamber streams \nIts tide of dreams. \n\nAt the fatal midnight hour, \nWhen all evil things have power. \nIn the glimmer of the moon \nStands Gudran. \n\nClose against her heaving breast, \nSomething in her hand is pressed ; \nLike an icicle, its sheen \nIs cold and keen. \n\nOn the cairn are fixed her eyes \nWhere her murdered father lies, \nAnd a voice remote and drear \nShe seems to hear. \n\n105 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nWhat a bridal night is this ! \nCold will be the dagger's kiss ; \nLaden with the chill of death \nIs its breath. \n\nLike the drifting snow she sweeps \nTo the couch where Olaf sleeps ; \nSuddenly he wakes and stirs. \nHis eyes meet hers. \n\n\"What is that,*' King Olaf said, \n\" Gleams so bright above thy head ? \nWherefore standest thou so white \nIn pale moonlight ? \" \n\n\" T is the bodkin that I wear \nWhen at night I bind my hair i \nIt woke me falling on the floor ; \n*T is nothing more.\" \n\n** Forests have ears, and fields have \neyes; \nOften treachery lurking lies \nUnderneath the fairest hair ! \nGudrun beware ! \" \n\n106 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAP \n\nEre the earliest peep of mom \nBlew King Olaf s bagle-hom ; \nAnd forever sundered ride \nBridegroom and bride ! \n\n\n\n107 \n\n\n\nIX \nTHANGBRAND THE PRIEST \n\nSHOBT of stature, large of limb, \nBurly face and rosset beard. \nAll the woman stared at him. \nWhen in Iceland he appeared. \n''Look!\" they said. \nWith nodding head, \n' There goes Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest.\" \n\nAll the prayers he knew by rote, \n\nHe could preach like Ghrysostome, \nFrom the Fathers he could quote, \nHe had even been at Rome. \nA learned clerk, \nA man of mark. \nWas this Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. \n\nHe was quarrelsome and loud, ' \n\nAnd impatient of control. \nBoisterous in the market crowd, \n\nBoisterous at the wassail-bowl, \n\n108 \n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OF KING OLAF \n\nEverywhere \n\nWould drink and swear, \nSwaggering Thangbrand, Olaf a Priest. \n\nIn his house this malcontent \n\nGould the King no longer bear, \nSo to Iceland he was sent \nTo convert the heathen there, \nAnd away \nOne summer day \nSailed this Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. \n\nThere in Iceland, o'er their books \nPored the people day and night, \nBnt he did not like their looks, \nNor the songs they used to write. \n\" All this rhyme \nIs waste of time ! ** \nGrumbled Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. \n\nTo the alehouse, where he sat. \nCame the Scalds and Saga-men ; \n\nIs it to be wondered at. \nThat they quarrelled now and \nthen, \n\n109 \n\n\n\nTALES OP A WAYSIDE INN \n\nWhen o*er his beer \nBegan to leer \nDranken Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest ? \n\nAll the folk in Altafiord \n\nBoasted of their island grand ; \nSaying in a single word, \n\" Iceland is the finest land \nThat the sun \nDoth shine upon ! \" \nLoud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. \n\nAnd he answered : '* What 's the use \n\nOf this bragging up and down, \nWhen three women and one goose \nMake a market in your town ! \" \nEvery Scald \nSatires scrawled \nOn poor Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. \n\nSomething worse they did than that ; \n\nAnd what vexed him most of all \nWas a figure in shovel hat, \n\nDrawn in charcoal on the \nwall ; \n\n110 \n\n\n\n\nTHE SAGA OP KING OLAP \n\nWith words that go \nSprawling below, \n\"This is Thangbrand, Olafs Priest.\" \n\nHardly knowing what he did, \n\nThen he smote them might and main, \nThorvald Veile and Veterlid \nLay there in the alehouse slain. \n\" To-day we are gold. \nTo-morrow mould !** \nMuttered Thangbrand, Olafs Priest. \n\nMuch in fear of axe and rope, \nBack to Norway sailed he then. \n\"0, King Olaf ! little hope \n\nIs there of these Iceland men ! \" \nMeekly said, \nWith bending head, \nPious Thangbrand, Olafs Priest. \n\n\n\nIll \n\n\n\nX \n\nRAUD THE STRONG \n\n<« A LX. the old gods are dead, \nJ^ All the wild warlocks fled ; \nBut the White Christ lives and \n\nreigns, \nAnd throughout my wide domains \nHis Gospel shall be spread ! \" \nOn the Evangelists \nThus swore King Olaf . \n\nBut still in dreams of the night \nBeheld he the crimson light, \nAnd heard the voice that defied \nHim who was crucified, \nAnd challenged him to the fight. \nTo Sigurd the Bishop \nKing Olaf oonfesaed it. \n\nAnd Sigurd the Bishop said, \n\" The old gods are not dead, \n\n112 \n\n\n\n