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,

M'ngling 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!

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,
"T is late, O King, and time for bed."
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

The King retired; the stranger guest
Foilowed 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! 't is 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.

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 malcontent
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, Oiaf'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

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 Jar's 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 !

ΧΙ.

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 quite,
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.

"T is the warlock! 't is 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;
'T was the grandest ship in Norway,
With its crest and scales of green.

Up the stairway, softly creeping,
To the loft where Raud was sleeping,
With their fists they burst 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,