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!"'

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.

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.

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,

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 Ladé'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.

66

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.

my vows."

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." man The foaming draught the old 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
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 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