III.
Silent gazed he; mute we waited,
Kneeling round-a faithful few,
Staunch and true, -
Whilst above, with thunder freighted,
Wild the boisterous north wind blew,
And the carrion-bird, unsated,
On slant wing around us flew.
IV.
Sudden, on our startled hearing,
Came the low-breathed, stern command -
"Lo! ye stand?
Linger not, the night is nearing;
Bear me downwards to the strand,
Where my ships are idly steering
Off and on, in sight of land."
V.
Every whispered word obeying,
Swift we bore him down the steep,
O'er the deep,
Up the tall ship's side, low swaying
To the storm-wind's powerful sweep,
And - his dead companions laying
Round him, - we had time to weep.
VI.
But the King said - "Peace! bring hither
Spoil and weapons - battle-strown,
Make no moan;
Leave me and my dead together,
Light my torch, and then - begone."
But we murmured, each to other,
"Can we leave him thus alone?"
VII.
Angrily the King replieth;
Flash the awful eyes again,
With disdain -
"Call him not alone who lieth
Low amidst such noble slain;
Call him not alone who dieth
Side by side with gallant men."
VIII.
Slowly, sadly, we departed:
Reached again that desolate shore,
Nevermore
Trod by him, the brave true-hearted -
Dying in that dark ship's core!
Sadder keel from land ne'er parted,
Nobler freight none ever bore!
IX.
There we lingered, seaward gazing,
Watching o'er that living tomb,
Through the gloom -
Gloom! which awful light is chasing -
Blood-red flames the surge illume!
Lo! King Hacon's ship is blazing;
'Tis the hero's self-sought doom.
X.
Right before the wild wind driving,
Madly plunging - stung by fire -
No help nigh her -
Lo! the ship has ceased her striving!
Mount the red flames higher - higher!
Till - on ocean's verge arriving,
Sudden sinks the Viking's pyre -
Hacon's gone!
Let me call one more heroic phantom from Norway's romantic
past.
A kingly presence, stately and tall; his shield held high
above his head - a broken sword in his right hand. Olaf
Tryggvesson! Founder of Nidaros; - that cold Northern Sea
has rolled for many centuries above your noble head, and
yet not chilled the battle heat upon your brow, nor
staunched the blood that trickles down your iron glove,
from hidden, untold wounds, which the tender hand of
Thyri shall never heal!
To such ardent souls it is indeed given "to live for
ever" (the for ever of this world); for is it not "Life"
to keep a hold on OUR affections, when their own passions
are at rest, - to influence our actions (however
indirectly) - when action is at an end for them? Who shall
say how much of modern heroism may owe its laurels to
that first throb of fiery sympathy which young hearts
feel at the relation of deeds such as Olaf Tryggvesson's?
