Wild vow of his, "That he would never clip or comb his
locks till he could woo her as sole king of Norway."
Among the crowd are those who have bartered, for ease,
and wealth, and empty titles born of the king's
breath - their ancient Udal rights, their Bonder privileges;
others have sunk their proud hearts to bear the yoke of
the stronger hand, yet gaze with yearning looks on the
misty horizon that opens between the hills. A dark speck
mars that shadowy line. Thought follows across the space.
It is a ship. Its sides are long, and black, and low;
but high in front rises the prow, fashioned into the
semblance of a gigantic golden dragon, against whose
gleaming breast the divided waters angrily flash and
gurgle. Along the top sides of the deck are hung a row
of shining shields, in alternate breadths of red and
white, like the variegated scales of a sea-monster, whilst
its gilded tail curls aft over the head of the steersman.
From either flank projects a bank of some thirty oars,
that look, as they smite the ocean with even beat, like
the legs on which the reptile crawls over its surface.
One stately mast of pine serves to carry a square sail
made of cloth, brilliant with stripes of red, white, and
blue.
And who are they who navigate this strange, barbaric
vessel? - why leave they the sheltering fiords of their
beloved Norway? They are the noblest hearts of that noble
land - freemen, who value freedom, - who have abandoned
all rather than call Harald master, and now seek a new
home even among the desolate crags of Iceland, rather
than submit to the tyranny of a usurper.
"Rorb - ober Gud! wenn nur bie Geelen gluben!"
Another picture, and a sadder story; but the scene is
now a wide dun moor, on the slope of a seaward hill; the
autumn evening is closing in, but a shadow darker than
that of evening broods over the desolate plain, - the
shadow of DEATH. Groups of armed men, with stern sorrow
in their looks, are standing round a rude couch, hastily
formed of fir branches. An old man lies there - dying.
His ear is dulled even to the shout of victory; the mists
of an endless night are gathering in his eyes; but there
is passion yet in the quivering lip, and triumph on the
high-resolved brow; and the gesture of his hand has kingly
power still. Let me tell his saga, like the bards of that
old time.
HACON'S LAST BATTLE.
I.
All was over: day was ending
As the foeman turned and fled.
Gloomy red
Glowed the angry sun descending;
While round Hacon's dying bed,
Tears and songs of triumph blending,
Told how fast the conqueror bled
II.
"Raise me," said the King. We raised him -
Not to ease his desperate pain;
That were vain!
"Strong our foe was - but we faced him
Show me that red field again."
Then, with reverent hands, we placed him
High above the bloody plain.
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?
