"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!

"For of all the runes and rhymes Of all times,

Best I like the ocean's dirges,

When the old harper heaves and rocks,
His hoary locks

Flowing and flashing in the surges!'

Halfred answered: "I am called

The Unappalled!

Nothing hinders me or daunts me.
Hearken to me, then, O King,
While I sing

The great Ocean Song that haunts me.'

"I will hear your song sublime
Some other time,"

Says the drowsy monarch, yawning,
And retires; each laughing guest
Applauds the jest;

Then they sleep till day is dawning.

Pacing up and down the yard,
King Olaf's guard

Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping
O'er the sands, and up the hill,

Gathering still

Round the house where they were sleeping.

It was not the fog he saw,
Nor misty flaw,

That above the landscape brooded;
It was Eyvind Kallda's crew

Of warlocks blue,

With their caps of darkness hooded!

Round and round the house they go,
Weaving slow

Magic circles to encumber
And imprison in their ring
Olaf the King,

As he helpless lies in slumber.

Then athwart the vapors dun

The Easter sun

Streamed with one broad track of splendor! In their real forms appeared

The warlocks weird,

Awful as the Witch of Endor.

Blinded by the light that glared,
They groped and stared

Round about with steps unsteady;
From his window Olaf gazed,
And, amazed,

"Who are these strange people?" said he.

"Eyvind Kallda and his men!"

Answered then

From the yard a sturdy farmer;
While the men-at-arms apace
Filled the place,

Busily buckling on their armor.

From the gates they sallied forth,
South and north,

Scoured the island coast around them,
Seizing all the warlock band,

Foot and hand

On the Skerry's rocks they bound them.

And at eve the king again

Called his train,

And, with all the candles burning,
Silent sat and heard once more
The sullen roar

Of the ocean tides returning.

Shrieks and cries of wild despair
Filled the air,

Growing fainter as they listened;
Then the bursting surge alone
Sounded on;-

Thus the sorcerers were christened!

"Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, Your ocean-rhyme,"

Cried King Olaf: "it will cheer me!" Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, "The Skerry of Shrieks

Sings too loud for you to hear me!"

VI.

THE WRAITH OF ODIN.

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
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 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!"