Part 9

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, "'Tis 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! 'tis 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.

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 swore; He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions.

But he loved the freedom of his farm, His ale at night, by the fireside warm, Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses.

He loved his horses and his herds, The smell of the earth, and the song of birds, His well-filled barns, his brook with its watercresses.

Huge and cumbersome was his frame; His beard, from which he took his name, Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant.