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;

"Such sacrifices shalt thou bring, To Odin and to Thor, O King, As other kings have done in their devotion!"

King Olaf answered: "I command This land to be a Christian land; Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes!

"But if you ask me to restore

Your sacrifices, stained with gore, Then will I offer human sacrifices! "Not slaves and peasants shall they be,

But men of note and high degree, Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting!"

Then to their Temple strode he in, And loud behind him heard the din Of his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely fighting.

There in the Temple, carved in wood,
The image of great Odin stood,
And other gods, with Thor supreme
among them.

King Olaf smote them with the blade
Of his huge war-axe, gold-inlaid,

And downward shattered to the pavement flung them.

At the same moment rose without, From the contending crowd, a shout, A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing.

And there upon the trampled plain The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, Midway between the assailed and the assailing.

King Olaf from the doorway spoke: "Choose ye between two things, my folk,

To be baptized or given up to slaughter!"

And seeing their leader stark and dead,

The people with a murmur said, "O King, baptize us with thy holy

water!'

Like the drifting snow she sweeps
To the couch where Olaf sleeps;
Suddenly he wakes and stirs,

His eyes meet hers.

"What is that," King Olaf said, "Gleams so bright above thy head? Wherefore standest thou so white

In pale moonlight?"

"Tis the bodkin that I wear When at night I bind my hair; It woke me falling on the floor; 'Tis nothing more."

"Forests have ears, and fields have eyes;

Often treachery lurking lies
Underneath the fairest hair!
Gudrun beware!"

Ere the earliest peep of morn
Blew King Olaf's bugle-horn;
And forever sundered ride

Bridegroom and bride!

There in Iceland, o'er their books
Pored the people day and night,
But he did not like their looks,

Nor the songs they used to write.
"All this rhyme

Is waste of time!"
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
To the alehouse, where he sat,

Came the Scalds and Saga-men;
Is it to be wondered at,

That they quarrelled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer

Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?
All the folk in Alftafiord

Boasted of their island grand;
Saying in a single word,
"Iceland is the finest land
That the sun

Doth shine upon!"

Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

And he answered: "What's the use

Of this bragging up and down, When three women and one goose Make a market in your town!" Every Scald

Satires scrawled

On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

Something worse they did than that; And what vexed him most of all

Was a figure in shovel hat,

Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
With words that go
Sprawling below,

"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."

Hardly knowing what he did,

Then he smote them might and main, Thorvald Veile and Veterlid

Lay there in the alehouse slain. "To-day we are gold, To-morrow mould!" Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

Much in fear of axe and rope,

Back to Norway sailed he then. "O, King Olaf! little hope

Is there of these Iceland men!"
Meekly said,

With bending head,
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

X.-RAUD THE STRONG.

"ALL the old gods are dead,

All the wild warlocks fled;

But the White Christ lives and reigns,
And throughout my wide domains
His Gospel shall be spread!"
On the Evangelists

Thus swore King Olaf.

But still in dreams of the night
Beheld he the crimson light,
And heard the voice that defied
Him who was crucified,
And challenged him to the fight.
To Sigurd the Bishop
King Olaf confessed it.

And Sigurd the Bishop said,

The old gods are not dead,
For the great Thor still reigns,
And among the Jarls and Thanes
The old witchcraft still is spread."
Thus to King Olaf

Said Sigurd the Bishop.

"Far north in the Salten Fiord, By rapine, fire, and sword,

Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong;
All the Godoe Isles belong

To him and his heathen horde."
Thus went on speaking
Sigurd the Bishop.

"A warlock, a wizard is he,
And lord of the wind and the sea;
And whichever way he sails,
He has favouring gales,

By his craft in sorcery.

Here the sign of the cross made
Devoutly King Olaf.

XI. BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD.

LOUD the angry wind was wailing
As King Olaf's ships came sailing
Northward out of Drontheim haven

To the mouth of Salten Fiord. Though the flying sea-spray drenches Fore and aft the rowers' benches, Not a single heart is craven

Of the champions there on board. All without the Fiord was quiet, But within it storm and riot, Such as on his Viking cruises

Raud the Strong was wont to ride. And the sea through all its tide-ways Swept the reeling vessels sideways, As the leaves are swept through sluices,

When the flood-gates open wide. ""Tis the warlock! 'tis the demon Raud!" cried Sigurd to the seamen ; "But the Lord is not affrighted

By the witchcraft of his foes."
To the ship's bow he ascended,
By his choristers attended,
Round him were the tapers lighted,
And the sacred incense rose.
On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd,
In his robes, as one transfigured,
And the Crucifix he planted

High amid the rain and mist.
Then with holy water sprinkled
All the ship; the mass-bells tinkled;
Loud the monks around him chanted,
Loud he read the Evangelist.
As into the Fiord they darted,
On each side the water parted;
Down a path like silver molten

Steadily rowed King Olaf's ships; Steadily burned all night the tapers, And the White Christ through the

vapours

Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten,

As through John's Apocalypse,— Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling On the little isle of Gelling; Not a guard was at the doorway,

Not a glimmer of light was seen. But at anchor, carved and gilded, Lay the dragon-ship he builded; 'Twas the grandest ship in Norway,

With its crests and scales of green.

Up the stairway, softly creeping,
To the loft where Raud was sleeping,
With their fists they burst asunder
Bolt and bar that held the door.
Drunken with sleep and ale they found
him,
Dragged him from his bed and bound
him,

While he stared with stupid wonder,
At the look and garb they wore.
Then King Olaf said: "O Sea-King!
Little time have we for speaking,
Choose between the good and evil:

Be baptized, or thou shalt die! But in scorn the heathen scoffer Answered: "I disdain thine offer; Neither fear I God nor Devil;

Thee and thy Gospel I defy!" Then between his jaws distended, When his frantic struggles ended, Through King Olaf's horn an adder, Touched by fire, they forced to glide.

Sharp his tooth was as an arrow,
As he gnawed through bone and mar-

row;

But without a groan or shudder,

Raud the Strong blaspheming died.
Then baptized they all that region,
Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian,
Far as swims the salmon, leaping,

Up the streams of Salten Fiord.
In their temples Thor and Odin.
Lay in dust and ashes trodden,
As King Olaf, onward sweeping,

Preached the Gospel with his sword. Then he took the carved and gilded Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, And the tiller single-handed,

Grasping, steered into the main. Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him, Southward sailed the ship that bore him, Till at Drontheim haven landed

Olaf and his crew again.

XII. KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS.
AT Drontheim, Olaf the King
Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring,

As he sat in his banquet-hall,
Drinking the nut-brown ale,
With his bearded Berserks hale
And tall.

Three days his Yule-tide feasts
He held with Bishops and Priests,

And his horn filled up to the brim;
But the ale was never too strong,
Nor the Saga-man's tale too long,
For him.

O'er his drinking horn, the sign
He made of the Cross divine,

As he drank, and muttered his

prayers;

But the Berserks evermore
Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor
Over theirs.

The gleams of the fire-light dance
Upon helmet and hauberk and lance,

And laugh in the eyes of the King; And he cries to Halfred the Scald, Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 'Sing!

"Sing me a song divine, With a sword in every line,

And this shall be thy reward." And he loosened the belt at his waist, And in front of the singer placed His sword.

"Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, Wherewith at a stroke he hewed

The millstone through and through, And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, Were neither so broad nor so long,

Nor so true."

Then the Scald took his harp and sang, And loud through the music rang

The sound of that shining word; And the harp-strings a clangour made, As if they were struck with the blade Of a sword.

And the Berserks round about
Broke forth into a shout

That made the rafters ring;
They smote with their fists on the board,
And shouted, "Long live the Sword,
And the King!'

But the King said, "O my son,
I miss the bright word in one

Of thy measures and thy rhymes." And Halfred the Scald replied, "In another 'twas multiplied

Three times."

Then King Olaf raised the hilt Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt,

And said, "Do not refuse;

XIII. THE BUILDING OF THE LONG
SERPENT.

THORBERG SKAFTING, master-builder,
In his ship-yard by the sea,
Whistled, saying, ""Twould bewilder
Any man but Thorberg Skafting,
Any man but me!"

Near him lay the Dragon stranded,

Built of old by Raud the Strong, And King Olaf had commanded He should build another Dragon, Twice as large and long.

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, As he sat with half-closed eyes, And his head turned sideways, drafting That new vessel for King Olaf

Twice the Dragon's size.

Round him busily hewed and hammered Mallet huge and heavy axe; Workmen laughed and sang and clamoured;

Whirred the wheels, that into rigging
Spun the shining flax!

All this tumult heard the master,-
It was music to his ear;

Fancy whispered all the faster,
"Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting
For a hundred year!"