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

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.

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.

"With rites that we both abhor,
He worships Odin and Thor;
So it cannot yet be said,
That all the old gods are dead,
And the warlocks are no more,'
Flushing with anger

Said Sigurd the Bishop.

Then King Olaf cried aloud:
"I will talk with this mighty Raud,
And along the Salten Fiord
Preach the Gospel with my sword,
Or be brought back in my shroud!"
So northward from Drontheim
Sailed 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 craver

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!"

As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, Through the forest roads into Orkadale, Demanding Jarl Hakon

Of Thora, the fairest of women. "Rich and honoured shall be whoever The head of Hakon Jarl shall dis

sever!"

Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, Through the breathing-holes of the darksome cave.

Alone in her chamber

Wept Thora, the fairest of women. Said Karker, the crafty, "I will not slay thee!

For all the King's gold I will never betray thee!"

"Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl,

And then again black as the earth?" Isaid the Earl.

More pale and more faithful

Was Thora, the fairest of women. From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying,

"Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying!" And Hakon answered,

the King!

"Beware of

He will lay round thy neck a blood-red

ring."

At the ring on her finger

Gazed Thora, the fairest of women.

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encumbered,

But screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered;

The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife,

And the Earl awakened no more in this life.

But wakeful and weeping

Sat Thora, the fairest of women.

At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging;

One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's,

And the people are shouting from windows and walls;

While alone in her chamber
Swoons Thora, the fairest of

women.

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand,

The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned.

Her maidens were seated around her knee,

Working bright figures in tapestry. And one was singing the ancient rune Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun.

And through it, and round it, and over it all

Sounded incessant the waterfall.

The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold,

From the door of Ladé's Temple old. King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift,

But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift.

She had given the ring to her gold

smiths twain,

Who smiled, as they handed it back again.

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty

She only murmured, she did not speak: "If in his gifts he can faithless be, There will be no gold in his love to me." A footstep was heard on the outer stair, And in strode King Olaf with royal air. He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of love,

And swore to be true as the stars are above.

But she smiled with contempt as she

answered: "O King,

Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring?"

And the King: "O speak not of Odin

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.