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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 n.o.ble slain; Call him not alone who dieth Side by side with gallant men."

VIII.

Slowly, sadly, we departed: Reached again that desolate sh.o.r.e, Nevermore Trod by him, the brave true-hearted-- Dying in that dark ship's core!

Sadder keel from land ne'er parted, n.o.bler 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sions 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?

The forms of those old Greeks and Romans whom we are taught to reverence, may project taller shadows on the world's stage; but though the scene be narrow here, and light be wanting, the interest is not less intense, nor are the pa.s.sions less awful that inspired these ruder dramas.

There is an individuality in the Icelandic historian's description of King Olaf that wins one's interest--at first as in an acquaintance--and rivets it at last as in a personal friend. The old Chronicle lingers with such loving minuteness over his attaching qualities, his social, generous nature, his gaiety and "frolicsomeness;"

even his finical taste in dress, and his evident p.r.o.neness to fall too hastily in love, have a value in the portrait, as contrasting with the gloomy colours in which the story sinks at last. The warm, impulsive spirit speaks in every action of his life, from the hour when--a young child, in exile--he strikes his axe into the skull of his foster-father's murderer, to the last grand scene near Svalderoe. You trace it in his absorbing grief for the death of Geyra, the wife of his youth; the saga says, "he had no pleasure in Vinland after it," and then naively observes, "he therefore provided himself with war-ships, and went a-plundering," one of his first achievements being to go and pull down London Bridge. This peculiar kind of "distraction" (as the French call it) seems to have had the desired effect, as is evident in the romantic incident of his second marriage, when the Irish Princess Gyda chooses him--apparently an obscure stranger--to be her husband, out of a hundred wealthy and well-born aspirants to her hand. But neither Gyda's love, nor the rude splendours of her father's court, can make Olaf forgetful of his claims upon the throne of Norway--the inheritance of his father; and when that object of his just ambition is attained, and he is proclaimed King by general election of the Bonders, as his ancestor Harald Haarf.a.ger had been, his character deepens in earnestness as the sphere of his duties is enlarged. All the energies of his ardent nature are put forth in the endeavour to convert his subjects to the true Faith. As he himself expresses it, "he would bring it to this,--that all Norway should be Christian or die!" In the same spirit he meets his heretic and rebellious subjects at the Thing of Lade, and boldly replies, when they require him to sacrifice to the false G.o.ds, "If I turn with you to offer sacrifice, then shall it be the greatest sacrifice that can be made; I will not offer slaves, nor malefactors to your G.o.ds,--I will sacrifice men;--and they shall be the n.o.blest men among you!" It was soon after this that he despatched the exemplary Thangbrand to Iceland.

With a front not less determined does he face his country's foes. The king of Sweden, and Svend "of the forked beard,"

king of Denmark, have combined against him. With them is joined the Norse jarl, Eric, the son of Hacon. Olaf Tryggvesson is sailing homewards with a fleet of seventy ships,--himself commanding the famous "Long Serpent,"

the largest ship built in Norway. His enemies are lying in wait for him behind the islands.

Nothing can be more dramatic than the description of the sailing of this gallant fleet--(piloted by the treacherous Earl Sigwald)--within sight of the ambushed Danes and Swedes, who watch from their hiding-place the beautiful procession of hostile vessels, mistaking each in turn for the "Long Serpent," and as often undeceived by a new and yet more stately apparition. She appears at length, her dragon prow glittering in the sunshine, all canvas spread, her sides bristling with armed men; "and when they saw her, none spoke, all knew it to be indeed the 'Serpent,'--and they went to their ships to arm for the fight." As soon as Olaf and his forces had been enticed into the narrow pa.s.sage, the united fleets of the three allies pour out of the Sound; his people beg Olaf to hold on his way and not risk battle with such a superior force; but the King replied, high on the quarter-deck where he stood, "Strike the sails! I never fled from battle: let G.o.d dispose of my life, but flight I will never take!" He then orders the warhorns to sound, for all his ships to close up to each other.

"Then," says Ulf the Red, captain of the forecastle, "if the 'Long Serpent' is to lie so much a-head of the other vessels, we shall have hot work of it here on the forecastle."

The King replies, "I did not think I had a forecastle man afraid, as well as red." [Footnote: There is a play on these two words in the Icelandic, "Raudau oc Ragan."]

Says Ulf, "Defend thou the quarter-deck, as _I_ shall the forecastle."

The King had a bow in his hands; he laid an arrow on the string, and made as if he aimed at Ulf.

Ulf said, "Shoot another way, King, where it is more needful,--my work is thy gain."

Then the King asks, "Who is the chief of the force right opposite to us?" He is answered, "Svend of Denmark, with his army."

Olaf replies, "We are not afraid of these soft Danes!

Who are the troops on the right?"

They answer, "Olaf of Sweden, and his forces."

"Better it were," replies the King, "for these Swedes to be sitting at home, killing their sacrifices, than venturing under the weapons of the 'Long Serpent.' But who owns the large ships on the larboard side of the Danes?"

"That is Jarl Eric, son of Hacon," say they.

The King says, "He has reason for meeting us; we may expect hard blows from these men; they are Nors.e.m.e.n like ourselves."

The fierce conflict raged for many hours. It went hard with the "soft Danes," and idolatrous Swedes, as Olaf had foreseen: after a short struggle they turn and fly.

But Jarl Eric in his large ship the "Iron Beard" is more than a match for Olafs lighter vessels. One by one their decks are deluged with blood, their brave defenders swept into the sea; one by one they are cut adrift and sent loose with the tide. And now at last the "Iron Beard"

lies side by side with the "Long Serpent," and it is indeed "hot work" both on forecastle and quarter-deck.

"Einar Tambarskelvar, one of the sharpest of bowmen, stood by the mast, and shot with his bow." His arrow hits the tiller-end, just over the Earl's head, and buries itself up to the shaft in the wood. "Who shot that bolt?"

says the Jarl. Another flies between his hand and side, and enters the stuffing of the chief's stool. Then said the Jarl to a man named Fin, "Shoot that tall archer by the mast!" Fin shoots; the arrow hits the middle of Einar's bow as he is in the act of drawing it, and the bow is split in two.

"What is that," cried King Olaf, "that broke with such a noise?"

"NORWAY, King, from thy hands!" cried Einar.

"No! not so much as that," says the King; "take my bow, and shoot,"--flinging the bow to him.

Einar took the bow, and drew it over the head of the arrow. "Too weak, too weak," said he, "for the bow of a mighty King!" and throwing the bow aside, "he took sword and buckler, and fought valiantly."