The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft
In her chamber, that looked over meadow and croft.
    Heart's dearest,
    Why dost thou sorrow so?

Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath,
"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death!"
    Heart's dearest,
    Why dost thou sorrow so?

Now from all King Olaf's farms
    His men-at-arms
Gathered on the Eve of Easter;
To his house at Angvalds-ness
    Fast they press,
Drinking with the royal feaster.

Loudly through the wide-flung door
    Came the roar
Of the sea upon the Skerry;
And its thunder loud and near
    Reached the ear,
Mingling with their voices merry.

"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.

Facing 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!"

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!"
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.

    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 water-cresses.

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

    So at the Hus-Ting he appeared,
    The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard,
On horseback, in an attitude defiant.

    And to King Olaf he cried aloud,
    Out of the middle of the crowd,
That tossed about him like a stormy ocean:

    "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";

    So all the Drontheim land became
    A Christian land in name and fame,
In the old gods no more believing and trusting.

    And as a blood-atonement, soon
    King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun;
And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting!

On King Olaf's bridal night
Shines the moon with tender light,
And across the chamber streams
    Its tide of dreams.

At the fatal midnight hour,
When all evil things have power,
In the glimmer of the moon
    Stands Gudrun.

Close against her heaving breast
Something in her hand is pressed
Like an icicle, its sheen
    Is cold and keen.

On the cairn are fixed her eyes
Where her murdered father lies,
And a voice remote and drear
    She seems to hear.

What a bridal night is this!
Cold will be the dagger's kiss;
Laden with the chill of death
    Is its breath.

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?"

"'T is the bodkin that I wear
When at night I bind my hair;
It woke me falling on the floor;
    'T is 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!

Short of stature, large of limb,
  Burly face and russet beard,
All the women stared at him,
  When in Iceland he appeared.
    "Look!" they said,
    With nodding head,
"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."

All the prayers he knew by rote,
  He could preach like Chrysostome,
From the Fathers he could quote,
  He had even been at Rome,
    A learned clerk,
    A man of mark,
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest,

He was quarrelsome and loud,
  And impatient of control,
Boisterous in the market crowd,
  Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,
    Everywhere
    Would drink and swear,
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest

In his house this malcontent
  Could the King no longer bear,
So to Iceland he was sent
  To convert the heathen there,
    And away
    One summer day
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

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 Altafiord
  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.

"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 ever favoring 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!

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.

"'T is the warlock! 't is 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 vapors
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;
'T was the grandest ship in Norway,
    With its crest 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 marrow;
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.

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 though the music rang
    The sound of that shining word;
And the harp-strings a clangor 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 't was multiplied
    Three times."

Then King Olaf raised the hilt
Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt,
    And said, "Do not refuse;
Count well the gain and the loss,
Thor's hammer or Christ's cross:
    Choose!"

And Halfred the Scald said, "This
In the name of the Lord I kiss,
    Who on it was crucified!"
And a shout went round the board,
"In the name of Christ the Lord,
    Who died!"

Then over the waste of snows
The noonday sun uprose,
    Through the driving mists revealed,
Like the lifting of the Host,
By incense-clouds almost
    Concealed.

On the shining wall a vast
And shadowy cross was cast
    From the hilt of the lifted sword,
And in foaming cups of ale
The Berserks drank "Was-hael!
    To the Lord!"

Thorberg Skafting, master-builder,
    In his ship-yard by the sea,
Whistling, said, "It would 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 clamored;
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!"

Workmen sweating at the forges
    Fashioned iron bolt and bar,
Like a warlock's midnight orgies
Smoked and bubbled the black caldron
    With the boiling tar.

Did the warlocks mingle in it,
    Thorberg Skafting, any curse?
Could you not be gone a minute
But some mischief must be doing,
    Turning bad to worse?

'T was an ill wind that came wafting,
    From his homestead words of woe
To his farm went Thorberg Skafting,
Oft repeating to his workmen,
    Build ye thus and so.

After long delays returning
    Came the master back by night
To his ship-yard longing, yearning,
Hurried he, and did not leave it
    Till the morning's light.

"Come and see my ship, my darling"
    On the morrow said the King;
"Finished now from keel to carling;
Never yet was seen in Norway
    Such a wondrous thing!"

In the ship-yard, idly talking,
    At the ship the workmen stared:
Some one, all their labor balking,
Down her sides had cut deep gashes,
    Not a plank was spared!

"Death be to the evil-doer!"
    With an oath King Olaf spoke;
"But rewards to his pursuer
And with wrath his face grew redder
    Than his scarlet cloak.

Straight the master-builder, smiling,
    Answered thus the angry King:
"Cease blaspheming and reviling,
Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting
    Who has done this thing!"

Then he chipped and smoothed the planking,
    Till the King, delighted, swore,
With much lauding and much thanking,
"Handsomer is now my Dragon
    Than she was before!"

Seventy ells and four extended
    On the grass the vessel's keel;
High above it, gilt and splendid,
Rose the figure-head ferocious
    With its crest of steel.

Then they launched her from the tressels,
    In the ship-yard by the sea;
She was the grandest of all vessels,
Never ship was built in Norway
    Half so fine as she!

The Long Serpent was she christened,
    'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer!
They who to the Saga listened
Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting
    For a hundred year!

Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay
King Olaf's fleet assembled lay,
  And, striped with white and blue,
Downward fluttered sail and banner,
As alights the screaming lanner;
Lustily cheered, in their wild manner,
  The Long Serpent's crew

Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red,
Like a wolf's was his shaggy head,
  His teeth as large and white;
His beard, of gray and russet blended,
Round as a swallow's nest descended;
As standard-bearer he defended
  Olaf's flag in the fight.

Near him Kolbiorn had his place,
Like the King in garb and face,
  So gallant and so hale;
Every cabin-boy and varlet
Wondered at his cloak of scarlet;
Like a river, frozen and star-lit,
  Gleamed his coat of mail.

Einar Tamberskelver, bare
To the winds his golden hair,
  By the mainmast stood;
Graceful was his form, and slender,
And his eyes were deep and tender
As a woman's, in the splendor
  Of her maidenhood.

In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork
Watched the sailors at their work:
  Heavens! how they swore!
Thirty men they each commanded,
Iron-sinewed, horny-handed,
Shoulders broad, and chests expanded.
Tugging at the oar.

These, and many more like these,
With King Olaf sailed the seas,
  Till the waters vast
Filled them with a vague devotion,
With the freedom and the motion,
With the roll and roar of ocean
  And the sounding blast.

When they landed from the fleet,
How they roared through Drontheim's street,
  Boisterous as the gale!
How they laughed and stamped and pounded,
Till the tavern roof resounded,
And the host looked on astounded
  As they drank the ale!

Never saw the wild North Sea
Such a gallant company
  Sail its billows blue!
Never, while they cruised and quarrelled,
Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald,
Owned a ship so well apparelled,
  Boasted such a crew!

A little bird in the air
Is singing of Thyri the fair,
  The sister of Svend the Dane;
And the song of the garrulous bird
In the streets of the town is heard,
  And repeated again and again.
    Hoist up your sails of silk,
    And flee away from each other.

To King Burislaf, it is said,
Was the beautiful Thyri wed,
  And a sorrowful bride went she;
And after a week and a day,
She has fled away and away,
  From his town by the stormy sea.
    Hoist up your sails of silk,
    And flee away from each other.

They say, that through heat and through cold,
Through weald, they say, and through wold,
  By day and by night, they say,
She has fled; and the gossips report
She has come to King Olaf's court,
  And the town is all in dismay.
    Hoist up your sails of silk,
    And flee away from each other.

It is whispered King Olaf has seen,
  Has talked with the beautiful Queen;
  And they wonder how it will end;
For surely, if here she remain,
It is war with King Svend the Dane,
  And King Burislaf the Vend!
    Hoist up your sails of silk,
    And flee away from each other.

O, greatest wonder of all!
It is published in hamlet and hall,
  It roars like a flame that is fanned!
The King—yes, Olaf the King—
Has wedded her with his ring,
  And Thyri is Queen in the land!
    Hoist up your sails of silk,
    And flee away from each other.

Northward over Drontheim,
Flew the clamorous sea-gulls,
Sang the lark and linnet
  From the meadows green;

Weeping in her chamber,
Lonely and unhappy,
Sat the Drottning Thyri,
  Sat King Olaf's Queen.

In at all the windows
Streamed the pleasant sunshine,
On the roof above her
  Softly cooed the dove;

But the sound she heard not,
Nor the sunshine heeded,
For the thoughts of Thyri
  Were not thoughts of love,

Then King Olaf entered,
Beautiful as morning,
Like the sun at Easter
  Shone his happy face;

In his hand he carried
Angelicas uprooted,
With delicious fragrance
  Filling all the place.

Like a rainy midnight
Sat the Drottning Thyri,
Even the smile of Olaf
  Could not cheer her gloom;

Nor the stalks he gave her
With a gracious gesture,
And with words as pleasant
  As their own perfume.

In her hands he placed them,
And her jewelled fingers
Through the green leaves glistened
  Like the dews of morn;

But she cast them from her,
Haughty and indignant,
On the floor she threw them
  With a look of scorn.

"Richer presents," said she,
"Gave King Harald Gormson
To the Queen, my mother,
  Than such worthless weeds;

"When he ravaged Norway,
Laying waste the kingdom,
Seizing scatt and treasure
  For her royal needs.

"But thou darest not venture
Through the Sound to Vendland,
My domains to rescue
  From King Burislaf;

"Lest King Svend of Denmark,
Forked Beard, my brother,
Scatter all thy vessels
  As the wind the chaff."

Then up sprang King Olaf,
Like a reindeer bounding,
With an oath he answered
  Thus the luckless Queen:

"Never yet did Olaf
Fear King Svend of Denmark;
This right hand shall hale him
  By his forked chin!"

Then he left the chamber,
Thundering through the doorway,
Loud his steps resounded
  Down the outer stair.

Smarting with the insult,
Through the streets of Drontheim
Strode he red and wrathful,
  With his stately air.

All his ships he gathered,
Summoned all his forces,
Making his war levy
  In the region round;

Down the coast of Norway,
Like a flock of sea-gulls,
Sailed the fleet of Olaf
  Through the Danish Sound.

With his own hand fearless,
Steered he the Long Serpent,
Strained the creaking cordage,
  Bent each boom and gaff;

Till in Venland landing,
The domains of Thyri
He redeemed and rescued
  From King Burislaf.

Then said Olaf, laughing,
"Not ten yoke of oxen
Have the power to draw us
  Like a woman's hair!

"Now will I confess it,
Better things are jewels
Than angelica stalks are
  For a Queen to wear."

Loudly the sailors cheered
Svend of the Forked Beard,
As with his fleet he steered
  Southward to Vendland;
Where with their courses hauled
All were together called,
Under the Isle of Svald
  Near to the mainland.

After Queen Gunhild's death,
So the old Saga saith,
Plighted King Svend his faith
  To Sigrid the Haughty;
And to avenge his bride,
Soothing her wounded pride,
Over the waters wide
  King Olaf sought he.