Part 13 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+eld 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?