| |
| LIKE a ball of blood-red fire | |
| Sinks the sun o’er forests sleeping, | |
| Wondrously in splendor steeping | |
| Glaciers far with cloud-capt spire. | |
| |
| Leaning on his stalwart steed, | 5 |
| Stands King Olaf, sad and weary; | |
| Loath to view the ruins dreary, | |
| Whereon flames exulting feed. | |
| |
| Still and sultry is the night;— | |
| Not a rustle in the rushes, | 10 |
| Not a breeze to stir the bushes | |
| With its fugitive delight. | |
| |
| Dry and thirsty lies the land; | |
| Where erewhile the cooling current | |
| Traced its courses, gay and errant, | 15 |
| Glimmers now the sun-bleached sand. | |
| |
| Far and near resounds the air | |
| With the low of homeless cattle; | |
| O’er the bloody field of battle | |
| Throws the sun its lurid glare. | 20 |
| |
| From below, a muffled ring, | |
| Like the far, unceasing dirges | |
| Of the faintly murmuring surges, | |
| From his musing wakes the king; | |
| |
| And a vast and weary throng— | 25 |
| Peasants, armed with scythes, and brawny | |
| Spearmen, clad in wolf-skins tawny— | |
| Slowly wind the hills along. | |
| |
| Spoke a warrior grave and hoar, | |
| To the king his voice uplifted: | 30 |
| “Tossed and vanquished we have drifted, | |
| Saintly king, unto thy shore. | |
| |
| “We have cried to Thor and Frey; | |
| But our gods no more are near us, | |
| Wrathful Thor no more will hear us. | 35 |
| Give us water ere we die! | |
| |
| “We have heard that Christ the White | |
| Hath a balm for each disaster. | |
| We will worship him, O master, | |
| Who our armies put to flight.” | 40 |
| |
| Then with holy zeal aglow, | |
| With the power of strong believing, | |
| Swift the king his sword upheaving, | |
| Smote the barren mountain’s brow. | |
| |
| Into splinters sprang the sword; | 45 |
| And the mountain’s ancient giant | |
| Roused its echoes, fierce, defiant, | |
| As if mocking Christ the Lord. | |
| |
| Ah! but from the earth’s deep breast | |
| Came no bubbling fountain bursting; | 50 |
| And the barren land lay thirsting, | |
| With its heavy doom oppressed. | |
| |
| Rose a peasant then, and said, | |
| Chuckling with a cunning, low laugh: | |
| “Now we know, forsooth, King Olaf, | 55 |
| Still is ancient Thor not dead.” | |
| |
| Fierce the royal warriors frowned. | |
| “Slay the wretch!” they shouted wildly. | |
| But the king rebuked them mildly; | |
| Low he knelt upon the ground. | 60 |
| |
| Grave and silent stood the throng, | |
| While he prayed with deep contrition: | |
| “Lord, O, save them from perdition; | |
| I am weak, but thou art strong.” | |
| |
| And his tears fell hot and fast; | 65 |
| Waked to life the barren mountain; | |
| Upward sprang a bubbling fountain, | |
| Rushing o’er the sun-bleached waste. | |
| |
| Now is sheathed King Olaf’s sword; | |
| But the cross his zeal hath planted | 70 |
| In our land stands bright, undaunted, | |
| Gleaming over dale and fjord. | |
| |
| And his fountain pure and clear | |
| Mid the drooping alder bushes | |
| Still with joyous cadence gushes, | 75 |
| Fresh, unchanged, from year to year. | |
| |
