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LIKE a ball of blood-red fire | |
Sinks the sun oer forests sleeping, | |
Wondrously in splendor steeping | |
Glaciers far with cloud-capt spire. | |
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Leaning on his stalwart steed, | 5 |
Stands King Olaf, sad and weary; | |
Loath to view the ruins dreary, | |
Whereon flames exulting feed. | |
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Still and sultry is the night; | |
Not a rustle in the rushes, | 10 |
Not a breeze to stir the bushes | |
With its fugitive delight. | |
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Dry and thirsty lies the land; | |
Where erewhile the cooling current | |
Traced its courses, gay and errant, | 15 |
Glimmers now the sun-bleached sand. | |
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Far and near resounds the air | |
With the low of homeless cattle; | |
Oer the bloody field of battle | |
Throws the sun its lurid glare. | 20 |
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From below, a muffled ring, | |
Like the far, unceasing dirges | |
Of the faintly murmuring surges, | |
From his musing wakes the king; | |
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And a vast and weary throng | 25 |
Peasants, armed with scythes, and brawny | |
Spearmen, clad in wolf-skins tawny | |
Slowly wind the hills along. | |
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Spoke a warrior grave and hoar, | |
To the king his voice uplifted: | 30 |
Tossed and vanquished we have drifted, | |
Saintly king, unto thy shore. | |
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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! | |
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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 |
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Then with holy zeal aglow, | |
With the power of strong believing, | |
Swift the king his sword upheaving, | |
Smote the barren mountains brow. | |
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Into splinters sprang the sword; | 45 |
And the mountains ancient giant | |
Roused its echoes, fierce, defiant, | |
As if mocking Christ the Lord. | |
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Ah! but from the earths deep breast | |
Came no bubbling fountain bursting; | 50 |
And the barren land lay thirsting, | |
With its heavy doom oppressed. | |
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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. | |
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Fierce the royal warriors frowned. | |
Slay the wretch! they shouted wildly. | |
But the king rebuked them mildly; | |
Low he knelt upon the ground. | 60 |
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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. | |
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And his tears fell hot and fast; | 65 |
Waked to life the barren mountain; | |
Upward sprang a bubbling fountain, | |
Rushing oer the sun-bleached waste. | |
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Now is sheathed King Olafs sword; | |
But the cross his zeal hath planted | 70 |
In our land stands bright, undaunted, | |
Gleaming over dale and fjord. | |
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And his fountain pure and clear | |
Mid the drooping alder bushes | |
Still with joyous cadence gushes, | 75 |
Fresh, unchanged, from year to year. | |
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