Louder the war-horns growl and snarl,
Sharper the dragons bite and sting'
Eric the son of Hakon Jarl
A death-drink salt as the sea

Pledges to thee,
Olaf the King !

XX.

EINAR TAMBERSKELVER.

It was Einar Tamberskelver

Stood beside the mast;
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver

Flew the arrows fast;
Aimed at Eric unavailing,

As he sat concealed,
Half behind the quarter-railing,

Half behind his shield.
First an arrow struck the tiller,

Just above his head;
“ Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller,"

Then Earl Eric said,
“Sing the song of Hakon dying,

Sing his funeral wail!"
And another arrow flying

Grazed his coat of mail.
Turning to a Lapland yeoman,

As the arrow passed,
Said Earl Eric, "Shoot that bowman

Standing by the mast."
Sooner than the word was spoken

Flew the yeoman's shaft;
Einar's bow in twain was broken,

Einar only laughed.
“What was that?” said Olaf, standing

On the quarter-deck. “Something heard I like the stranding

Of a shattered wreck."
Einar then, the arrow taking

From the loosened string,
Answered, “That was Norway breaking

From thy hand, O king !” “ Thou art but a poor diviner,”

Straightway Olaf said ; “ Take my bow, and swifter, Einar,

Let thy shafts be sped.”

Of his bows the fairest choosing,

Reached he from above;
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing

Through his iron glove.
But the bow was thin and narrow;

At the first assay,
O'er its head he drew the arrow,

Flung the bow away;
Said, with hot and angry temper

Flushing in his cheek,
“ Olaf! for so great a Kämper

Are thy bows too weak!”
Then, with smile of joy defiant

On his beardless lip,
Scaled he, light and self-reliant,

Eric's dragon-ship.
Loose his golden locks were flowing,

Bright his armour gleamed;
Like Saint Michael overthrowing

Lucifer he seemed.

XXI.
KING OLAF'S DEATH-DRINK.
ALL day has the battle raged,
All day have the ships engaged,
But not yet is assuaged

The vengeance of Eric the Earl.
The decks with blood are red,
The arrows of death are sped,
The ships are filled with the dead,

And the spears the champions hurl.
They drift as wrecks on the tide,
The grappling-irons are plied,
The boarders climb up the side,

The shouts are feeble and few.
Ah! never shall Norway again
See her sailors come back o'er the main;
They all lie wounded or slain

Or asleep in the billows blue!
On the deck stands Olaf the King,
Around him whistle and sing
The spears that the foemen Hing,

And the stones they hurl with their hands.

In the midst of the stones and the spears,
Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears,
His shield in the air he uprears,

By the side of King Oiaf he stands.
Over the slippery wreck
Of the Long Serpent's deck
Sweeps Eric with hardly a check,

His lips with anger are pale ;
He hews with his axe at the mast,
Till it falls, with the sails overcast,
Like a snow-covered pine in the vast

Dim forests of Orkadale.
Seeking King Olaf then,
He rushes aft with his men,
As a hunter into the den

Of the bear, when he stands at bay. “ Remember Jarl Hakon!” he cries :

When lo ! on his wondering eyes,
Two kingly figures arise,

Two Olafs in warlike array.
Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear
Of King Olaf a word of cheer,
In a whisper that none may hear,

With a smile on his tremulous lip;
Two shields raised high in the air,
Two flashes of golden hair,
Two scarlet meteors' glare,

And both have leapt from the ship.
Earl Eric's men in the boats
Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats,
And cry, from their hairy throats,

“See ! it is Olaf the King !”
While far on the opposite side
Floats another shield on the tide,
Like a jewel set in the wide

Sea-current's eddying ring.
There is told a wonderful tale,
How the King stripped off his mail,
Like leaves of the brown sea-kale,

As he swam beneath the main;
But the young grew old and grey,
And never, by night or by day,
In his kingdom of Norroway
Was King Olaf seen again!

XXII.

THE NUN OF NIDAROS.
In the convent of Drontheim,

Patience is powerful;
Alone in her chamber

He that o'ercometh
Knelt Astrid, the Abbess,

Hath power o'er the nations!
At midnight, adoring,
Beseeching, entreating

“ As torrents in summer,
The Virgin and Mother.

Half dried in their channels,

Suddenly rise, though the
She heard in the silence

Sky is still cloudless,
The voice of one speaking,

For rain has been falling
Without in the darkness,

Far off at their fountains ;
In gusts of the night-wind,
Now louder, now nearer,

“ So hearts that are fainting
Now lost in the distance.

Grow full to o'erflowing,

And they that behold it
The voice of a stranger

Marvel, and know not
It seemed as she listened,

That God at their fountains
Of some one who answered,

Far off has been raining !
Beseeching, imploring,
A cry from afar off

" Stronger than steel
She could not distinguish.

Is the sword of the Spirit;

Swifter than arrows
The voice of Saint John,

The light of the truth is;
The beloved disciple,

Greater than anger
Who wandered and waited

Is love, and subdueth !
The Master's appearance,
Alone in the darkness,

“ Thou art a phantom,
Unsheltered and friendless.

A shape of the sea-mist,

A shape of the brumal
“ It is accepted,

Rain, and the darkness
The angry defiance,

Fearful and formless;
The challenge of battle!

Day dawns and thou art not!
It is accepted,
But not with the weapons

“ The dawn is not distant,
Of war that thou wieldest !

Nor is the night starless;

Love is eternal !
“ Cross against corslet,

God is still God, and
Love against hatred,

His faith shall not fail us;
Peace-cry for war-cry!

Christ is eternal !"

INTERLUDE.

A STRAIN of music closed the tale,
A low, monotonous, funeral wail,
That with its cadence, wild and sweet,
Made the long Saga more complete.

Or dying surely from the world;
While Love triumphant reigns instead,
And in a brighter sky o'erhead
His blessèd banners are unfurled.
And most of all thank God for this:
The war and waste of clashing creeds
Now end in words, and not in deeds,

" Thank God!" the Theologian said, “The reign of violence is dead,

And no one suffers loss or bleeds | And unto each the promise came,
For thoughts that men call heresies. Diversified, but still the same;

For him that overcometh are
“I stand without here in the porch, The new name written on the stone,
I hear the bell's melodious din,

The raiment white, the crown, the throne, I hear the organ peal within,

And I will give him the Morning Star! I hear the prayer, with words that scorch Like sparks from an inverted torch, “Ah! to how many Faith has been I hear the sermon upon sin,

No evidence of things unseen, With threatenings of the last account, But a dim shadow, that recasts And all, translated in the air,

The creed of the Phantasiasts,
Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, For whom no Man of Sorrows died,
And as the Sermon on the Mount. For whom the Tragedy Divine

Was but a symbol and a sign,
“Must it be Calvin, and not Christ? And Christ a phantom crucified !
Must it be Athanasian creeds,
Or holy water, books, and beads ? “ For others a diviner creed
Must struggling souls remain content Is living in the life they lead.
With councils and decrees of Trent? The passing of their beautiful feet
And can it be enough for these

Blesses the pavement of the street, The Christian Church the year embalms And all their looks and words repeat With evergreens and boughs of palms, Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, And fills the air with litanies ?

Not as a vulture, but a dove,

The Holy Ghost came from above. “I know that yonder Pharisee Thanks God that he is not like me; “ And this brings back to me a tale In my humiliation dressed,

So sad the hearer well may quail, I cnly stand and beat my breast,

And question if such things can be ; And pray for human charity.

Yet in the chronicles of Spain

Down the dark pages runs this stain, “Not to one church alone, but seven, And nought can wash them white again, The voice prophetic spake from heaven; So fearful is the tragedy."

THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE

TORQUEMADA.

In the heroic days when Ferdinand
And Isabella ruled the Spanish land,
And Torquemada, with his subtle brain,
Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain,
In a great castle near Valladolid,
Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid,
There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn,
An old Hidalgo, proud and taciturn,
Whose name has perished with his towers of stone,
And all his actions, save this one alone;
This one so terrible, perhaps 'twere best
If it, too, were forgotten with the rest;