And lo! among the menials, in mock state,

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,

His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,

The solemn ape demurely perched behind,

King Robert rode, making huge merri

ment

In all the country towns through which they went.

The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare

Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's Square,

Giving his benediction and embrace, Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. While with congratulations and with

prayers

He entertained the Angel unawares, Robert the Jester, bursting through the crowd,

Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,

"I am the King! Look, and behold in me

Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,

Is an impostor in a King's disguise. Do you not know me? does no voice within

Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,

Gazed at the Angel's countenance

Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.

Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, With haggard eyes the unwonted splendour saw,

He felt within a power unfelt before, And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,

He heard the rushing garments of the Lord

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

And now the visit ending, and once

more

Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,

Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again

The land was made resplendent with his train,

Flashing along the towns of Italy
Unto Salerno, and from there by sea.
And when once more within Palermo's
wall,

And, seated on the throne in his great hall,

He heard the Angelus from convent

towers,

As if the better world conversed with

ours,

He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,

And with a gesture bade the rest retire; And when they were alone, the Angel said,

"Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his head,

King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,

And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!

My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, And in some cloister's school of penitence, the way

Across those stones, that pave

to heaven, Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!"

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant

AND then the blue-eyed Norseman told
A Saga of the days of old.
"There is," said he, "a wondrous book
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue,
Of the dead kings of Norroway,-
Legends that once were told or sung
In many a smoky fireside nook
Of Iceland, in the ancient day,
By wandering Saga-man or Scald;
Heimskringla is the volume called;
And he who looks may find therein
The story that I now begin."

And in each pause the story made
Upon his violin he played,
As an appropriate interlude,
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes,
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood,
Entwining and encircling all

The strange and antiquated rhymes
With melodies of olden times;
As over some half-ruined wall,
Disjointed and about to fall,

Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,
And keep the loosened stones in place.

THE MUSICIAN'S TALE.

THE SAGA OF KING OLAI
1. THE CHALLENGE CF THOR.
I AM the God Thor,
I am the War God,
I am the Thunderer!
Here in my Northland,
My fastness and fortress,
Reign I forever!
Here amid icebergs
Rule I the nations;
This is my hammer,
Miölner the mighty;
Giants and sorcerers
Cannot withstand it!
These are the gauntlets
Wherewith I wield it,
And hurl it afar off;
This is my girdle;
Whenever I brace it,
Strength is redoubled!
The light thou beholdest
Stream through the heavens,
In flashes of crimson,
Is but my beard

Blown by the night-wind,
Affrighting the nations!
Jove is my brother;
Mine eyes are the lightning;
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder,
The bows of my hammer
Ring in the earthquake!
Force rules the world still,
Has ruled it, shall rule it;
Meekness is weakness,
Strength is triumphant,
Over the whole earth
Still is it Thor's-day!
Thou art a God, too,
O Galilean!

And thus single-handed
Unto the combat,
Gauntlet or Gospel,
Here I defy thee!

II.-KING OLAF'S RETURN.
AND King Olaf heard the cry,
Saw the red light in the sky,

Laid his hand upon his sword, As he leaned upon the railing,

And his ships went sailing, sailing
Northward into Drontheim fiord.

There he stood as one who dreamed;
And the red light glanced and gleamed
On the armour that he wore;
And he shouted, as the rifted
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted,
"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"
To avenge his father slain,
And reconquer realm and reign,

Came the youthful Olaf home, Through the midnight sailing, sailing, Listening to the wild wind's wailing,

And the dashing of the foam.

To his thoughts the sacred name
Of his mother Astrid came,

And the tale she oft had told
Of her flight by secret passes,
Through the mountains and morasses,
To the home of Hakon old.

Then strange memories crowded back
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack,
And a hurried flight by sea;
Of grim Vikings, and their rapture
In the sea-fight, and the capture,
And the life of slavery.

How a stranger watched his face
In the Esthonian market-place,

Scanned his features one by one, Saying, "We should know each other; I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother,

Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son!" Then as Queen Allogia's page, Old in honours, young in age,

Chief of all her men-at-arms; Till vague whispers, and mysterious, Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, Filling him with strange alarms. Then his cruisings o'er the seas, Westward to the Hebrides,

And to Scilly's rocky shore;
And the hermit's cavern dismal,'
Christ's great name and rites baptismal,
In the ocean's rush and roar.

All these thoughts of love and strife
Glimmered through his lurid life,
As the stars' intenser light
Through the red flames o'er him trailing,
As his ships went sailing, sailing
Northward in the summer night.

Trained for either camp or court, Skilful in each manly sport,

Young and beautiful and tall;
Art of warfare, craft of chases,
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races,
Excellent alike in all.

When at sea, with all his rowers,
He along the bending oars

Outside of his ship could run.
He the Smalsor Horn ascended,
And his shining shield suspended
On its summit, like a sun.

On the ship-rails he could stand,
Wield his sword with either hand,

And at once two javelins throw;
At all feasts where ale was strongest
Sat the merry monarch longest,
First to come and last to go.
Norway never yet had seen
One so beautiful of mien,

One so royal in attire,

When in arms completely furnished,
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished,
Mantle like a flame of fire.
Thus came Olaf to his own,
When upon the night-wind blown
Passed that cry along the shore;
And he answered, while the rifted
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted,
I accept thy challenge, Thor!"

As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, Through the forest roads into Orkadale, Demanding Jarl Hakon

Of Thora, the fairest of women. "Rich and honoured shall be whoever The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever!"

Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, Through the breathing-holes of the darksome cave.

Alone in her chamber

Wept Thora, the fairest of women. Said Karker, the crafty, "I will not slay thee!

For all the King's gold I will never betray thee!"

"Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl,

And then again black as the earth?" said the Earl.

More pale and more faithful

Was Thora, the fairest of women. From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying,

"Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying!

And Hakon answered,

the King!

Beware of

He will lay round thy neck a blood-red

ring.'

"

At the ring on her finger

Gazed Thora, the fairest of women.

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encumbered,

But screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered;

The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife,

And the Earl awakened no more in this life.

But wakeful and weeping

Sat Thora, the fairest of women.

At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging;

One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's,

And the people are shouting from windows and walls;

While alone in her chamber
Swoons Thora, the fairest of

women,

IV. QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. 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? The floor with tassels of fir was besprent,

Filling the room with their fragrant

scent.

She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine,

The air of summer was sweeter than wine.

Like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay

Between her own kingdom and Norro

way.

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand,

The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned.

Her maidens were seated around her knee,

Working bright figures in tapestry. And one was singing the ancient rune Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun.

And through it, and round it, and over it all

Sounded incessant the waterfall.

The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold,

From the door of Ladé's Temple old. King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift,

But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift.

She had given the ring to her gold

smiths twain,

The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek,

She only murmured, she did not speak: "If in his gifts he can faithless be, There will be no gold in his love to me." A footstep was heard on the outer stair, And in strode King Olaf with royal air.

He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of love,

And swore to be true as the stars are above.

But she smiled with contempt as she answered: "O King,

Will

you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring?"

And the King: "O speak not of Odin to me,

The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be."

Looking straight at the King, with her level brows,

She said, "I keep true to my faith and my vows."

Then the face of King Olaf was

darkened with gloom,

He rose in his anger and strode through the room.

"Why, then, should I care to have thee?" he said,

"A faded old woman, a heathenish jade!"

His zeal was stronger than fear or love, And he struck the Queen in the face with his glove.

Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled,

And the wooden stairway shook with his tread.

Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath,

"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death!

Heart's dearest,

Why dost thou sorrow so?

V. THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS.

Now from all King Olaf's farms
His men-at-arms
Gathered on the Eve of Easter;

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.