IX.

THANGBRAND THE PRIEST.

SHORT of stature, large of limb,
Burly face and russet beard,
All the women stared at him,
When in Iceland he appeared.
"Look!" they said,

With nodding head,

"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."

All the prayers he knew by rote,

He could preach like Chrysostome,

From the Fathers he could quote,
He had even been at Rome.
A learned clerk,

A man of mark,

Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

He was quarrelsome and loud,

And impatient of control,
Boisterous in the market crowd,

Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,
Everywhere

Would drink and swear,

Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

In his house this malecontent
Could the King no longer bear,

So to Iceland he was sent

To convert the heathen there,

And

away

One summer day

Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

There in Iceland, o'er their books
Pored the people day and night,
But he did not like their looks,

Nor the songs they used to write.
"All this rhyme

Is waste of time!"

Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

To the alehouse, where he sat,
Came the Scalds and Saga-men;

Is it to be wondered at,

That they quarrelled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer

Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?

All the folk in Alftafiord

Boasted of their island grand;

Saying in a single word,

"Iceland is the finest land

That the sun

Doth shine upon!"

Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

And he answered: "What's the use

Of this bragging up and down,
When three women and one goose
Make a market in your town!"
Every Scald

Satires scrawled

On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

Something worse they did than that;
And what vexed him most of all

Was a figure in shovel hat,

Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
With words that go
Sprawling below,

"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."

Hardly knowing what he did,

Then he smote them might and main,

Thorvald Veile and Veterlid

Lay there in the alehouse slain.
"To-day we are gold,

To-morrow mould!"

Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

Much in fear of axe and rope,

Back to Norway sailed he then.

"O, King Olaf! little hope

Is there of these Iceland men!"
Meekly said,

With bending head,

Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

Longfellow. III,

5

X.

RAUD THE STRONG.

"ALL the old gods are dead,

All the wild warlocks fled;

But the White Christ lives and reigns, And throughout my wide domains

His Gospel shall be spread!"

On the Evangelists

Thus swore King Olaf.

But still in dreams of the night
Beheld he the crimson light,

And heard the voice that defied
Him who was crucified

And challenged him to the fight.
To Sigurd the Bishop
King Olaf confessed it.

And Sigurd the Bishop said,
"The old Gods are not dead,
For the great Thor still reigns,
And among the Jarls and Thanes
The old witchcraft still is spread."
Thus to King Olaf

Said Sigurd the Bishop.

"Far north in the Salten Fiord, By rapine, fire, and sword,

Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong;
All the Godoe Isles belong

To him and his heathen horde."
Thus went on speaking
Sigurd the Bishop.

“A warlock, a wizard is he,
And lord of the wind and the sea;
And whichever way he sails,

He has ever favoring gales,

By his craft in sorcery."

Here the sign of the cross made
Devoutly King Olaf.

"With rites that we both abhor,
He worships Odin and Thor;
So it cannot yet be said,

That all the old gods are dead,
And the warlocks are no more,"
Flushing with anger

Said Sigurd the Bishop.

Then King Olaf cried aloud:
"I will talk with this mighty Raud,
And along the Salten Fiord
Preach the Gospel with my sword,
Or be brought back in my shroud!"
So northward from Drontheim
Sailed King Olaf!