Oft to King Svend she spake, "For thine own honor's sake Shalt thou swift vengeance take

On the vile coward!" Until the King at last,

Gusty and overcast,

Like a tempestuous blast

Threatened and lowered.

Soon as the Spring appeared,
Svend of the Forked Beard

High his red standard reared,

Eager for battle;

While every warlike Dane,

Seizing his arms again,

Left all unsown the grain,
Unhoused the cattle.

Likewise the Swedish King
Summoned in haste a Thing,
Weapons and men to bring
In aid of Denmark;
Eric the Norseman, too,
As the war-tidings flew,
Sailed with a chosen crew
From Lapland and Finmark.

So upon Easter day

Sailed the three kings away,
Out of the sheltered bay,

In the bright season;

XVIII.

KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD.

On the gray sea-sands
King Olaf stands,

Northward and seaward
He points with his hands.

With eddy and whirl
The sea-tides curl,
Washing the sandals
Of Sigvald the Earl.

The mariners shout,
The ships swing about,

The yards are all hoisted,
The sails flutter out.

The war-horns are played,
The anchors are weighed,
Like moths in the distance
The sails flit and fade.

The sea is like lead,

The harbor lies dead,
As a corse on the sea-shore,

Whose spirit has filed!

On that fatal day,

The histories say,

Seventy vessels

Sailed out of the bay.

But soon scattered wide
O'er the billows they ride,
While Sigvald and Olaf
Sail side by side.

Cried the Earl: "Follow me! I your pilot will be,

For I know all the channels Where flows the deep sea!"

So into the strait

Where his foes lie in wait,
Gallant King Olaf

Sails to his fate!

Then the sea-fog veils
The ships and their sails;
Queen Sigrid the Haughty,
Thy vengeance prevails!

XIX.

KING OLAF'S WAR-HORNS.

"STRIKE the sails!" King Olaf said;
"Never shall men of mine take flight;
Never away from battle I fled,

Never away from my foes!
Let God dispose

Of my life in the fight!”

"Sound the horns!" said Olaf the King;
And suddenly through the drifting brume
The blare of the horns began to ring,
Like the terrible trumpet shock
Of Regnarock,

On the Day of Doom!

Louder and louder the war-horns sang
Over the level floor of the flood;
All the sails came down with a clang,
And there in the mist overhead

The sun hung red

As a drop of blood.

Drifting down on the Danish fleet Three together the ships were lashed, So that neither should turn and retreat; In the midst, but in front of the rest The burnished crest

Of the Serpent flashed.