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, sailingNorthward into Drontheim fiord.

There he stood as one who dreamed;And the red light glanced and gleamedOn the armor that he wore;And he shouted, as the rifledStreamers 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 nameOf his mother Astrid came,And the tale she oft had toldOf her flight by secret passesThrough the mountains and morasses,To the home of Hakon old.

Then strange memories crowded backOf Queen Gunhild’s wrath and wrack,And a hurried flight by sea;Of grim Vikings, and the raptureOf the sea-fight, and the capture,And the life of slavery.

How a stranger watched his faceIn 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 honors, 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 baptismalin the ocean’s rush and roar.

All these thoughts of love and strifeGlimmered through his lurid life,As the stars’ intenser lightThrough 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 racesExcellent alike in all.

When at sea, with all his rowers,He along the bending oarsOutside 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 strongestSat the merry monarch longest,First to come and last to go.

Norway never yet had seenOne 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 blownPassed that cry along the shore;And he answered, while the riftedStreamers o’er him shook and shifted,“I accept thy challenge, Thor!”