Classic Poem

The train of the Norse king
Still winds the descents,
Leading down where the waste ridge
Is white with his tents;
The eye star is climbing
Above where they lie,
Like hills at the harvest-time,
White with the rye.

Who comes through the red light
Of bivouac and torch,
With footsteps unslackened
By fasting or march? —
Majestic in sorrow,
No white hand, I trow,
Can take from that forehead
Its pale seal of woe:

Past grooms that are merrily
Combing the steeds,
To the tent of the Norse king
He hurriedly speeds;
A right noble chieftain, —
That gloved hand I know,
Has swooped the ger-falcon
And bended the bow.

Outspeaks he the counsel
He comes to afford:
" As loves this engloved hand
The hilt of my sword —
As loves the pale martyr
The sacrament seal —
My heart loves my liege lord
And prays for his weal.

" I once wooed a maiden,
As fair to my sight
As the bride of the Norse king
I plead for to-night;
As thou dost, I tarried.
Her fond faith to prove,
And the wall of the convent
Grew up 'twixt our love.

" Hold we to our marching
Three leagues from this ridge,
And we compass our rear-guard
With moat and with bridge:
Give one heart such shriving
As priest can afford,
And a sweet loving lady
The arms of her lord!

" Oh felt you sweet pity
For half I have borne,
The scourgings, the fastings,
The lip never shorn;
You fain would not linger
For wassail's wild sway,
But leaping to saddle,
Would hold on the way. "

Outspoke then, the Norse king,
Half pity, half scorn,
" Go back to thy fasting
And keep thee unshorn;
No tale of a woman
Pause I to divine; "
And from the full goblet
He quaffed the red wine.

Then fell sire and liegeman
To feasting and song;
I ween to such masquers
The night was not long:
And but one little trembler
Stood pale in the arch,
When gave the king signal
To take up the march.

If danger forewarn him,
The omen he hides,
And mounting right gaily,
He sings as he rides:
" Now, bird of the border,
Look forth for thy chief;
By the bones of St. Peter,
Thy watch shall be brief! "

" Stand forth, wretched prophet, "
He cries in his wrath,
As his foam-covered charger
Has struck on the path
Leading down to his castle:
" Stand forth! here is moat,
Here is drawbridge — we charge
Back the lie in thy throat! "

" Pause, son of the mighty,
My bode is not lost
Till the step of the master
The lintel has crossed;
And then if my counsel
Prove ghostly or vain " —
The king smiled in triumph
And flung down the rein.

Lo! passed is the threshold,
None answer his call;
Why starts he and trembles?
There 's blood in the hall!
His step through the corridor
Hurriedly dies,
'T is only an echo
That answers his cries.

One soft golden ringlet
That kissed the white cheek
Of the beautiful lady
They find as they seek:
There was mounting of heralds
In hot haste, I ween,
But the bride of the Norse king
Was never more seen.