Classic Poem

St. Oluf was a mighty king,
Who rul’d the Northern land;
The holy Christian faith he preach’d,
And taught it, sword in hand.

St. Oluf built a lofty ship,
With sails of silk so fair;
“To Hornelummer I must go,
And see what’s passing there.”

“O do not go,” the seamen said,
“To yonder fatal ground,
Where savage Jutts, and wicked elves,
And demon sprites, abound.”

St. Oluf climb’d the vessel’s side;
His courage nought could tame!
“Heave up, heave up the anchor straight;
Let’s go in Jesu’s name.

“The cross shall be my faulchion now—
The book of God my shield;
And, arm’d with them, I hope and trust
To make the demons yield.”

And swift, as eagle cleaves the sky,
The gallant vessel flew;
Direct for Hornelummer’s rock,
Through ocean’s wavy blue.

‘T was early in the morning tide
When she cast anchor there;
And, lo! the Jutt stood on the cliff,
To breathe the morning air:

His eyes were like the burning beal—
His mouth was all awry;
The truth I tell, and say he stood
Full twenty cubits high:

His beard was like a horse’s mane,
And down his bosom roll’d;
The claws that fenc’d his finger ends
Were frightful to behold.

“I never yet have seen,” he cried,
“A ship come near my strand,
That here to shore I could not drag,
By putting out my hand.”

The good St. Oluf smil’d thereat,
And thus address’d his crew:
“Now hold your tongues, and well observe
What I’m about to do.”

The giant stretch’d his mighty arm;
The ship was nigh his own;
But when St. Oluf rais’d the cross,
He sank knee-deep in stone.

“Here am I, sunk knee-deep in stone!
My legs I cannot move;
But, since my back and fists are free,
My might thou yet shalt prove.”

“Be still, be still, thou noisy guest—
Be still for evermore;
Become a rock and beetle there,
Above the billows hoar.”

Up started then, from out the hill,
The demon’s hoary wife;
She curs’d the king a thousand times,
And brandish’d high her knife.

Sore wonder’d then the little elves,
Who sat within the hill,
To see their mother, all at once,
Stand likewise stiff and still:

“‘T is done,” they cried, “by yonder wight,
Who rides upon the waves;
Let’s wade out to him, through the surf,
And beat him with our staves.”

At Hornelummer happen’d then,
What happen’d ne’er before;
The elfins wish’d to leave the hill,
And could not find a door:

They ran their heads against the wall,
And tried to break it through;
They could not break the solid rock,
But broke their necks in lieu.

Now, thanks to God, and Jesus Christ,
And good St. Oluf’s arm,
To Hornelummer we can sail
Without mishap or harm.