Letters From High Latitudes [95]
eyes, like the flash of a drawn sword; a circlet of gold binds the massive brow, and from beneath it stream to below his waist thick masses of hair, of that dusky red which glows like the heart of a furnace in the sunlight, but deepens earth-brown in the shadow. By his side stands a fair woman; her demure and heavy-lidded eyes are seldom lifted from the earth, which yet they seem to scorn, but the king's eyes rest on her, and many looks are turned towards him. A multitude is present, moved by one great event, swayed by a thousand passions,--some with garrulous throats full of base adulation and an unworthy joy,--some pale, self-scorning, with averted looks, and hands that twitch instinctively at their idle daggers, then drop hopeless, harmless at their sides.
The king is Harald Haarfager, "of the fair hair," the woman is proud and beautiful Gyda, whose former scorn for him, in the days when he was nothing but the petty chief of a few barren mountains, provoked that strange wild vow of his, "That he would never clip or comb his locks till he could woo her as sole king of Norway."
Among the crowd are those who have bartered, for ease, and wealth, and empty titles born of the king's breath--their ancient Udal rights, their Bonder privileges; others have sunk their proud hearts to bear the yoke of the stronger hand, yet gaze with yearning looks on the misty horizon that opens between the hills. A dark speck mars that shadowy line. Thought follows across the space. It is a ship. Its sides are long, and black, and low; but high in front rises the prow, fashioned into the semblance of a gigantic golden dragon, against whose gleaming breast the divided waters angrily flash and gurgle. Along the top sides of the deck are hung a row of shining shields, in alternate breadths of red and white, like the variegated scales of a sea-monster, whilst its gilded tail curls aft over the head of the steersman. From either flank projects a bank of some thirty oars, that look, as they smite the ocean with even beat, like the legs on which the reptile crawls over its surface. One stately mast of pine serves to carry a square sail made of cloth, brilliant with stripes of red, white, and blue.
And who are they who navigate this strange, barbaric vessel?--why leave they the sheltering fiords of their beloved Norway? They are the noblest hearts of that noble land--freemen, who value freedom,--who have abandoned all rather than call Harald master, and now seek a new home even among the desolate crags of Iceland, rather than submit to the tyranny of a usurper.
"Rorb--ober Gud! wenn nur bie Geelen gluben!"
Another picture, and a sadder story; but the scene is now a wide dun moor, on the slope of a seaward hill; the autumn evening is closing in, but a shadow darker than that of evening broods over the desolate plain,--the shadow of DEATH. Groups of armed men, with stern sorrow in their looks, are standing round a rude couch, hastily formed of fir branches. An old man lies there--dying. His ear is dulled even to the shout of victory; the mists of an endless night are gathering in his eyes; but there is passion yet in the quivering lip, and triumph on the high-resolved brow; and the gesture of his hand has kingly power still. Let me tell his saga, like the bards of that old time.
HACON'S LAST BATTLE.
I.
All was over: day was ending As the foeman turned and fled. Gloomy red Glowed the angry sun descending; While round Hacon's dying bed, Tears and songs of triumph blending, Told how fast the conqueror bled
II.
"Raise me," said the King. We raised him-- Not to ease his desperate pain; That were vain! "Strong our foe was--but we faced him Show me that red field again." Then, with reverent hands, we placed him High above the bloody plain.
III.
Silent gazed he; mute we waited, Kneeling round-a faithful few, Staunch and true,-- Whilst above, with thunder freighted, Wild the boisterous north wind blew, And the carrion-bird, unsated, On slant
The king is Harald Haarfager, "of the fair hair," the woman is proud and beautiful Gyda, whose former scorn for him, in the days when he was nothing but the petty chief of a few barren mountains, provoked that strange wild vow of his, "That he would never clip or comb his locks till he could woo her as sole king of Norway."
Among the crowd are those who have bartered, for ease, and wealth, and empty titles born of the king's breath--their ancient Udal rights, their Bonder privileges; others have sunk their proud hearts to bear the yoke of the stronger hand, yet gaze with yearning looks on the misty horizon that opens between the hills. A dark speck mars that shadowy line. Thought follows across the space. It is a ship. Its sides are long, and black, and low; but high in front rises the prow, fashioned into the semblance of a gigantic golden dragon, against whose gleaming breast the divided waters angrily flash and gurgle. Along the top sides of the deck are hung a row of shining shields, in alternate breadths of red and white, like the variegated scales of a sea-monster, whilst its gilded tail curls aft over the head of the steersman. From either flank projects a bank of some thirty oars, that look, as they smite the ocean with even beat, like the legs on which the reptile crawls over its surface. One stately mast of pine serves to carry a square sail made of cloth, brilliant with stripes of red, white, and blue.
And who are they who navigate this strange, barbaric vessel?--why leave they the sheltering fiords of their beloved Norway? They are the noblest hearts of that noble land--freemen, who value freedom,--who have abandoned all rather than call Harald master, and now seek a new home even among the desolate crags of Iceland, rather than submit to the tyranny of a usurper.
"Rorb--ober Gud! wenn nur bie Geelen gluben!"
Another picture, and a sadder story; but the scene is now a wide dun moor, on the slope of a seaward hill; the autumn evening is closing in, but a shadow darker than that of evening broods over the desolate plain,--the shadow of DEATH. Groups of armed men, with stern sorrow in their looks, are standing round a rude couch, hastily formed of fir branches. An old man lies there--dying. His ear is dulled even to the shout of victory; the mists of an endless night are gathering in his eyes; but there is passion yet in the quivering lip, and triumph on the high-resolved brow; and the gesture of his hand has kingly power still. Let me tell his saga, like the bards of that old time.
HACON'S LAST BATTLE.
I.
All was over: day was ending As the foeman turned and fled. Gloomy red Glowed the angry sun descending; While round Hacon's dying bed, Tears and songs of triumph blending, Told how fast the conqueror bled
II.
"Raise me," said the King. We raised him-- Not to ease his desperate pain; That were vain! "Strong our foe was--but we faced him Show me that red field again." Then, with reverent hands, we placed him High above the bloody plain.
III.
Silent gazed he; mute we waited, Kneeling round-a faithful few, Staunch and true,-- Whilst above, with thunder freighted, Wild the boisterous north wind blew, And the carrion-bird, unsated, On slant