OLAF.—­Remember, Hakon,—­
  Remember, Hakon, that e’en thou thyself
  Hast been a Christian; that thou wast baptized
  By Bishop Popo, and that thou since then
  Didst break thy oath.  How many hast thou broken?

  HAKON.—­Accursed forever may that moment be
  When by the cunning monk I was deceived,
  And let myself be fooled by paltry tricks. 
  He held a red-hot iron in his hand,
  After by magic he had covered it
  With witches’ ointment.

  OLAF.—­O thou blind old man! 
  Thy silver hair does make me pity thee.

  HAKON.—­Ha! spare thy pity; as thou seest me here,
  Thou seest the last flash and the latest spark
  Of ancient Northern force and hero’s life;
  And that, with all thy fever-stricken dreams,
  Proud youth, thou shalt be powerless to quench. 
  I well do know it is the Christian custom
  To pity, to convert, and to amend. 
  Our custom is to heartily despise you,
  To ruminate upon your fall and death,
  As foes to gods and to a hero’s life. 
  That Hakon does, and therein does consist
  His villainy.  By Odin, and by Thor,
  Thou shalt not quench old Norway’s warlike flame
  With all thy misty dreams of piety.

  OLAF.—­’Tis well:  fate shall decide.  We separate,
  And woe to thee when next we meet again.

  HAKON.—­Aye, woe to me if then I crush thee not.

  OLAF.—­Heaven shall strike thee with its fiery might!

  HAKON.—­No, with his hammer Thor the cross will smite!

From the Danish of ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAeGER.  Translation of SIR FRANK C. LASCELLES.

* * * * *

A DANISH BARROW

ON THE EAST DEVON COAST.

  Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap! 
    A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb,
    Whoe’er he was, I warrant him
  Upon whose mound the single sheep
    Browses and tinkles in the sun,
    Within the narrow vale alone.

  Lie still, old Dane!  This restful scene
    Suits well thy centuries of sleep: 
    The soft brown roots above thee creep,
  The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen,
    And,—­vain memento of the spot,—­The
    turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.

  Lie still!  Thy mother-land herself
    Would know thee not again:  no more
    The Raven from the northern shore
  Hails the bold crew to push for pelf,
    Through fire and blood and slaughtered kings
    ’Neath the black terror of his wings.

  And thou,—­thy very name is lost! 
    The peasant only knows that here
    Bold Alfred scooped thy flinty bier,
  And prayed a foeman’s prayer, and tost
    His auburn head, and said, “One more
    Of England’s foes guards England’s shore,”

  And turned and passed to other feats,
    And left thee in thine iron robe,
    To circle with the circling globe,
  While Time’s corrosive dewdrop eats
    The giant warrior to a crust
    Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.