It was not the fog he saw,
    Nor misty flaw,
That above the landscape brooded;
It was Eyvind Kallda’s crew
    Of warlocks blue
With their caps of darkness hooded!

Round and round the house they go,
    Weaving slow
Magic circles to encumber
And imprison in their ring
    Olaf the King,
As he helpless lies in slumber.

Then athwart the vapors dun
    The Easter sun
Streamed with one broad track of splendor!
in their real forms appeared
    The warlocks weird,
Awful as the Witch of Endor.

Blinded by the light that glared,
    They groped and stared
Round about with steps unsteady;
From his window Olaf gazed,
    And, amazed,
“Who are these strange people?” said he.

“Eyvind Kallda and his men!”
    Answered then
From the yard a sturdy farmer;
While the men-at-arms apace
    Filled the place,
Busily buckling on their armor.

From the gates they sallied forth,
    South and north,
Scoured the island coast around them,
Seizing all the warlock band,
    Foot and hand
On the Skerry’s rocks they bound them.

And at eve the king again
    Called his train,
And, with all the candles burning,
Silent sat and heard once more
    The sullen roar
Of the ocean tides returning.

Shrieks and cries of wild despair
    Filled the air,
Growing fainter as they listened;
Then the bursting surge alone
    Sounded on;—­
Thus the sorcerers were christened!

“Sing, O Scald, your song sublime,
    Your ocean-rhyme,”
Cried King Olaf:  “it will cheer me!”
Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks,
    “The Skerry of Shrieks
Sings too loud for you to hear me!”

VI

THE WRAITH OF ODIN

The guests were loud, the ale was strong,
King Olaf feasted late and long;
The hoary Scalds together sang;
O’erhead the smoky rafters rang. 
    Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

The door swung wide, with creak and din;
A blast of cold night-air came in,
And on the threshold shivering stood
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. 
    Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

The King exclaimed, “O graybeard pale! 
Come warm thee with this cup of ale.” 
The foaming draught the old man quaffed,
The noisy guests looked on and laughed. 
    Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

Then spake the King:  “Be not afraid;
Sit here by me.”  The guest obeyed,
And, seated at the table, told
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 
    Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.

And ever, when the tale was o’er,
The King demanded yet one more;
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said,
“’T is late, O King, and time for bed.” 
    Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.