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.
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