A man rushed by him at a single stride, Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,

Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,

But leaped into the blackness of the night,

And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire, Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,

With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,

Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;

Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage

To right and left each seneschal and page, And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,

His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.

From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;

Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,

Until at last he reached the banquet

room,

Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.

There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his robes, his crown, his signetring,

King Robert's self in features, form, and

height,

But all transfigured with angelic light! It was an Angel; and his presence there With a divine effulgence filled the air, An exaltation, piercing the disguise, Though none the hidden Angel recognize.

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,

The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,

Who met his look of anger and surprise With the divine compassion of his eyes; Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?"

To which King Robert answered, with a sneer,

“I am the King, and come to claim my own From an impostor, who usurps my throne !"

And suddenly, at these audacious words, Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, "Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou

Henceforth shall wear the bells and scalloped cape,

And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,

And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,

They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;

A group of tittering pages ran before, as they opened wide the foldingdoor,

And

His

heart failed, for he heard, with

strange alarms,

The boisterous laughter of the men-at

arms,

And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!"

Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,

He said within himself, "It was a dream!"

But the straw rustled as he turned his head,

There were the cap and bells beside his bed, Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,

And in the corner, a revolting shape, Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.

It was no dream; the world he loved so much

Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!

Days came and went; and now returned again

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; Under the Angel's governance benign The happy island danced with corn and

wine,

And deep within the mountain's burning breast

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.

hind,

Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,

Is an impostor in a king's disguise. Do you not know me? does no voice within

Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,

Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport

To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!" And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace Was hustled back among the populace.

In solemn state the Holy Week went by, And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;

The presence of the Angel, with its light, Before the sun rose, made the city bright, And with new fervor filled the hearts

of men,

Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.

Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,.

He felt within a power unfelt before, And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,

He heard the rushing garments of the Lord

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

him there

INTERLUDE.

AND then the blue-eyed Norseman told
A Saga of the days of old.

"There is," said he, "a wondrous book
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue,
Of the dead kings of Norroway,
Legends that once were told or sung
Of Iceland, in the ancient day,
In many a smoky fireside nook
By wandering Saga-man or Scald ;
Heimskringla is the volume called;
And he who looks may find therein
The story that I now begin."

And in each pause the story made
Upon his violin he played,
As an appropriate interlude,
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood,
Entwining and encircling all
The strange and antiquated rhymes
With melodies of olden times;
As over some half-ruined wall,
Disjointed and about to fall,
Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,
And keep the loosened stones in place.

THE MUSICIAN'S TALE.

THE SAGA OF KING OLAF.

I.

THE CHALLENGE OF THOR.

I AM the God Thor,
I am the War God,
I am the Thunderer!
Here in my Northland,
My fastness and fortress,
Reign I forever!

Here amid icebergs Rule I the nations; This is my hammer, Miölner the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it !

These are the gauntlets
Wherewith I wield it,
And hurl it afar off;
This is my girdle;
Whenever I brace it,
Strength is redoubled!

The light thou beholdest
Stream through the heavens,
In flashes of crimson,
Is but my red beard
Blown by the night-wind,
Affrighting the nations!

Jove is my brother;

Mine eyes are the lightning;
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder,
The blows of my hammer
Ring in the earthquake !

Force rules the world still,
Has ruled it, shall rule it;
Meekness is weakness,
Strength is triumphant,
Over the whole earth
Still is it Thor's-Day!

Thou art a God too,
O Galilean!

And thus single-handed
Unto the combat,
Gauntlet or Gospel,
Here I defy thee!

II.

KING OLAF'S RETURN.

AND King Olaf heard the cry,
Saw the red light in the sky,

Laid his hand upon his sword,
As he leaned upon the railing,
And his ships went sailing, sailing
Northward into Drontheim fiord.

There he stood as one who dreamed;
And the red light glanced and gleamed
On the armor that he wore ;
And he shouted, as the rifted
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted,
"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"

To avenge his father slain,
And reconquer realm and reign,

Came the youthful Olaf home, Through the midnight sailing, sailing,

Listening to the wild wind's wailing,
And the dashing of the foam.

To his thoughts the sacred name
Of his mother Astrid came,

And the tale she oft had told
Of her flight by secret passes
Through the mountains and morasses,
To the home of Hakon old.

Then strange memories crowded back
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack,
And a hurried flight by sea;
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture
Of the sea-fight, and the capture,
And the life of slavery.

How a stranger watched his face
In the Esthonian market-place,

Scanned his features one by one, Saying, "We should know each other; I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother,

Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son !" Then as Queen Allogia's page, Old in honors, young in age,

Chief of all her men-at-arms;
Till vague whispers, and mysterious,
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious,
Filling him with strange alarms.

Then his cruisings o'er the seas,
Westward to the Hebrides,

And to Scilly's rocky shore;
And the hermit's cavern dismal,
Christ's great name and rites baptismal
In the ocean's rush and roar.

All these thoughts of love and strife
Glimmered through his lurid life,
As the stars' intenser light
Through the red flames o'er him trailing,
As his ships went sailing, sailing,

Northward in the summer night.

Trained for either camp or court,
Skilful in each manly sport,

Young and beautiful and tall;
Art of warfare, craft of chases,
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races,
Excellent alike in all.

When at sea, with all his rowers, He along the bending oars

Outside of his ship could run. He the Smalsor Horn ascended, And his shining shield suspended On its summit, like a sun.

On the ship-rails he could stand,
Wield his sword with either hand,

And at once two javelins throw ; At all feasts where ale was strongest Sat the merry monarch longest,

First to come and last to go.

Norway never yet had seen
One so beautiful of mien,

One so royal in attire,
When in arms completely furnished,
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished,
Mantle like a flame of fire.

Thus came Olaf to his own,
When upon the night-wind blown

Passed that cry along the shore; And he answered, while the rifted Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, "I accept thy challenge, Thor!"'