Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Xii. -- King Olaf's Christmas

At Drontheim, Olaf the King Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, As he sat in his banquet-hall, Drinking the nut-brown ale, With his bearded Berserks hale And tall. Three days his Yule-tide feasts He held with Bishops and Priests, And his horn filled up to the brim; But the ale was never too strong, Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, For him. O'er his drinking-horn, the sign He made of the cross divine, As he drank, and muttered his prayers; But the Berserks evermore Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor Over theirs. The gleams of the fire-light dance Upon helmet and hauberk and lance, And laugh in the eyes of the King; And he cries to Halfred the Scald, Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 'Sing!' 'Sing me a song divine, With a sword in every line, And this shall be thy reward.' And he loosened the belt at his waist, And in front of the singer placed His sword. 'Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, Wherewith at a stroke he hewed The millstone through and through, And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, Were neither so broad nor so long, Nor so true.' Then the Scald took his harp and sang, And loud through the music rang The sound of that shining word; And the harp-strings a clangor made, As if they were struck with the blade Of a sword. And the Berserks round about Broke forth into a shout That made the rafters ring: They smote with their fists on the board, And shouted, 'Long live the Sword, And the King!' But the King said, 'O my son, I miss the bright word in one Of thy measures and thy rhymes.' And Halfred the Scald replied, 'In another 't was multiplied Three times.' Then King Olaf raised the hilt Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, And said, 'Do not refuse; Count well the gain and the loss, Thor's hammer or Christ's cross: Choose!' And Halfred the Scald said, 'This In the name of the Lord I kiss, Who on it was crucified!' And a shout went round the board, 'In the name of Christ the Lord, Who died!' Then over the waste of snows The noonday sun uprose, Through the driving mists revealed, Like the lifting of the Host, By incense-clouds almost Concealed. On the shining wall a vast And shadowy cross was cast From the hilt of the lifted sword, And in foaming cups of ale The Berserks drank 'Was-hael! To the Lord!'