Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga Of King Olaf Xvi. -- Queen Thuri And The Angelica Stalks

Northward over Drontheim, Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, Sang the lark and linnet From the meadows green; Weeping in her chamber, Lonely and unhappy, Sat the Drottning Thyri, Sat King Olaf's Queen. In at all the windows Streamed the pleasant sunshine, On the roof above her Softly cooed the dove; But the sound she heard not, Nor the sunshine heeded, For the thoughts of Thyri Were not thoughts of love, Then King Olaf entered, Beautiful as morning, Like the sun at Easter Shone his happy face; In his hand he carried Angelicas uprooted, With delicious fragrance Filling all the place. Like a rainy midnight Sat the Drottning Thyri, Even the smile of Olaf Could not cheer her gloom; Nor the stalks he gave her With a gracious gesture, And with words as pleasant As their own perfume. In her hands he placed them, And her jewelled fingers Through the green leaves glistened Like the dews of morn; But she cast them from her, Haughty and indignant, On the floor she threw them With a look of scorn. 'Richer presents,' said she, 'Gave King Harald Gormson To the Queen, my mother, Than such worthless weeds; 'When he ravaged Norway, Laying waste the kingdom, Seizing scatt and treasure For her royal needs. 'But thou darest not venture Through the Sound to Vendland, My domains to rescue From King Burislaf; 'Lest King Svend of Denmark, Forked Beard, my brother, Scatter all thy vessels As the wind the chaff.' Then up sprang King Olaf, Like a reindeer bounding, With an oath he answered Thus the luckless Queen: 'Never yet did Olaf Fear King Svend of Denmark; This right hand shall hale him By his forked chin!' Then he left the chamber, Thundering through the doorway, Loud his steps resounded Down the outer stair. Smarting with the insult, Through the streets of Drontheim Strode he red and wrathful, With his stately air. All his ships he gathered, Summoned all his forces, Making his war levy In the region round; Down the coast of Norway, Like a flock of sea-gulls, Sailed the fleet of Olaf Through the Danish Sound. With his own hand fearless, Steered he the Long Serpent, Strained the creaking cordage, Bent each boom and gaff; Till in Venland landing, The domains of Thyri He redeemed and rescued From King Burislaf. Then said Olaf, laughing, 'Not ten yoke of oxen Have the power to draw us Like a woman's hair! 'Now will I confess it, Better things are jewels Than angelica stalks are For a Queen to wear.'