Tales of a Wayside Inn Part 11

They drift as wrecks on the tide, The grappling-irons are plied, The boarders climb up the side, The shouts are feeble and few.

Ah! never shall Norway again See her sailors come back o'er the main; They all lie wounded or slain, Or asleep in the billows blue!

On the deck stands Olaf the King, Around him whistle and sing The spears that the foemen fling, And the stones they hurl with their hands.

In the midst of the stones and the spears, Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, His shield in the air he uprears, By the side of King Olaf he stands.

Over the slippery wreck Of the Long Serpent's deck Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, His lips with anger are pale;

He hews with his axe at the mast, Till it falls, with the sails overcast, Like a snow-covered pine in the vast Dim forests of Orkadale.

Seeking King Olaf then, He rushes aft with his men, As a hunter into the den Of the bear, when he stands at bay.

"Remember Jarl Hakon!" he cries; When lo! on his wondering eyes, Two kingly figures arise, Two Olafs in warlike array!

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear Of King Olaf a word of cheer, In a whisper that none may hear, With a smile on his tremulous lip;

Two shields raised high in the air, Two flashes of golden hair, Two scarlet meteors' glare, And both have leaped from the ship.

Earl Eric's men in the boats Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, And cry, from their hairy throats, "See! it is Olaf the King!"

While far on the opposite side Floats another shield on the tide, Like a jewel set in the wide Sea-current's eddying ring.

There is told a wonderful tale, How the King stripped off his mail, Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, As he swam beneath the main;

But the young grew old and gray, And never, by night or by day, In his kingdom of Norroway Was King Olaf seen again!

XXII.

THE NUN OF NIDAROS.

In the convent of Drontheim, Alone in her chamber Knelt Astrid the Abbess, At midnight, adoring, Beseeching, entreating The Virgin and Mother.

She heard in the silence The voice of one speaking, Without in the darkness, In gusts of the night-wind Now louder, now nearer, Now lost in the distance.

The voice of a stranger It seemed as she listened, Of some one who answered, Beseeching, imploring, A cry from afar off She could not distinguish.

The voice of Saint John, The beloved disciple, Who wandered and waited The Master's appearance, Alone in the darkness, Unsheltered and friendless.

"It is accepted The angry defiance, The challenge of battle!

It is accepted, But not with the weapons Of war that thou wieldest!

"Cross against corslet, Love against hatred, Peace-cry for war-cry!

Patience is powerful; He that o'ercometh Hath power o'er the nations!

"As torrents in summer, Half dried in their channels, Suddenly rise, though the Sky is still cloudless, For rain has been falling Far off at their fountains;

"So hearts that are fainting Grow full to o'erflowing, And they that behold it Marvel, and know not That G.o.d at their fountains Far off has been raining!

"Stronger than steel Is the sword of the Spirit; Swifter than arrows The light of the truth is, Greater than anger Is love, and subdueth!

"Thou art a phantom, A shape of the sea-mist, A shape of the brumal Rain, and the darkness Fearful and formless; Day dawns and thou art not!

"The dawn is not distant, Nor is the night starless; Love is eternal!

G.o.d is still G.o.d, and His faith shall not fail us; Christ is eternal!"

INTERLUDE.

A strain of music closed the tale, A low, monotonous, funeral wail, That with its cadence, wild and sweet, Made the long Saga more complete.

"Thank G.o.d," the Theologian said, "The reign of violence is dead, Or dying surely from the world; While Love triumphant reigns instead, And in a brighter sky o'erhead His blessed banners are unfurled.

And most of all thank G.o.d for this: The war and waste of clashing creeds Now end in words, and not in deeds, And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, For thoughts that men call heresies.

"I stand without here in the porch, I hear the bell's melodious din, I hear the organ peal within, I hear the prayer, with words that scorch Like sparks from an inverted torch, I hear the sermon upon sin, With threatenings of the last account.

And all, translated in the air, Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, And as the Sermon on the Mount.

"Must it be Calvin, and not Christ?

Must it be Athanasian creeds, Or holy water, books, and beads?

Must struggling souls remain content With councils and decrees of Trent?

And can it be enough for these The Christian Church the year embalms With evergreens and boughs of palms, And fills the air with litanies?

"I know that yonder Pharisee Thanks G.o.d that he is not like me; In my humiliation dressed, I only stand and beat my breast, And pray for human charity.

"Not to one church alone, but seven, The voice prophetic spake from heaven; And unto each the promise came, Diversified, but still the same; For him that overcometh are The new name written on the stone, The raiment white, the crown, the throne, And I will give him the Morning Star!

"Ah! to how many Faith has been No evidence of things unseen, But a dim shadow, that recasts The creed of the Phantasiasts, For whom no Man of Sorrows died, For whom the Tragedy Divine Was but a symbol and a sign, And Christ a phantom crucified!

"For others a diviner creed Is living in the life they lead.

The pa.s.sing of their beautiful feet Blesses the pavement of the street, And all their looks and words repeat Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, Not as a vulture, but a dove, The Holy Ghost came from above.

"And this brings back to me a tale So sad the hearer well may quail, And question if such things can be; Yet in the chronicles of Spain Down the dark pages runs this stain, And naught can wash them white again, So fearful is the tragedy."

THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE.

TORQUEMADA.

In the heroic days when Ferdinand And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, In a great castle near Valladolid, Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid, There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn, An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn, Whose name has perished, with his towers of stone, And all his actions save this one alone; This one, so terrible, perhaps 'twere best If it, too, were forgotten with the rest; Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin; A double picture, with its gloom and glow, The splendor overhead, the death below.

This sombre man counted each day as lost On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed; And when he chanced the pa.s.sing Host to meet, He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street; Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous thought, As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought.