The Fostering of Aslaug

An epic poem about the last remaining Volsung, a baby princess named Aslaug. She is secreted away by her protector Heimer inside the chamber of a harp. Her hiding place is discovered and Heimer killed. She is then raised by a cruel husband and wife on a rustic farmstead. She bides her time, until the day of her rescue...

Read the paragraphed version of this story: The Last of the Volsungs

## Featured Excerpt

Fostering of Aslaug, on page 35:

"[He] Unslung his harp and knelt down there

Beside it, and a little while

Handled the hollow with a smile

Of cunning, and behold, the thing

Opened, as by some secret spring,

And there within the hollow lay,

Clad in gold-fringed well-wrought array,

Aslaug, the golden-headed child,

Asleep and rosy; but she smiled..."

## References

1. ↑ Image Credit: Wikipedia
2. ↑ Morris, William. "The Fostering of Aslaug." *The Earthly Paradise: December-February*. Vol. 4. London: Ellis and White, 1860. 30-86. The Earthly Paradise. *Google Books*. 15 Nov. 2007. Web. 5 Apr. 2016. <https://books.google.com/books?id=32ARAAAAYAAJ>.

## Full Story

### Overview

ARGUMENT: ASLAUG, the daughter of Sigurd who slew the Dragon, and of Brynhild whom he loved, lost all her friends and kin, and was nourished amid great misery; yet in the end her fortune, her glory, and her beauty prevailed, and she came to mighty estate.

### Prologue: The Story of Sigurd

A FAIR tale might I tell to you

Of Sigurd, who the dragon slew

Upon the murder-wasted heath,

And how love led him unto death,

Through strange wild ways of joy and pain;

Then such a story should ye gain,

If I could tell it all aright,

As well might win you some delight

From out the woefullest of days;

But now have I no heart to raise

That mighty sorrow laid asleep,

That love so sweet, so strong and deep,

That as ye hear the wonder told

In those few strenuous words of old,

The whole world seems to rend apart

When heart is torn away from heart.

But the world lives still, and to-day

The green Rhine wendeth on its way

Over the unseen golden curse

That drew its lords to worse and worse,

Till that last dawn in Atli's hall,

When the red flame flared over all,

Lighting the leaden, sunless sea.

### Sigurd Marries Brynhild

  Yet so much told of this must be,

That Sigurd, while his youth was bright

And unstained, ’midst the first delight

Of Brynhild's love—that him did gain

All joy, all woe, and very bane—

Begat on her a woman-child.

In hope she bore the maid, and smiled

When of its father's face she thought;

### Brynhild Must Leave her Child

But when sad time the change had brought,

And she to Gunnar's house must go,

She, thinking how she might bestow

The memory of that lovely eve,

That morn o’er-sweet, the child did leave

With Heimir, her old foster-sire,

A mighty lord; then, with the fire

Of her old love still smouldering,

And brooding over many a thing,

She went unto her life and death.

Nought, as I said, the story saith

Of all the wrong and love that led

Her feet astray: together dead

They lie now on their funeral pile,

And now the little one doth smile

Upon the glittering war-array

Of the men come the sooth to say

To Heimir of that bitter end.

   Silent he stared till these did wend

Into the hall to fire and board,

Then by the porch without a word

Long time he sat: then he arose

And drew his sword, and hard and close

Gazed on the thin-worn edge, and said:

"Smooth cheeks, sweet hands, and art thou dead?

O me thy glory! Woe is me!

I thought once more thine eyes to see—

Had I been young three years agone,

When thou a maiden burd-alone,

Hadst eighteen summers!"

                             As he spake,

He gat him swiftly to the brake

Of thorn-trees nigh his house: and some,

When calm once more he sat at home,

Deemed he had wept: but no word more

He spake thereof.

### Heimer Builds a Harp

                    A few days wore,

And now alone he oft would be

Within his smithy; heedfully

He guarded it, that none came in;

Nor marvelled men; "For he doth win

Some work of craftsmanship," said they,

"And such before on many a day

Hath been his wont."

                        So it went on

That a long while he wrought alone;

But on the tenth day bore in there

Aslaug, the little maiden fair,

Three winters old; and then the thing

A little set folk marvelling;

Yet none the less in nought durst they

To watch him. So to end of day

Time drew, and still unto the hall

He came not, and a dread ’gan fall

Upon his household, lest some ill

The quiet of their lives should kill;

And so it fell that the next morn

They found them of their lord forlorn,

And Aslaug might they see no more;

Wide open was the smithy door,

The forge a-cold, and hammering tools

Lay on the floor, with woodwright's rules,

And chips and shavings of hard wood.

Moreover, when they deemed it good

To seek for him, nought might they do,

The tale says, for so dark it grew

Over all ways, that no man might

Know the green meads from water white.

So back they wended sorrowfully,

And still most like it seemed to be,

That Odin had called Heimir home;

And nothing strange it seemed to some

That with him the sweet youngling was,

Since Brynhild's love might bring to pass

E’en mightier things than this, they said,

And sure the little gold-curled head,

The pledge of all her earthly weal,

In Freyia's house she longed to feel.

### Heimer Flees

   Further the way was than they deemed

Unto that rest whereof they dreamed

Both to the greybeard and the child;

For now by trodden way and wild

Goes Heimir long: wide-faced is he,

Thin-cheeked, hooked-nosed, e’en as might be

An ancient erne; his hair falls down

From ’neath a wide slouched hat of brown,

And mingles white with his white beard;

A broad brown brand, most men have feared,

Hangs by his side, and at his back

Is slung a huge harp, that doth lack

All fairness certes, and so great

It is, that few might bear its weight;

Yea, Heimir even, somewhat slow

Beneath its burden walketh now,

And looketh round, and stayeth soon.

### Heimer and Aslaug Play in the Woods

   On a calm sunny afternoon,

Within a cleared space of a wood,

At last the huge old warrior stood

And peered about him doubtfully;

Who, when nought living he might see,

But mid the beech-boughs high aloft

A blue-winged jay, and squirrel soft,

And in the grass a watchful hare,

Unslung his harp and knelt down there

Beside it, and a little while

Handled the hollow with a smile

Of cunning, and behold, the thing

Opened, as by some secret spring,

And there within the hollow lay,

Clad in gold-fringed well-wrought array,

Aslaug, the golden-headed child,

Asleep and rosy; but she smiled

As Heimir's brown hand drew a-near,

And woke up free from any fear,

And stretched her hands out towards his face.

   He sat him down in the green place,

With kind arms round the little one,

Till, fully waked now, to the sun

She turned, and babbling, ’gainst his breast

Her dimpled struggling hands she pressed:

His old lips touched those eyes of hers,

That Sigurd's hope and Brynhild's tears

Made sad e’en in her life's first spring;

Then sweet her chuckling laugh did ring,

As down amid the flowery grass

He set her, and beheld her pass

From flower to flower in utter glee;

Therewith he reached out thoughtfully,

And cast his arms around the harp,

That at the first most strange and sharp

Rang through the still day, and the child

Stopped, startled by that music wild:

But then a change carne o’er the strings,

As, tinkling sweet, of merry things

They seemed to tell, and to and fro

Danced Aslaug, till the tune did grow

Fuller and stronger, sweeter still,

And all the woodland place did fill

With sound, not merry now nor sad,

But sweet, heart-raising, as it had

The gathered voice of that fair day

Amidst its measured strains; her play

Amid the flowers grew slower now,

And sadder did the music grow,

And yet still sweeter: and with that,

Nigher to where the old man sat

Aslaug ’gan move, until at last

All sound from the strained strings there passed

As into each other's eyes they gazed;

Then, sighing, the young thing he raised,

And set her softly on his knee,

And laid her round cheek pitifully

Unto his own, and said:

                          "Indeed,

Of such as I shalt thou have need,

As swift the troubled days wear by,

And yet I know full certainly

My life on earth shall not be long:

And those who think to better wrong

By working wrong shall seek thee wide

To slay thee; yea, belike they ride

E’en now unto my once-loved home.

Well, to a void place shall they come,

And I for thee thus much have wrought—

For thee and Brynhild—yea, and nought

I deem it still to turn my face

Each morn unto some unknown place

Like a poor churl—for, ah! who knows

Upon what wandering wind that blows

Drives Brynhild's spirit through the air;

And now by such road may I fare

That we may meet ere many days."

   Again the youngling did he raise

Unto his face, for to the earth

Had she slipped down; her babbling mirth

Had mingled with his low deep speech;

But now, as she her hand did reach

Unto his beard, nor stinted more

Her babble, did a change come o’er

His face; for through the windless day

Afar a mighty horn did bray;

Then from beneath his cloak he drew

A golden phial, and set it to

Her ruddy lips in haste, and she

Gazed at him awhile fearfully,

As though she knew he was afraid;

But silently the child he laid

In the harp's hollow place, for now

Drowsy and drooping did she grow

’Neath the strong potion; hastily

He shut the harp, and raised it high

Upon his shoulder, set his sword

Ready to hand, and with no word

Stalked off along the forest glade;

But muttered presently:

                          "Afraid

Is a strange word for me to say;

But all is changed in a short day,

And full of death the world seems grown.

Mayhap I shall be left alone

When all are dead beside, to dream

Of happy life that once did seem

So stirring ’midst the folk I loved.

Ah! is there nought that may be moved

By strong desire? yea, nought that rules

The very Gods who thrust earth's fools,

This way and that as foolishly,

For aught I know thereof, as I

Deal with the chess when I am drunk?"

   His head upon his breast was sunk

For a long space, and then again

He spake: "My life is on the wane;

Somewhat of this I yet may learn

Ere long; yet I am fain to earn

My rest by reaching Atli's land;

For surely ’neath his mighty hand

Safe from the Niblungs shall she be,

Safe from the forge of misery,

Grimhild the Wise-wife."

### Heimer Seeks Shelter in a Cottage

                         As a goad

That name was to him; on he strode

Still swifter, silent. But day wore

As fast between the tree-stems hoar

He went his ways; belike it was

That he scarce knew if he did pass

O’er rough or smooth, by dark or light,

Until at last the very night

Had closed round him as thinner grew

The wood that he was hurrying through;

And as he gained a grey hill's brow

He felt the sea-breeze meet him now,

And heard the low surf's measured beat

Upon the beach. He stayed his feet,

And through the dusky gathering dark

Peered round and saw what seemed a spark

Along the hill's ridge; thitherward

He turned, still warily on guard,

Until he came unto the door

Of some stead, lone belike and poor:

There knocking, was he bidden in,

And heedfully he raised the pin,

And entering stood with blinking gaze

Before a fire's unsteady blaze.

   There sat a woman all alone

Whom some ten years would make a crone,

Yet would they little worsen her;

Her face was sorely pinched with care,

Sour and thin-lipped she was; of hue

E’en like a duck's foot; whitish blue

Her eyes were, seeming as they kept

Wide open even when she slept.

   She rose up, and was no less great

Than a tall man, a thing of weight

Was the gaunt hand that held a torch

As Heimir, midmost of the porch,

Fixed his deep grey and solemn eyes

Upon that wretched wife's surprise.

   "Well," said she, "what may be your will?

Little we have your sack to fill,

If on thieves’ errand ye are come;

But since the goodman is from home

I know of none shall say you nay

If ye have will to bear away

The goodwife."

                  As on a burned house

Grown cold, the moon shines dolorous

From out the rainy lift, so now

A laugh must crease her lip and brow.

"I am no thief, goodwife," he said,

"But ask wherein to lay my head

To-night."

            "Well, goodman, sit," said she:

"Thine ugly box of minstrelsy

With thine attire befits not ill;

And both belike may match thy skill."

   So by the fire he sat him down,

And she too sat, and coarse and brown

The thread was that her rock gave forth

As there she spun; of little worth

Was all the gear that hall did hold.

   Now Heimir new-come from the cold

Had set his harp down by his side,

And, turning his grey eyes and wide

Away from hers, slouched down his hat

Yet farther o’er his brows, and sat

With hands outstretched unto the flame.

But had he noted how there came

A twinkle into her dead eyes,

He had been minded to arise,

Methinks; for better company

The wild-wood wolf had been than she.

Because, from out the hodden grey

That was the great man's poor array,

Once and again could she behold

How that the gleam of ruddy gold

Came forth: so therewith she arose,

And, wandering round the hall, drew close

Unto the great harp, and could see

Some fringe of golden bravery

Hanging therefrom.—And the man too,

In spite of patch and clouted shoe,

And unadorned sword, seemed indeed

Scarce less than a great king in need,

So wholly noble was his mien.

   So, with these things thus thought and seen,

Within her mind grew fell intent

As to and fro the hall she went,

And from the ark at last did take

Meal forth for porridge and for cake,

And to the fire she turned, and ’gan

To look still closer on the man

As with the girdle and the pot

She busied her, and doubted not

That on his arm a gold ring was;

For presently, as she did pass,

Somewhat she brushed the cloak from him,

And saw the gold gleam nowise dim.

Then sure, if man might shape his fate,

Her greed impatient and dull hate

Within her eyes he might have seen,

And so this tale have never been.

But nought he heeded; far away

His thoughts were.

                     Therewith did she lay

The meal upon the board, and said,

"Meseems ye would be well apaid

Of meat and drink, and it is here,

Fair lord—though somewhat sorry cheer;

Fall to now."

               Whining, with a grin

She watched, as one who sets a gin,

If at the name of lord at all

He started, but no speech did fall

From his old lips, and wearily

He gat to meat, and she stood by,

And poured the drink to him, and said:

### The Cottage Wife Plots Against Heimer

   "To such a husband am I wed

That ill is speech with him, when he

Comes home foredone with drudgery;

And though indeed I deem thee one

Who deeds of fame full oft hath done

And would not fear him, yet most ill

’Twould be the bliss of us to spill

In brawl with him, as might betide

If thou his coming shouldst abide.

Our barley barn is close hereby,

Wherein a weary man might lie

And be no worse at dawn of day."

   "Well, goodwife," said he, "lead the way!

Worse lodging have I had than that,

Where the wolf howled unto the bat,

And red the woodland stream did run."

   She started back, he seemed as one

Who might have come back from the dead,

To wreak upon her evil head

Her sour ill life, but nought the more

He heeded her; "Go on before,"

He said, "for I am in no case

To-night to meet an angry face

And hold my hand from my good sword."

   So out she passed without a word,

Though when he took in careful wise

The heavy harp, with greedy eyes

And an ill scowl she gazed thereon,

Yet durst say nought. But soon they won

Unto the barn's door—he turned round,

And, gazing down the rugged ground,

Beheld the sea wide reaching, white

Beneath the new-risen moon, and bright

His face waxed for a little while,

And on the still night did he smile,

As into the dark place he went,—

And saw no more of the grey bent,

Or sea, or sky, or morrow's sun.

Unless perchance when all is done,

And all the wrongs the Gods have wrought

Come utterly with them to nought,

New heavens and earth he shall behold,

And peaceful folk, and days of gold,

When Baldur is come back again

O’er an undying world to reign.

### Heimer is Murdered in the Barn

   For when the carl came home that night,

In every ill wise that she might,

She egged him on their guest to slay

As sleeping in the barn he lay;

And, since the man was no ill mate

For her, and heedless evil fate

Had made him big and strong enow,

He plucked up heart to strike the blow,

Though but a coward thief he was.

So at the grey dawn did he pass

Unto the barn, and entered there;

But through its dusk therewith did hear

The sound of harp-strings tinkling: then,

As is the wont of such-like men,

Great fear of ghosts fell on his heart;

Yet, trembling sore, he thrust apart

The long stems of the barley-straw,

And, peering round about, he saw

Heimir asleep, his naked brand

Laid o’er his knees, but his right hand

Amid the harp-strings, whence there came

A mournful tinkling; and some name

His lips seemed muttering, and withal

A strange sound on his ears did fall

As of a young child murmuring low

The muffled sounds of passing woe.

Nought dreadful saw he; yet the hair

’Gan bristle on his head with fear,

And twice was he at point to turn

His bread by other craft to earn;

But in the end prevailed in him

His raging greed ’gainst glimmerings dim

Of awe and pity; which but wrought

In such wise in him that he thought

How good it were if all were done,

And day, and noise, and the bright sun

Were come again: he crept along,

Poising a spear, thick shafted, strong,

In his right hand; and ever fast

His heart beat as the floor he passed,

And o’er his shoulder gazed for fear

Once and again; he raised the spear,

As Heimir's hand the string still pressed,

And thrust it through his noble breast,

Then turned and fled, and heard behind

A sound as of a wildered wind,

Half moan, half sigh; then all was still.

But yet such fear his soul did fill

That he stayed not until he came

Into the hall, and cried the name

Of his wife, Grima, in high voice.

   "Ah well," she said, "what needs this noise,

Can ye not see me here?—Well then?"

   "Wife," said he, "of the sons of men

I deem him not, rather belike

Odin it was that I did strike."

   She laughed an ill laugh. "Well," she said,

"What then, if only he be dead?"

   "What if he only seemed to die?"

He said, "and when night draweth nigh

Shall come again grown twice as great,

And eat where yesternight he ate?

For certes, wife, that harp of his,

No earthly minstrelsy it is,

Since as in sleep the man was laid

Of its own self a tune it played;

Yea, yea, and in a man's voice cried;

Belike a troll therein doth bide."

   "An ugly, ill-made minstrel's tool,"

She said; "thou blundering, faint-heart fool!

Some wind moaned through the barn belike,

And the man's hand the strings did strike."

### Aslaug is Discovered

   And yet she shivered as she spake,

As though some fear her heart did take,

And neither durst to draw anigh

The barn until the sun was high,

Then in they went together, and saw

The old man lying in the straw,

Scarce otherwise than if asleep,

Though in his heart the spear lay deep,

And round about the floor was red.

Then Grima went, and from the dead

Stripped off the gold ring, while the man

Stood still apart; then she began

To touch the harp, but in no wise

Might open it to reach the prize.

Wherefore she bade her husband bring

Edge-tools to split the cursed thing.

He brought them trembling, and the twain

Fell to, and soon their end did gain;

But shrank back trembling to see there

The youngling, her grey eyes and clear

Wide open, fearless; but the wife

Knew too much of her own sour life

To fear the other world o’ermuch,

And soon began to pull and touch

The golden raiment of the may;

And at the last took heart to say:

   "Be comforted! we shall not die;

For no work is this certainly

Wrought in the country never seen.

But raiment of a Hunnish queen—

Gold seest thou, goodman! gems seest thou!—

No ill work hast thou wrought I trow.

But, for the maiden, we must give

Victuals to her that she may live;

For though to-day she is indeed

But one more mouth for us to feed,

Yet as she waxeth shall she do

Right many a thing to help us two;

Yea, whatso hardest work there is,

That shall be hers—no life of bliss

Like sewing gold mid bower-mays;

She shall be strong, too, as the days

Increase on her."

                    Then said the man:

"Get speech from her, for sure she can

Tell somewhat of her life and state."

But whatso he or his vile mate

Might do, no word at all she spake

Either for threat or promise sake;

Until at last they deemed that she

Was tongue-tied: so now presently

Unto the homestead was she brought,

And her array all golden-wrought

Stripped from her, and in rags of grey

Clad was she. But from light of day

The carl hid Heimir dead, and all

Into dull sodden life did fall.

### Aslaug is Raised by the Cottage Couple

SO with the twain abode the may,

Waxing in beauty day by day,

But ever as one tongue-tied was,

What thing soever came to pass;

And needs the hag must call her Crow:

"A name," she said, "full good enow

For thee—my mother bore it erst."

So lived the child that she was nursed

On little meat and plenteous blows;

Yet nowise would she weep, but close

Would set her teeth thereat, and go

About what work she had to do,

And ever wrought most sturdily;

Until at last she grew to be

More than a child. And now the place

That once had borne so dull a face

Grew well-nigh bright to look upon,

And whatso thing might shine there shone;

Yea, all but her who brought about

That change therein—for, past all doubt,

Years bettered in nowise our hag,

And ever she said that any rag

Was good enough to clothe the Crow.

And still her hate did grow and grow

As Aslaug grew to womanhood;

Oft would she sit in murderous mood

Long hours, with hand anigh a knife,

As Aslaug slept, all hate at strife

With greed within her; yet withal

Something like fear of her did fall

Upon her heart, and heavy weighed

That awful beauty, that oft stayed

Her hand from closing on the hilt,

E’en more than thought of good things spilt.

Hard words and blows this scarce might stay,

For like the minutes of the day,

Not looked for, noted not when gone,

Were all such things unto the crone,

And, smitten or unsmitten, still

The Crow was swift to work her will.

### Grown Aslaug Wanders in the Woods

   In spring-tide of her seventeenth year,

On the hill-side the house anear

Went Aslaug, following up her goats:

On such a day as when Love floats

Through the soft air unseen, to touch

Our hearts with longings overmuch

Unshapen into hopes, to make

All things seem fairer for the sake

Of that which cometh, who doth bear

Who knows how much of grief and fear

In his fair arms. So Aslaug went,

On vague and unnamed thoughts intent,

That seemed to her full sweet enow,

And ever greater hope did grow,

And sweet seemed life to her and good,

Small reason why: into the wood

She turned, and wandered slim and fair

’Twixt the dark tree-boles: strange and rare

The sight was of her golden head,

So good, uncoifed, unchapleted,

Above her sordid dark array,

That over her fair body lay

As dark clouds on a lilied hill.

The wild things well might gaze their fill,

As through the wind-flowers brushed her feet,

As her lips smiled when those did meet

The lush-cold blue-bells, or were set

Light on the pale dog-violet

Late April bears: the red-throat jay

Screamed not for nought, as on her way

She went, light-laughing at some thought;

If the dove moaned ’twas not for nought,

Since she was gone too soon from him,

And e’en the sight he had was dim

For the thick budding twigs. At last

Into an open space she passed,

Nigh filled with a wide, shallow lake,

Amidmost which the fowl did take

Their pastime; o’er the firmer grass,

’Twixt rushy ooze, swift did she pass,

Until upon a bank of sand

Close to the water did she stand,

And gazed down in that windless place

Upon the image of her face,

And as she gazed laughed musically

Once and again; nor heeded she

Her straying flock: her voice, that none

Had heard since Heimir was undone

Within that wretched stead, began

Such speech as well had made a man

Forget his land and kin to make

Those sweet lips tremble for his sake:

   "Spring bringeth love," she said, "to all."

She sighed as those sweet sounds did fall

From her unkissed lips: "Ah," said she,

"How came that sweet word unto me,

Among such wretched folk who dwell,

Folk who still seem to carry hell

About with them?—That ancient man

They slew, with whom my life began,

I deem he must have taught me that,

And how the steel-clad maiden sat

Asleep within the ring of flame,

Asleep, and waiting till Love came,

Who was my father: many a dream

I dream thereof, till it doth seem

That they will fetch me hence one day.

Somewhere I deem life must be gay,

The flowers are wrought not for the sake

Of those two murderers."

### Aslaug Bathes and is Seen by a Hunter

                            While she spake

Her hands were busy with her gown,

And at the end it slipped adown

And left her naked there and white

In the unshadowed noontide light.

Like Freyia in her house of gold,

A while her limbs did she behold

Clear mirrored in the lake beneath;

Then slowly, with a shuddering breath,

Stepped in the water cold, and played

Amid the ripple that she made,

And spoke again aloud, as though

The lone place of her heart might know:

"Soothly," she said, "if I knew fear,

Scarcely should I be sporting here,

But blinder surely has the crone

In those last months of winter grown,

Nor knows if I be foul or sweet,

Or sharp stripes might I chance to meet,

As heretofore it hath been seen

When I have dared to make me clean

Amid their foulness: loathes her heart

That one she hates should have a part

In the world's joy.—Well, time wears by,

I was not made for misery.

Surely if dimly do mine eyes

Behold no sordid tale arise,

No ill life drawing near—who knows

But I am kept for greater woes,

Godlike despair that makes not base,

Though like a stone may grow the face

Because of it, yea, and the heart

A hard-wrought treasure set apart

For the world's glory?"

                         Therewith she

Made for the smooth bank leisurely,

And, naked as she was, did pass

Unto the warm and flowery grass

All unashamed, and fearing not

For aught that should draw nigh the spot:

And soothly had some hunter been

Near by and all her beauty seen,

He would have deemed he saw a fay

And hastened trembling on his way.

But when full joyance she had had

Of sun and flowers, her limbs she clad

In no long time, forsooth, and then

Called back her wandering flock again

With one strange dumb cry, e’en as though

Their hearts and minds she needs must know,

For hurrying back with many a bleat

They huddled round about her feet.

And back she went unto the stead,

Strange visions pressing round her head,

So light of heart and limb, that though

She went with measured steps and slow,

Each yard seemed but a dance to her.

### Aslaug Spies a Ship, The Seamen Visit Her Home

   So now the thick wood did she clear,

And o’er the bent beheld the sea,

And stood amazed there suddenly,

For a long ship, with shield-hung rail,

And fair-stained flapping raven-sail,

And golden dragon-stem, there lay

On balanced oars amidst the bay,

Slow heaving with the unrippled swell.

With a strange hope she might not tell

Her eyes ran down the strand, and there

Lay beached a ship's boat painted fair,

And on the shingle by her side

Three blue-clad axemen did abide

Their fellows, sent belike ashore

To gather victuals for their store.

   She looked not long; with heart that beat

More quickly and with hurrying feet

Unto the homestead did she pass,

And when anigh the door she was

She heard men's voices deep and rough;

Then the shrill crone, who said, "Enough

Of work I once had done for you,

But now my days left are but few

And I am weak; I prithee wait,

Already now the noon is late,

My daughter, Crow, shall soon be here."

"Nay," said a shipman, "have no fear,

Goodwife, a speedy death to get,

Thou art a sturdy carline yet:

Howbeit we well may wait a while."

   Thereat Aslaug, with a strange smile,

Fresh from that water in the wood,

Pushed back the crazy door, and stood

Upon the threshold silently;

Bareheaded and barefoot was she,

And scarce her rags held each to each,

Yet did the shipmen stay their speech

And open-mouthed upon her stare,

As with bright eyes and face flushed fair

She stood; one gleaming lock of gold,

Strayed from her fair head's plaited fold,

Fell far below her girdlestead,

And round about her shapely head

A garland of dog-violet

And wind-flowers meetly had she set:

They deemed it little scathe indeed

That her coarse homespun ragged weed

Fell off from her round arms and lithe

Laid on the door-post, that a withe

Of willows was her only belt;

And each as he gazed at her felt

As some gift had been given him.

   At last one grumbled, "Nowise dim

It is to see, goodwife, that this

No branch of thy great kinship is."

   Grima was glaring on the may,

And scarce for rage found words to say;

"Yea, soothly is she of our kin:

Sixty-five winters changeth skin.

And whatsoever she may be,

Though she is dumb as a dead tree,

She worketh ever double-tide.

So, masters, ope your mealsacks wide

And fall to work; enow of wood

There is, I trow."

                   And there she stood,

Shaking all o’er, and when the may

Brushed past her going on her way,

From off the board a knife she caught,

And well-nigh had it in her thought

To end it all. Small heed the men

Would take of her, forsooth; and when

They turned their baking-work to speed,

And Aslaug fell the meal to knead,

He was the happiest of them all

Unto whose portion it did fall

To take the loaves from out her hand;

And gaping often would he stand,

And ever he deemed that he could feel

A trembling all along the peel

Whenas she touched it—sooth to say,

Such bread as there was baked that day

Was never seen: such as it was

The work was done, and they did pass

Down toward the ship, and as they went

A dull place seemed the thymy bent,

Gilded by sunset; the fair ship,

That soft in the long swell did dip

Her golden dragon, seemed nought worth,

And they themselves, all void of mirth,

Stammering and blundering in their speech,

Still looking back, seemed each to each

Ill-shapen, ugly, rough and base

As might be found in any place.

### The Seamen Report to the Captain

   Well, saith the tale, and when the bread

Was broken, just as light as lead

Men found the same, as sweet as gall,

Half baked and sodden; one and all

Men gave it to the devil; at last

Unto their lord the story passed,

Who called for them, and bade them say

Why they had wrought in such a way;

They grinned and stammered, till said one:

"We did just e’en as must be done

When men are caught; had it been thou

A-cold had been the oven now."

   "Ye deal in riddles," said the lord,

"Enough brine is there overboard

To fill you full if even so

Ye needs must have it."

                         "We did go,"

The man said, "to a house, and found

That lack of all things did abound;

A yellow-faced and blear-eyed crone

Was in the sooty hall alone;

But as we talked with her, and she

Spake to us ill and craftily,

A wondrous scent was wafted o’er

The space about the open door,

And all the birds drew near to sing,

And summer pushed on into spring,

Until there stood before our eyes

A damsel clad in wretched guise,

Yet surely of the gods I deem,

So fair she was;—well then this dream

Of Freyia on midsummer night,

This breathing love, this once-seen sight,

Flitted amidst us kneading meal,

And from us all the wits did steal;—

Hadst thou been wise?"

                    "Well," said the lord,

"This seemeth but an idle word;

Yet since ye all are in one tale

Somewhat to you it may avail—

Speak out! my lady that is dead—

Thora, the chief of goodlihead—

Came this one nigh to her at all?"

   One answer from their mouths did fall,

That she was fairest ever seen.

"If two such marvellous things have been

Wrought by the gods, then have they wrought

Exceeding well," the lord said; "nought

Will serve me now but to have sight

Of her, and hear the fresh delight

Of her sweet voice."

                     "Nay, nay," one cried,

"The carline called the maid tongue-tied

E’en from her birth."

                       But thoughtfully

The lord spake: "Then belike shall be

Some wonder in the thing. Lo now,

Since I, by reason of my vow

Made on the cup at Yule, no more

May set foot upon any shore

Till I in Micklegarth have been,

And somewhat there of arms have seen,

Go ye at earliest morn and say

That I would see her ere the day

Is quite gone by; here shall she come

And go as if her father's home

The good ship were, and I indeed

Her very brother. Odin speed

The matter in some better wise,

Unless your words be nought but lies!"

### Aslaug is Asked to Meet the Captain

   So the next morn she had the word

To come unto their king and lord;

She answered not, but made as though

Their meaning she did fully know,

And gave assent: the crone was there,

And still askance at her did glare,

And mid her hatred grew afeard

Of what might come, but spoke no word;

And ye may well believe indeed

That those men gave her little heed,

But stared at Aslaug as she stood

Beside the greasy, blackened wood

Of the hall's uprights, fairer grown

Than yesterday, soft ’neath her gown

Her fair breast heaving, her wide eyes

Mid dreams of far-off things grown wise,

The rock dropped down in her left hand;—

There mazed awhile the men did stand,

Then gat them back. And so the sun

Waxed hot and waned, and, day nigh done,

Gleamed on the ship's side as she lay

Close in at deepest of the bay,

Her bridge gold-hung on either hand

Cast out upon the hard white sand;

While o’er the bulwarks many a man

Gazed forth; and the great lord began

To fret and fume, till on the brow

Of the low cliff they saw her now,

Who stood a moment to behold

The ship's sun-litten flashing gold;

Then slowly ’gan to get her down

A steep path in the sea-cliff brown,

Till on a sudden did she meet

The slant sun cast about its feet,

And flashed as in a golden cloud;

Since scarcely her poor raiment showed

Beneath the glory of her hair,

Whose last lock touched her ankles bare.

### Aslaug and the Captain Fall in Love

   For so it was that as she went

Unto this meeting, all intent

Upon the time that was to be,

While yet just hidden from the sea,

She stayed her feet a little while,

And, gazing on her raiment vile,

Flushed red, and muttered,—

                             "Who can tell

But I may love this great lord well?

An evil thing then should it be

If he cast loathing eyes on me

This first time for my vile attire."

   Then, while her cheek still burned like fire,

She set hand to her hair of gold

Until its many ripples rolled

All over her, and no great queen

Was e’er more gloriously beseen;

And thus she went upon her way.

   Now when the crew beheld the may

Set foot upon the sand there rose

A mighty shout from midst of those

Rough seafarers; only the lord

Stood silent gazing overboard

With great eyes, till the bridge she gained,

And still the colour waxed and waned

Within his face; but when her foot

First pressed the plank, to his heart's root

Sweet pain there pierced, for her great eyes

Were fixed on his in earnest wise,

E’en as her thoughts were all of him;

And somewhat now all things waxed dim,

As unto her he stretched his hand,

And felt hers; and the twain did stand

Hearkening each other's eager breath.

But she was changed, for pale as death

She was now as she heard his voice.

   "Full well may we this eve rejoice,

Fair maid, that thou hast come to us;

That this grey shore and dolorous

Holds greater beauty than the earth

Mid fairer days may bring to birth,

And that I hold it now. But come

Unto the wind-blown woven home,

Where I have dwelt alone awhile,

And with thy speech the hours beguile."

   For nothing he remembered

Of what his men unto him said,

That she was dumb. Not once she turned

Her eyes from his; the low sun burned

Within her waving hair, as she

Unto the poop went silently

Beside him, and with faltering feet,

Because this hour seemed over sweet,

And still his right hand held her hand.

   But when at last the twain did stand

Beneath the gold-hung tilt alone,

He said, "Thou seemest such an one

As who could love; thou lookst on me

As though thou hopedst love might be

Betwixt us—thou art pale, my sweet,

Good were it if our lips should meet."

   Then mouth to mouth long time they stood,

And when they sundered the red blood

Burnt in her cheek, and tenderly

Trembled her lips, and drew anigh

His lips again: but speech did break

Swiftly from out them, and she spake:

"May it be so, fair man, that thou

Art even no less happy now

Than I am."

              With a joyous cry

He caught her to him hastily;

And mid that kiss the sun went down,

And colder was the dark world grown.

Once more they parted; "Ah, my love,"

He said, "I knew not aught could move

My heart to such joy as thy speech."

   She made as if she fain would reach

Her lips to his once more; but ere

They touched, as smitten by new fear,

She drew aback and said: "Alas!

It darkens, and I needs must pass

Back to the land, to be more sad

Than if this joy I ne’er had had.

And thou—thou shalt be sorry too,

And pity me that it is so."

   "To-morrow morn comes back the day,"

He said, "If we should part, sweet may:

Yet why should I be left forlorn

Betwixt this even and the morn?"

   His hand had swept aback her hair,

And on her shoulder, gleaming bare

From midst her rags, was trembling now;

But she drew back, and o’er her brow

Gathered a troubled thoughtful frown,

And on the bench she sat her down

And spake: "Nay, it were wise to bide

Awhile. Behold, the world is wide,

Yet have we found each other here,

And each to other seems more dear

Than all the world else.—Yet a king

Thou art, and I am such a thing,

By some half-dreamed-of chance cast forth

To live a life of little worth,

A lonely life—and it may be

That thou shouldst weary soon of me

If I abode here now—and I,

How know I? All unhappily

My life has gone; scarce a kind word

Except in dreams my ears have heard

But those thy lovely lips have said:

It might be when all things were weighed

That I too light of soul should prove

To hold for ever this great love."

   Down at her feet therewith he knelt,

And round her his strong arms she felt

Drawing her to him, as he said:

"These are strange words for thee, O maid;

Are those sweet loving lips grown cold

So soon? Yet art thou in my hold,

And certainly my heart is hot.

What help against me hast thou got?"

   Each unto each their cheeks were laid,

As in a trembling voice she said:

"No help, because so dear to me

Thou art, and mighty as may be;

Thou hast seen much, art wiser far

Than I am; yet strange thoughts there are

In my mind now—some half-told tale

Stirs in me, if I might avail

To tell it."

            Suddenly she rose,

And thrust him from her; "Ah, too close!

Too close now, and too far apart

To-morrow!—and a barren heart,

And days that ever fall to worse,

And blind lives struggling with a curse

They cannot grasp! Look on my face,

Because I deem me of a race

That knoweth such a tale too well.

Yet if there be such tale to tell

Of us twain, let it e’en be so,

Rather than we should fail to know

This love—ah me, my love forbear!

No pain for thee and me I fear;

Yet strive we e’en for more than this!

Thou who hast given me my first bliss

To-day, forgive me, that in turn

I see the pain within thee burn,

And may not help—because mine eyes

The Gods make clear. I am grown wise

With gain of love, and hope of days

That many a coming age shall praise."

### Aslaug and Captain Ragnar Part

   Awhile he gazed on her, and shook

With passion, and his cloak's hem took

With both hands as to rend it down;

Yet from his brow soon cleared the frown:

He said: "Yea, such an one thou art,

As needs alone must fill my heart

If I be like my father's kin,

And have a hope great deeds to win;

And surely nought shall hinder me

From living a great life with thee—

Say now what thou wouldst have me do."

   "Some deed of fame thou goest to,"

She said, "for surely thou art great;

Go on thy way then, and if fate

So shapen is, that thou mayst come

Once more unto this lonely home,

There shalt thou find me, who will live

Through whatso days that fate may give,

Till on some happy coming day

Thine oars again make white the bay."

   "If that might be remembered now,"

He said, "last Yule I made a vow

In some far land to win me fame.

Come nigher, sweet, and hear my name

Before thou goest; that if so be

Death take me and my love from thee,

Thou mayst then think of who I was,

Nor let all memory of me pass

When thou to some great king art wed:

Then shalt thou say, 'Ragnar is dead,

Who was the son of Sigurd Ring,

Among the Danes a mighty king.

He might have had me by his side,'

Then shalt thou say, 'that hour he died;

But my heart failed and not his heart.'"

   "Nay, make it not too hard to part,"

She said, when once again their lips

Had sundered; "as gold-bearing ships

Foundered amidmost of the sea,

So shall the loves of most men be,

And leave no trace behind. God wot

This heart of mine shall hate thee not

Whatso befall; but rather bless

Thee and this hour of happiness;

And if this tide shall come again

After hard longing and great pain,

How sweet, how sweet! O love, farewell,

Lest other tale there be to tell:

Yet heed this now lest afterward

It seem to thee a thing too hard

To keep thy faith to such as me;

I am belike what thou dost see,

A goatherd girl, a peasant maid,

Of a poor wretched crone afraid

From dawn to dusk; despite of dreams

In morning tides, and misty gleams

Of wondrous stories, deem me such

As I have said, nor overmuch

Cast thou thy love upon my heart

If even such a man thou art

As needs must wed a great man's child."

   He stepped aback from her and smiled,

And, stooping ’neath the lamp, drew forth

From a great chest a thing of worth—

A silken sark wrought wondrously

In some far land across the sea.

"One thing this is of many such

That I were fain thy skin should touch,"

He said, "If thou wouldst have it so."

But his voice faltered and sank low,

As though her great heart he ’gan fear.

She reached her fine strong hand anear

The farfetched thing; then smiling said:

"Strange that such fair things can be made

By men who die; and like it is

Thou think’st me worthy of all bliss;

But our rough hills and smoky house

Befit not aught so glorious,

E’en if thou come again to me;

And if not, greater grief to see

The gifts of dead love!—what say I,

Our crone should wear these certainly

If I but brought them unto land."

   He flushed red, and his strong right hand

Fell to his sword-hilt. "Nay," she said,

"All that is nought if rightly weighed;

Hope and desire shall pass the days

If thou come back."

                      Grave was her face

And tremulous: he sighed; "Then take

This last gift only for my sake."

And once again their lips did touch

And cling together. "O many such,"

She said, "if the time did not fail,

And my heart too: of what avail

Against the hand of fate to strive?

Let me begin my life to live,

As it must be a weary space."

   The moon smote full upon her face,

As on a trembling sea, as now

From the lamp-litten gold tilt low

She stepped into the fresher air,

He with her. Slow the twain did fare

Amidst the wondering men, till they

Had reached the bridge; then swift away

She turned, and passed the gold-hung rail,

And o’er the sands the moon made pale

Went gleaming, all alone: and he

Watched till her light feet steadily

Stepped up upon the dark cliff's brow:

But no one time she turned her now,

But vanished from him into night.

So there he watched till changing light

Brought the beginning of the tide

Of longing that he needs must bide;

Then he cried out for oars and sail,

And ere the morning star did fail

No more those cliffs his bird beheld,

As ’neath the wind the broad sail swelled.

### Aslaug Returns Home to Wait

BUT for the maiden, back she went

Unto the stead, and her intent

She changed in nought: no word she spake

What wrath soe’er on her might break

From the fell crone, on whom withal

Still heavier did that strange awe fall;

As well might be, for from the may

Had girlish lightness passed away

Into a sweet grave majesty,

That scarce elsewhere the world might see.

   So wore the spring, and summer came,

And went, and all the woods did flame

With autumn, as in that old tide

When slowly by the mirk hill-side

Went Heimir to his unseen death:

Then came the first frost's windless breath,

The steaming sea, the world all white,

And glittering morn and silent night,

As when the little one first felt

The world a-cold; and still she dwelt

Unchanged since that first spark of love

Wrought the great change, that so did move

Her heart to perfect loveliness.

Nor overmuch did the days press

Upon her with the weary waste

Of short life, that too quick doth haste

When joy is gained: if any thought

Thereof unto her heart was brought,

Rather it was, "Ah, overlong

For brooding over change and wrong

When that shall come! Good gain to me

My love's eyes one more time to see,

To feel once more his lips’ delight,

And die with the short summer night,

Not shamed nor sorry! But if I

Must bear the weight of misery

In the after days, yet even then

May I not leave to unborn men

A savour of sweet things, a tale

That midst all woes shall yet prevail

To make the world seem something worth?"

### One Year Later

   So passed the winter of the North,

And once again was come the spring;

Then whiles would she go loitering

Slow-footed, and with hanging head,

Through budding brake, o’er flowery mead,

With blood that throbbed full quickly now

If o’er the flowers her feet were slow,

And bonds about her seemed to be.

Yet wore the spring past lingeringly

Till on a morn of latter May,

When her soft sleep had passed away,

Nought but the bright-billed sweet-throat bird

Within the thorn at first she heard;

But, even as her heart did meet

The first wave of desire o’ersweet,

The winding of a mighty horn

Adown the breeze of May was borne,

And throbbing hope on her did fall:

Yet from her bed she leapt withal,

And clad herself, and went about

Her work, as though with ne’er a doubt

That this day e’en such like should be

As was the last; and so while she

Quickened the fire and laid the board,

Mid the crone's angry, querulous word

Of surly wonder, the goodman,

With axe on shoulder, swiftly ran

Adown the slope; but presently

Came breathless back:

                         "Ah, here they be!

Come back again for something worse,"

Said he. "This dumb maid is some curse

Laid on us."

              "Well," the goodwife said,

"Who be they?" "They who baked their bread

Within this house last spring," said he.

"Oft did I marvel then why she,

This witch-maid, went unto the strand

That eve."

             "Nay, maybe comes to hand

Some luck," the crone said. "Hold thy peace,"

He said. "What goodhap or increase

From that ill night shall ever come?

Rather I deem that now come home

Those fifteen years of murder: lo,

The worst of all we soon shall know,

I hear their voices."

                      Silently,

If somewhat pale, Aslaug passed by

From fire to board, as though she heard

And noted nothing of that word,

Whate’er it was: yet now, indeed,

The clink of sword on iron weed,

And voices of the seafarers,

Came clear enow unto her ears;

Nor was it long or e’er the door

Was darkened, as one stood before

The light and cried:

                        "Hail to this house,

If here still dwells the glorious

Fair maiden, that across the seas

We come for!"

                 Aslaug on her knees

Knelt by the brightening fire and dropped

The meal into the pot, nor stopped

For all their words, but with her hand

Screened her fair face. Then up did stand

The goodman, quaking:

                          "Well," he said,

"Good be my meed! for we have fed

This dumb maid all for kindness’ sake."

   "No need," he said, "long words to make,

And little heed we thy lies now,

But if she doom thee to the bough.

—All hail, our Lady and our Queen!"

### The Seafarers Deliver a Message

   For she, arisen, with glorious mien

Was drawing near the board, and bare

The porridge-bowl and such-like gear

Past where the men stood; tremblingly

The leader of them drew anigh,

And would have taken them, but she

Swerved from his strong hand daintily,

Smiled on him and passed by, and when

They were set down turned back again

And spoke, and well then might rejoice

That dusky place to hear her voice

For the first time:

                    "I doubt me not,

O seafarers, but ye have got

A message from that goodly lord

Who spake last year a pleasant word,

Hard to believe for a poor maid."

   Trembled the twain at what she said

Less than the unexpected sound,

For death seemed in the air around.

But the man spake: "E’en thus he saith,

That he, who heretofore feared death

In no-wise, feared this morn to come

And seek thee out in thy poor home,

Lest he should find thee dead or gone;

For scarce he deemed so sweet a one

Could be for him: 'But if she live,'

He said, 'and still her love can give

To me, let her make no delay,

For fear we see no other day

Wherein to love.'"

                  She said: "Come, then!

It shames me not that of all men

I love him best. But have ye there

Somewhat these twain might reckon dear?

Their life is ill enow to live

But that withal they needs must strive

With griping want when I am gone."

   He answered, "O thou goodly one,

Here have we many a dear-bought thing,

Because our master bade us bring

All queenly gear for thee, and deems

That thou, so clad as well beseems

That lovely body, wouldst aboard;

But all we have is at thy word

To keep or spend."

                   "Nay, friends," she said,

"If thy lord loves my goodlihead,

Fain would I bear alone to him

What wealth I have of face or limb,

For him to deck when all is his,

So full enow shall even this

That I am dight with be for me;

But since indeed of his bounty

He giveth unto me to give—

Take ye this gold, ye twain, and live

E’en as ye may—small need to bless

Or curse your sordid churlishness,

Because methinks, without fresh curse,

Each day that comes shall still be worse

Than the past day, and worst of all

Your ending day on you shall fall.

Yet, if it may be, fare ye well,

Since in your house I came to dwell

A certain time of my life-days."

   E’en as she spake, her glorious face

Shone the last time on that abode,

And her light feet the daisies trod

Outside the threshold. But the twain

Stood 'mazed above the bounteous gain

Of rings and gems and money bright,

And a long while, for mere affright

And wonder, durst not handle it.

### Aslaug Returns to the Ship

   But while the butterfly did flit

White round about the feet of her,

Above the little May-flowers fair,

She went adown the hill with these,

Until the low wash of the seas

They heard, and murmuring of the men

Who manned the long-ships; quickly then

They showed above the grey bent's brow,

And all the folk beheld them now

’Twixt oar and gunwale that abode,

And to the sky their shout rose loud.

But when upon the beach she came,

A bright thing in the sun did flame

’Twixt sun and ship-side, and the sea

Foamed, as one waded eagerly

Unto the smooth and sea-beat sand,

And for one moment did she stand

Breathless, with beating heart, and then

To right and left drew back the men;

She heard a voice she deemed well known,

Long waited through dull hours bygone,

And round her mighty arms were cast:

But when her trembling red lips passed

From out the heaven of that dear kiss,

And eyes met eyes, she saw in his

Fresh pride, fresh hope, fresh love, and saw

The long sweet days still onward draw,

Themselves still going hand in hand,

As now they went adown the strand.

NEXT morn, when they awoke to see

Each other's hands draw lovingly

Each unto each, awhile they lay

Silent, as though night passed away

They grudged full sore: till the King said

Unto the happy golden head

That lay upon his breast, "What thought

By those few hours of dark was brought

Unto thy heart, my love? Did dreams

Make strange thy loving sleep with gleams

Of changing days that yet may be?"

### Aslaug Dreams of Her Parents

   She answered, but still dreamily:

"In sleep a little while ago

O’er a star-litten world of snow

I fared, till suddenly nearby

A swirling fire blazed up on high;

Thereto I went, and without scathe

Passed through the flame, as one doth bathe

Within a summer stream, and there

I saw a golden palace fair

Ringed round about with roaring flame.

Unto an open door I came,

And entered a great hall thereby,

And saw where ’neath a canopy

A King and Queen there sat, more fair

Than the world knoweth otherwhere:

And much methought my heart smiled then

Upon that goodliest of all men,

That sweetest of all womankind.

Then one methought a horn did wind

Without, and the King turned and spake:

   "'Wherewith do the hall pillars shake,

O Queen, O love?'

                      She moved her head,

And in a voice like music said:

'This is the fame of Ragnar's life,

The breath of all the glorious strife

Wherewith his days shall wear.'

                                  Then he:

'What is the shadow that I see

Adown the hall?'

                   Then said the Queen:

'Our daughter surely hadst thou seen

If thine eyes saw as clear as mine:

Well worth she is our love divine,

And unto Ragnar is she wed,

The best man since that thou wert dead,

My King, my love, mine own, mine own!'

   "Then the twain kissed upon the throne,

And the dream passed and sleep passed too."

### King Ragnar Dreams of Peace

   Therewith the King her body drew

Nearer to him, if it might be,

And spake: "A strange dream came to me.

Upon a waste at dawn I went

And wandered over vale and bent,

And ever was it dawn of day,

And still upon all sides there lay

The bones of men, and war-gear turned

To shards and rust; then far off burned

A fire, and thither quick I passed.

And when I came to it at last

Dreadful it seemed, impassable;

But I, fain of that land to tell

What things soever might be known,

Went round about, and up and down,

And gat no passing by the same;

Until, methought, just where the flame

Burned highest, through the midst I saw

A man and woman toward me draw,

Even as through a flowery wood:

So came they unto where I stood,

And glad at heart therewith I grew,

For such fair folk as were the two

Ne’er had I seen; then the man cried:

   "'Hail to thee, Ragnar! well betide

This dawn of day. Stretch forth thine hand.'

   "E’en as he bade me did I stand,

Abiding what should hap, but he

Turned to the woman lovingly,

And from her bosom's fresh delight

Drew forth a blooming lily white,

And set it in mine hand, and then

Both through the flame went back again.

   "Then afterwards in earth I set

This lily, and with soft regret

Watched for its fading; but withal

Great light upon the world did fall,

And fair the sun rose o’er the earth,

And blithe I grew and full of mirth:

And no more on a waste I was,

But in a green world, where the grass

White lily-blooms well-nigh did hide;

O’er hill and valley far and wide

They waved in the warm wind; the sun

Seemed shining upon everyone,

As though it loved it: and with that

I woke, and up in bed I sat

And saw thee waking, O my sweet!"

   With that last word their lips did meet,

And even the fresh May morning bright

Was noted not in their delight.

### Epilogue

   Let be—as ancient stories tell

Full knowledge upon Ragnar fell

In lapse of time, that this was she

Begot in the felicity

Swift-fleeting of the wondrous twain,

Who afterwards through change and pain

Must live apart to meet in death.

   But, would ye know what the tale saith,

In the old Danish tongue is writ

Full many a word concerning it,—

The days through which these lovers passed,

Till death made end of all at last.

But so great Ragnar's glory seemed

To Northern folk, that many deemed

That for his death, when song arose

From that Northumbrian adder-close,

England no due atonement paid

Till Harald Godwinson was laid

Beside his fallen banner, cold

Upon the blood-soaked Sussex mould,

And o’er the wrack of Senlac field

Full-fed the grey-nebbed raven wheeled.

IN the dim place that the sun knew no more

He rose up when his tale was fully o’er,

And ’gan to pace the long hall to and fro

With old eyes looking downward, e’en as though

None else were there: at last with upraised face

He walked back swiftly to his fire-lit place,

And sat him down, and turned to the young folk

Smiling perforce; then from their lips outbroke

The murmuring speech his moody looks had stilled,

And with a sweet sound was the hall fulfilled;

E’en like the noise that from the thin wood's side

Swims through the dawning day at April-tide

Across the speckled eggs, when from the brown

Soft feathers glittering eyes are looking down

Over the dewy meads, too fresh and fair

For aught but lovely feet to wander there.

   Drag on, long night of winter, in whose heart,

Nurse of regret, the dead spring yet has part!

Drag on, O night of dreams! O night of fears!

Fed by the summers of the bygone years!