The Death of Olaf

King Olaf's dragons take the sea,

The piping south-wind drives them fast,

The shields dip deep upon the lee,

The white sails strain on every mast.

Leaping from wave to wave they round

The cape that bars the stormy sound,

And where the ocean opens wide

They see far stretched on either side

The Danish ships and Svithiod's ride;

High on his deck King Olaf stands,

The war-axe grasp'd in both his hands,

With helm of gold and jerkin red,

And fair curls blowing round his head,

First of his fleet, he leads the van

And seeks the battle, man to man.

But seaward, landward, cape and bay

Cast forth their foes on Norroway;

Ten thousand shaven oar-blades sweep

The bosom of the troubled deep;

As crash the prows, ring bill and shield,

And arm meets arm that will not yield;

Still where the foemen thickest throng

King Olaf's galley sweeps along,

And still her lofty sides to scale

Ply the fierce foemen oar and sail,

And pour their heroes bright in mail,

Woe, woe for Norroway!

O'erwhelmed, her stout sea-dragons fly,

Or, scatter'd, powerless, scarcely try

To join once more the fray:

'Yet still, like sunbeam through a cloud,

Glimmers the helm of Olaf proud,

Faint and more faint to see:

Around it close the dark'ning spears,

It sinks, it sparkles, disappears,

King Olaf, woe to thee!

Thy latest fight is fought in vain,

No more the axe of Olaf slain,

No more the glittering crest,

Shall victory pluck from ruin's verge,

Or to the chase his spearmen urge;

Above him rolls the sullen surge,

That stormy heart has rest.