A group of tittering pages ran before, The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, He said within himself, "It was a dream!" But the straw rustled as he turned his head, There were the cap and bells beside his bed, Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, And in the corner, a revolting shape, Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. It was no dream; the world he loved so much Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!" Almost three years were ended; when there came Ambassadors of great repute and name From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane By letter summoned them forthwith to come On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. The Angel with great joy received his guests, And gave them presents of embroidered vests, And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, By the mere passing of that cavalcade, With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. The Pope received them with great pomp and blare Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!” And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace Was hustled back among the populace. In solemn state the Holy Week went by, And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; The presence of the Angel, with its light, Before the sun rose, made the city bright, And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, saw, He felt within a power unfelt before, And now the visit ending, and once more Flashing along the towns of Italy And, seated on the throne in his great hall, He heard the Angelus from convent towers, As if the better world conversed with ours, He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, And with a gesture bade the rest retire; And when they were alone, the Angel said, "Art thou the King?" Then, bowing down his head, King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best! My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, And in some cloister's school of penitence, Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven !" THE MUSICIAN'S TALE THE SAGA OF KING OLAF I THE CHALLENGE OF THOR I AM the God Thor, Here amid icebergs Rule I the nations; This is my hammer, Miölner the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it! These are the gauntlets The light thou beholdest Jove is my brother; Force rules the world still, Thou art a God too, And thus single-handed There he stood as one who dreamed; To avenge his father slain, Came the youthful Olaf home, Through the midnight sailing, sailing, Listening to the wild wind's wailing, And the dashing of the foam. To his thoughts the sacred name And the tale she oft had told Then strange memories crowded back How a stranger watched his face Scanned his features one by one, Saying, "We should know each other; I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother, Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son!" Then as Queen Allogia's page, Chief of all her men-at-arms; |