The Northern Muse.
King Olaf was sad in his castle-home,1
As he wander’d to and fro,2
And sad on his ear fell the Norway foam3
As it dash’d on the rocks below.4
All sadly he look’d from the casement tall,5
When he heard a soft sound ring—6
A sound from without the castle-wall,7
Like the thrill of a gold harp-string.8
As the ship’s mast springs again upright9
While the tempest gathers breath,10
So King Olaf felt his soul grow light,11
And rise from the waves of death.12
The harp-string trill’d forth yet once more,13
A glory suddenly flew14
O’er sea and sky and the mountains hoar,15
And the green corn greener grew.16
“ Who stands without,” King Olaf cried,17
“ And strikes the gold harp-string ?”18
“ ’Tis a stranger maiden,” a page replied,19
“ A maiden as fair as Spring.20
“ All lately she came, none know from where,21
In a swift ship o’er the sea ;22
And the strains she sings sound soft and rare,23
Like the strains of a far countree.24
“ She has sung by village and sung by town,25
And eke by the greenwood-side ;26
And beside the sea, when the sun goes down,27
She oft sings at eventide.28
“ Then the fisher-boy leans from out his boat,29
And the fish within the sea30
Draw near to her feet, and motionless float,31
Entranced by her melody.32
“ The forester halts in the greenwood deep,33
His hound stands still also ;34
And the wild deer, just about to leap,35
Forgets where he would go.36
“ The doves are mute within their nest ;37
Still and silent is the jay ;38
The falcons upon their poised wings rest ;39
The white owl looks on the day.”40
“ Haste, lead her here,” King Olaf said ;41
“ Oh, lead her here straightway.”42
Then swift before him stood the maid,43
Blue-ey’d as a blue May-day.44
But dark King Olaf’s visage grew45
When he saw how she was clad ;46
Her mantle of serge had a russet hue :47
“ O my page, you must be mad !48
“ A Norway maiden this surely is—49
A maiden of low degree ;50
Small knowledge has this lorn maid, I wis,51
Of the strains of a far countree.”52
“ Thou wert simple, O King, to judge me, sure,53
By the thread of my russet gown ;54
See, the gold of my harp, it is more pure55
Than the gold upon your crown.”56
She struck her harp with a flying hand,57
And King Olaf felt the roll58
Of the soft sunshine of a heaven-bright land59
Come swift upon the soul.60
“ Sing, maiden, I pray thee,” King Olaf cried.61
“ Nay, nay, that may not be ;62
For the ear that leads to a heart of pride63
I have no minstrelsy.64
“ This homespun gown of russet brown—65
O, it is full dear to me !66
In village and town, and by dale and down,67
’Tis known in thine own countree.68
“ ’Tis known, well known, in each lowly hut,69
Where I dry the poor man’s tear ;70
And the world’s dread burden is all forgot,71
And Heav’n itself seems near.72
“ At the village feast, to the wedding tune,73
Thus I chant in accents blithe ;74
Thus I sit and sing when the sun of June75
Flashes off the mower’s scythe.76
“ Round the nodding gold of the harvest wains77
Thus I lead the minstrelsy ;78
And thus with the gleaners in the lanes79
Do I laugh in summer glee.80
“ And the pilgrim fresh in the morning light,81
Or foot-sore on dusty eves,82
Has heard my song, with a wild delight,83
From among the dewy leaves.84
“ When the news is rung of Christ’s joyful birth85
In the quiv’ring steeple’s chime,86
’Neath the frosty stars on the snow-white earth,87
I sing out my joyous rhyme.88
“ And there lives no peasant nor artisan,89
Nor fisher upon the sea,90
Who knows me not as the friend of man,91
Both in joy and misery.92
“ And, King, listen now, if thy pride will bow93
To kiss my robe’s rough hem ;94
Oh, lighter perchance on your painèd brow95
Shall be your diadem.”96
There gleam‘d a light from out her eyes97
Which thrill’d King Olaf through ;98
He knelt, and kiss’d her robe’s hem thrice,99
And kiss’d her clouted shoe.100
And as he knelt her robe fell down,101
And radiance from her face,102
More golden than his golden crown,103
Fill’d all the shady place.104
Like silver gleam’d her robe’s white fold,105
Green cinctur’d at the waist,106
And waving wings of feathery gold107
Her angel shoulders grac’d108
A smile of love-like rapture fled109
Through Olaf’s darken’d brain ;110
He blessed the saints, and bent his head,111
And then look’d up again.112
A moment yet, in lustrous glow,113
She stood before him there,114
Then faded slow, and yet more slow,115
Into the viewless air.116
The russet robe, the clouted shoes,117
They lay upon the floor,118
The vesture which the Northern Muse119
In her disguisement wore.120
But echoes of her sweet notes yet121
By gentle hearts are heard,122
In concert with the rivulet123
And with the woodland bird.124
And still about old castle-wall,125
Or ivied Gothic shrine,126
She murmurs in the waterfall,127
Or sighs beneath the pine.128
And though within the noisy street129
She doth unheeded go,130
And in the roar of engines fleet131
Her voice sounds faint and low ;132
Yet not the less her notes shall rise133
Above the anvil’s chime,134
And there shall swell into the skies—135
Fit pæan for our time.136