Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
Closing Scene of “The Viking”
By Elwyn Alfred Barron (1855–1929)A
E
F
What evil fortune do these tears forerun?
E
’Fore whom our vikings disappear as grass
Before the browsing herd. They’re all in flight,
And as they run the foe smites them with death.
F
Lays the blame upon my wilful soul.
E
It is a fearful thing to see.
E
If you would have your eyes like mine, weep blood!
F
E
F
Is stronger than my fears. Lend me your hand.
Would I were underneath their rushing feet,
If so I might find Thord!
E
I pray you be advised; there’s danger there.
Descend into the room.
F
With the cold horror of the bloody scene.
Nor can my startled eyes give shape to men,
Massed like some writhing monster self-destroyed!
I know not which are friends, so close impact
Are slayers and the slain. There is a break!
The moving bulk has stopped. Those in retreat
Have turned to fight us though they do despair
Of safe escape, and mean to sell their lives
At dearest price. They gain some backward way!
But now they’re forced again! I see the plume
My brother wears. ’Tis he! he strives to check
The tide of fell disaster. Ne’er till now
Have I beheld him kingly; but he towers
Majestic where he fights. Oh, gods, what now!
One comes against him that I know. Yes, ’tis—
’Tis Hafthor’s self encounters him full tide!
Such stroke of swords! I am afraid to look,
But dare not else. So noble both appear,
And yet so deadly fearful, friend and foe
Stand locked from action, wondering to see
Their mighty leaders so engaged! Oh, gods!
Is Hafthor fallen so? He’s up again
And lays such rapid blows his shining sword
Is like a halo in the sun. Look now!
My brother yields, his strength declines, his sword
Strikes heavily and slow; he stumbles, falls.
Oh, spare him, Hafthor! put him not to death!
He holds his sword aloft! The gods be thanked,
He lets my brother live! They bind him fast;
And over all there is a sudden hush,—
A deathlike stillness, as the fight were done.
But there’s old Swend, who was my purchased lord,
Steps forth and fits an arrow to his bow.
[Turning.]Eysa, mount with me; there is no terror now.
Peace has come.[Cries out and falls.]’Twas Swend!
Inform me what has chanced! Darling Fenja!
If she be in swoon— What! Look you! She bleeds!
Oh! Came that arrow from her breast? Sweet girl!
The lily wonder of your skin so stained;
You are not but a little hurt? No worse?
F
I did not hope to die; but death were good
Did it withhold till I might speak with him,
And feel his lips—his look—his touch——
E
Guard her full tenderly. Stanch close the wound.
I’ll look beyond for medicines.[Exit, left.]
E
Most darling lady, look not so composed,
The very counterpart of what we fear.
There is no tremor of her heart. I doubt
If any wistful spark of life remain.[Bows, weeping.]
I seize on Norway as the prize of arms.
And, for I know him faithful, capable,
I name, till such good time as Denmark speaks,
Young Thord of Norway to be Norway’s jarl.
Kneel you, and you who late were Norway’s king.
As lightly as we breathe a sigh. Arise!
F
H
H
That I am struck so cold at heart?
F
What cruel fortune touched you thus? You smile!
Then may my soul drink hope from your wreathed lips.
F
Might leap into our parting kiss. Your lips.
F
More tender than it ever spoke. Good-night,—
Hafthor, Harold, lead me forth.
Now live without her? Yet I may not yield
To self-inflicted death without some shame.
[Suddenly.]Ay! there’s a way.[To H
The sport and plaything of a foreign king,—
For we were friends in youth— Nay, truth to say,
For that I loved your sister,—ah, how well!—
I would not have it so. Take chance with sword
To gain the liberty you crave.
H
H
And if the god of fortune smile on you,
Upon my troth you shall be free to go
Whither your humbled hopes may lead.
H
Speak better than my tongue my thanks. My sword!
H
Your arm has strength.
H
You tricked me to your death. It was not just.
Was sportive in her dimpled cheeks; but now
Amend the wrong, and I will happier die
Than ever in most joyous hour I lived.
A golden dragon at her head. She came,
My father told me, from the unknown sea,
Full-sailed to court the breeze, and yet unmanned;
Her spacious deck uncumbered, and her hold
Unlined with trace of any former life.
He first beheld her in the summer light
That marked the mid-day calm,—the sea serene
As face of sleeping pool; yet on she moved,
A thing of beauty and of life. A space,
And from the prow there seemed to rise a flame
That spread its arms and caught the sails and mast,
And wrapped the vessel in a yellow cloak.
Whereat my father sighed that craft so fair
Should burn, thinking it the funeral bed
Of some departed king. But, as he gazed,
The yellow flame, as though an orb of light,
Rolled from the ship into a ball of fire
That fled along the surface of the sea;
Then, cleft in twain, it rose into the sky,
As ’twere two images, a man and maid,
And vanished where the overhanging blue
Shuts in the fields of Asgard. All amazed,
My father turned from looking, and behold!
The ship lay moored before him. Such the tale.
I think I read the omen in my fate;
And if I lie with this fair hapless maid
Upon the mystic deck, my ship again
Will sail into the unknown waiting sea,
Where our two souls entwining will ascend
Into the region of the gods. Do this;
Let our asundered lives unite in death,
And all will be forgiven.[Dies.]