The Angel took the sword again, and

swore,

And walks on earth unseen forevermore.

:

INTERLUDE.

HE ended and a kind of spell
Upon the silent listeners fell.

His solemn manner and his words
Had touched the deep, mysterious
chords,

That vibrate in each human breast
Alike, but not alike confessed.
The spiritual world seemed near;
And close above them, full of fear,
Its awful adumbration passed,
A luminous shadow, vague and vast.
They almost feared to look, lest there,
Embodied from the impalpable air,
They might behold the Angel stand,
Holding the sword in his right hand.

At last, but in a voice subdued,
Not to disturb their dreamy mood,
Said the Sicilian: "While you spoke,
Telling your legend marvellous,
Suddenly in my memory woke
The thought of one, now gone from us,
An old Abate, meek and mild,
My friend and teacher, when a child,
Who sometimes in those days of old
The legend of an Angel told,
Which ran, as I remember, thus."

THE SICILIAN'S TALE.

KING ROBERT OF SICILY.

ROBERT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Apparelled in magnificent attire,
With retinue of many a knight and
squire,

On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly

sat

And heard the priests chant the Mag

nificat.

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words, "Deposuit poten-

tes

De sede, et exaltavit humiles";

And slowly lifting up his kingly head He to a learned clerk beside him said,

"What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet,

"He has put down the mighty from their seat,

And has exalted them of low degree." Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 66 ""T is well that such seditious words are

sung

Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; For unto priests and people be it known, There is no power can push me from my throne!"

And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,

Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

When he awoke, it was already night; The church was empty, and there was no light,

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,

Lighted a little space before some saint. He started from his seat and gazed around,

But saw no living thing and heard no sound.

He groped towards the door, but it was locked;

He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,

And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,

And imprecations upon men and saints. The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls

As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire, Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,

With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,

Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;

Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage

To right and left each seneschal and page, And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,

His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.

From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;

Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,

Until at last he reached the banquet

room,

Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.

There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his robes, his crown, his signetring,

King Robert's self in features, form, and height,

But all transfigured with angelic light! It was an Angel; and his presence there With a divine effulgence filled the air, An exaltation, piercing the disguise, Though none the hidden Angel recognize.

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,

The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,

Who met his look of anger and surprise With the divine compassion of his eyes; Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?"

To which King Robert answered, with a

sneer,

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,

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. Then he departed with them o'er the sea Into the lovely land of Italy,

Whose loveliness was more resplendent made

By the mere passing of that cavalcade, With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir

Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur.

And lo among the menials, in mock state,

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,

His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,

hind,

him there

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

INTERLUDE.

A Saga of the days of old.
AND then the blue-eyed Norseman told

Of Legends in the old Norse tongue,
"There is," said he, "a wondrous book
Legends that once were told or sung
Of the dead kings of Norroway,
Of Iceland, in the ancient day,
In many a smoky fireside nook
By wandering Saga-man or Scald ;
Heimskringla is the volume called
The story that I now begin."
And he who looks may find therein

Upon his violin he played,
And in each pause the story made
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes
As an appropriate interlude,
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood,
The strange and antiquated rhymes
Entwining and encircling all
With melodies of olden times;
As over some half-ruined wall,
Disjointed and about to fall,
Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,
And keep the loosened stones in place.

THE MUSICIAN'S TALE.

THE SAGA OF KING OLAF.

I.

THE CHALLENGE OF THOR.

I AM the God Thor,
I am the War God,
I am the Thunderer!
Here in my Northland,
My fastness and fortress,
Reign I forever!

Here amid icebergs Rule I the nations; This is my hammer, Miölner the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it !