Behold! in the night there was storm; and the rushing of snow and
of sleet;
And the boom of the sea and the moaning of pines in its desolate beat.
And the hall of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail was
filled,
With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that
was spilled.
For the Yule was upon them, the Yule; and they quaffed as from skulls
of the slain,
And shouted loud oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing swore laughing
again.
Unharnessed from each shaggy throat, that was hot with brute lust and
with drink,
Each burly wild skin and barbaric tossed, rent from the gold of its
link.
For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and the _waesheils_ were shouted
and roared
By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous
board.
And huge on the hearth, that writhed, hissing, and bellied, an ingot
of gold,
The Yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally
rolled.
And its warmth and its glory, that glared, smote red through the width
of the hall,
And burnished the boar-skins and bucklers and war-axes hung on the
wall.
And the maidens, who hurried big goblets, that bubbled, excessive with
barm,
Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls as the shining steel mirrored
each charm.
And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the
king,
With the stormy-rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle
reëchoing ring.
For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were
o'er;
And Harald, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore.
For the harrier, Harald the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf,
With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for
the wolf.
Behold! for the battle was ended; the battle that clamored all day,
With the rumble of shields that were shocked and of spears that were
splintered like spray:
With the hewing of swords that fierce-lightened like flames and that
smoked with hot blood,
And the crush of the mace that was hammered through helm and through
brain that withstood:
And the cursing and howling of men at their gods,--at their gods whom
they cursed,
Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their battling
burst.
And they fought; in the flying and drifting and silence of covering
snow,
Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff
frozen in woe.
And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched by the
maniac wind
Drave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors
blind.
Still they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met, till the
battle-god, Thor,
In his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and
war.
And they fell--like twin rocks of the mountains, or pines, that rush,
hurricane-hurled,
From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the wreck of the
world.
But, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the black iron altars of War
Not in vain as victims, the warriors, their blood as libation to
Thor!...
Lo! a glitter and splendor of arms through the snow and the foam of
the seas
And the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries!...
Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail
are filled,
With the steam of the flesh of the boar, and the reek of the ale that
is spilled.
For the Yule and the victory are theirs, and the _waesheils_ are
shouted and roared
By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous
board.