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

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,
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,
The solemn ape demurely perched behind,
King Robert rode, making huge merriment
In all the country towns through which
they went.

The Pope received them with great pomp and blare

Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's

square,

Giving his benediction and embrace, Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.

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

And now the visit ending, and once more
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again
The land was made resplendent with his
train,

Flashing along the towns of Italy
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea.
And when once more within Palermo's
wall,

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 when they were alone, the Angel said, "Art thou the King?" Then, bowing

down his head,

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face

A holy light illumined all the place, And through the open window, loud and clear,

They heard the monks chant in the chapel

near,

Above the stir and tumult of the street : "He has put down the mighty from their seat,

And has exalted them of low degree!" And through the chant a second melody Rose like the throbbing of a single string: "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"

King Robert, who was standing near the throne,

Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
But all apparelled as in days of old,

With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;

And when his courtiers came, they found him there

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent

prayer.

INTERLUDE

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

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

And in each pause the story made
Upon his violin he played,
As an appropriate interlude,
Fragments of old Norwegian, tunes
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood,
Entwining and encircling all

The strange and antiquated rhymes
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 !

These are the gauntlets
Wherewith I wield it,
And hurl it afar off;
This is my girdle;
Whenever I brace it,
Strength is redoubled!

The light thou beholdest
Stream through the heavens,
In flashes of crimson,
Is but my red beard
Blown by the night-wind,
Affrighting the nations!

Jove is my brother;
Mine eyes are the lightning;
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder,
The blows of my hammer
Ring in the earthquake!

Force rules the world still,
Has ruled it, shall rule it;
Meekness is weakness,
Strength is triumphant,
Over the whole earth
Still is it Thor's-Day!

Thou art a God too,
O Galilean!
And thus single-handed