KING HACON. 
345 
rude couch, hastily formed of fir branches. An old man 
lies there—dying. His ear is dulled even to the shout 
of victory; the mists of an endless night are gathering 
on his eyes; but there is passion yet in the quivering 
lip—and triumph on the high-resolved brow; and the 
gesture of his hand has kingly power still. Let me tell 
his saga like the bards of that old time. 
KING HACON’S LAST BATTLE. 
i. 
All was over : day was ending 
As the foeman turned and fled. 
Gloomy red 
Glowed the angry sun descending; 
While round Hacon’s dying bed, 
Tears and songs of triumph blending, 
Told how fast the conqueror bled. 
ii. 
“Raise me,” said the King. We raised him— 
Not to ease his desperate pain; 
That were vain! 
“ Strong our foe was—but we faced him: 
Show me that red field again.” 
Then, with reverent hands, we placed him 
High above the bloody plain. 
