348 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
IX. 
There we lingered, seaward gazing, 
Watching o’er that living tomb, 
Through the gloom— 
Gloom ! which awful light is chasing— 
Blood-red flames the surge illume ! 
Lo ! King Hacon’s ship is blazing; 
’Tis the hero’s self-sought doom. 
x. 
Bight before the wild wind driving, 
Madly plunging—stung by fire— 
No help nigh her— 
Lo ! the ship has ceased her striving ! 
Mount the red flames higher—higher! 
Till—on ocean’s verge arriving, 
Sudden sinks the Yiking’s pyre— 
Hacon’s gone! 
Let me call one more heroic phantom from Norway’s 
romantic past. 
A kingly presence—stately and tall; his shield 
held high above his head—a broken sword in his 
right hand. Olaf Tryggvesson! Founder of Nidaros ;— 
that cold Northern Sea has rolled for many centuries 
