THE KING'S SABBATH.

Once idly in his hall king Olave sat

Pondering, and with his dagger whittled chips;

And one drew near to him with austere lips,

Saying, “To-morrow is Monday,” and at that

The king said nothing, but held forth his flat

Broad palm, and bending on his mighty hips,

Took up and mutely laid thereon the slips

Of scattered wood, as on a hearth, and gat

From off the embers near, a burning brand.

Kindling the pile with this, the dreaming Dane

Sat silent with his eyes set and his bland

Proud mouth, tight-woven, smiling, drawn with pain,

Watching the fierce fire flare, and wax, and wane,

Hiss and burn down upon his shrivelled hand.