THE WANDERER.

Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe,

A tale of folly and of wasted life,

Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife,

Ending, where all things end, in death at last:

So if I tell the story of the past,

Let it be worth some little rest, I pray,

A little slumber ere the end of day.

No wonder if the Grecian tongue I know,

Since at Byzantium many a year ago

My father bore the twibil valiantly;

There did he marry, and get me, and die,

And I went back to Norway to my kin,

Long ere this beard ye see did first begin

To shade my mouth, but nathless not before

Among the Greeks I gathered some small lore,

And standing midst the Vaeringers, still heard

From this or that man many a wondrous word;

For ye shall know that though we worshipped God,

And heard mass duly, still of Swithiod

The Greater, Odin and his house of gold,

The noble stories ceased not to be told;

These moved me more than words of mine can say

E'en while at Micklegarth my folks did stay;

But when I reached one dying autumn-tide

My uncle's dwelling near the forest side,

And saw the land so scanty and so bare,

And all the hard things men contend with there,

A little and unworthy land it seemed,

And yet the more of Asagard I dreamed,

And worthier seemed the ancient faith of praise.

But now, but now — when one of all those days

Like Lazarus’ finger on my heart should be

Breaking the fiery fixed eternity,

But for one moment — could I see once more

The grey-roofed sea-port sloping towards the shore,

Or note the brown boats standing in from sea,

Or the great dromond swinging from the quay,

Or in the beech-woods watch the screaming jay

Shoot up betwixt the tall trunks, smooth and grey —

Yea, could I see the days before distress

When very longing was but happiness.

Within our house there was a Breton squire

Well learned, who fail'd not to fan the fire

That evermore unholpen burned in me

Strange lands and things beyond belief to see;

Much lore of many lands this Breton knew;

And for one tale I told, he told me two.

He, counting Asagard a new-told thing,

Yet spoke of gardens ever blossoming

Across the western sea where none grew old,

E'en as the books at Micklegarth had told,

And said moreover that an English knight

Had had the Earthly Paradise in sight,

And heard the songs of those that dwelt therein.

But entered not, being hindered by his sin.

Shortly, so much of this and that he said

That in my heart the sharp barb entered,

And like real life would empty stories seem,

And life from day to day an empty dream.

Another man there was, a Swabian priest,

Who knew the maladies of man and beast,

And what things helped them; he the stone still sought

Whereby base metal into gold is brought,

And strove to gain the precious draught, whereby

Men live midst mortal men yet never die;

Tales of the Kaiser Redbeard could he tell

Who neither went to Heaven nor yet to Hell,

When from that fight upon the Asian plain

He vanished, but still lives to come again

Men know not how or when; but I listening

Unto this tale thought it a certain thing

That in some hidden vale of Swithiod

Across the golden pavement still he trod.

But while our longing for such things so grew,

And ever more and more we deemed them true,

Upon the land a pestilence there fell

Unheard of yet in any chronicle,

And, as the people died full fast of it,

With these two men it chanced me once to sit,

This learned squire whose name was Nicholas,

And Swabian Laurence, as our manner was;

For could we help it scarcely did we part

From dawn to dusk: so heavy, sad at heart,

We from the castle-yard beheld the bay

Upon that ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,

Little we said amidst that dreary mood,

And certes nought that we could say was good.

It was a bright September afternoon,

The parched-up beech-trees would be yellowing soon

The yellow flowers grown deeper with the sun

Were letting fall their petals one by one;

No wind there was, a haze was gathering o'er

The furthest bound of the faint yellow shore;

And in the oily waters of the bay

Scarce moving aught some fisher-cobles lay,

And all seemed peace; and had been peace indeed

But that we young men of our life had need,

And to our listening ears a sound was borne

That made the sunlight wretched and forlorn —

— The heavy tolling of the minster bell —

And nigher yet a tinkling sound did tell

That through the streets they bore our Saviour Christ

By dying lips in anguish to be kissed.

At last spoke Nicholas, “How long shall we

Abide here, looking forth into the sea

Expecting when our turn shall come to die?

Fair fellows, will ye come with me and try

Now at our worst that long-desired quest,

Now — when our worst is death, and life our best.”

“Nay, but thou know'st,” I said, “that I but wait

The coming of some man, the turn of fate,

To make this voyage — but I die meanwhile,

For I am poor, though my blood be not vile,

Nor yet for all his lore doth Laurence hold

Within his crucibles aught like to gold;

And what hast thou, whose father driven forth

By Charles of Blois, found shelter in the North?

But little riches as I needs must deem.”

“Well,” said he, “things are better than they seem,

For‘ neath my bed an iron chest I have

That holdeth things I have made shift to save

E'en for this end; moreover, hark to this,

In the next firth a fair long ship there is

Well victualled, ready even now for sea,

And I may say it‘ longeth unto me;

Since Marcus Erling, late its owner, lies

Dead at the end of many miseries,

And little Kirstin, as thou well mayst know,

Would be content throughout the world to go

If I but took her hand, and now still more

Hath heart to leave this poor death-stricken shore.

Therefore my gold shall buy us Bordeaux swords

And Bordeaux wine as we go oceanwards.

“What say ye, will ye go with me to-night,

Setting your faces to undreamed delight,

Turning your backs unto this troublous hell,

Or is the time too short to say farewell?”

“Not so,” I said, “rather would I depart

Now while thou speakest, never has my heart

Been set on anything within this land.”

Then said the Swabian, “Let us now take hand

And swear to follow evermore this quest

Till death or life have set our hearts at rest.”

So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said,

“To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelled

To leave this land, bring all the arms ye can

And such men as ye trust, my own good man

Guards the small postern looking towards St. Bride,

And good it were ye should not be espied,

Since mayhap freely ye should not go hence,

Thou Rolf in special, for this pestilence

Makes all men hard and cruel, nor are they

Willing that folk should‘ scape if they must stay:

Be wise; I bid you for a while farewell,

Leave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bell

Strikes midnight, all will surely then be still,

And I will bide you at King Tryggve's hill

Outside the city gates.”

Each went his way

Therewith, and I the remnant of that day

Gained for the quest three men that I deemed true,

And did such other things as I must do,

And still was ever listening for the chime

Half maddened by the lazy lapse of time,

Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should live

Till the great tower the joyful sound should give

That set us free: and so the hours went past,

Till startled by the echoing clang at last

That told of midnight, armed from head to heel

Down to the open postern did I steal,

Bearing small wealth — this sword that yet hangs here

Worn thin and narrow with so many a year,

My father's axe that from Byzantium,

With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come,

Nought else that shone with silver or with gold.

But by the postern gate could I behold

Laurence the priest all armed as if for war,

From off the town-wall, having some small store

Of arms and furs and raiment: then once more

I turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fall

Upon the new-built bastions of the wall,

Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light,

And further off I saw the lead shine bright

On tower and turret-roof against the sky,

And looking down I saw the old town lie

Black in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill,

Stricken with death, and dreary, but all still

Until it reached the water of the bay,

That in the dead night smote against the quay

Not all unheard, though there was little wind.

But as I turned to leave the place behind,

The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell,

Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell,

That in that stillness jarring on mine ears,

With sudden jangle checked the rising tears,

And now the freshness of the open sea

Seemed ease and joy and very life to me.

So greeting my new mates with little sound,

We made good haste to reach King Tryggve's mound,

And there the Breton Nicholas beheld,

Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held,

And round about them twenty men there stood,

Of whom the more part on the holy rood

Were sworn till death to follow up the quest,

And Kirstin was the mistress of the rest.

Again betwixt us was there little speech,

But swiftly did we set on toward the beach,

And coming there our keel, the Fighting Man,

We boarded, and the long oars out we ran,

And swept from out the firth, and sped so well

That scarcely could we hear St. Peter's bell

Toll one, although the light wind blew from land;

Then hoisting sail southward we‘ gan to stand,

And much I joyed beneath the moon to see

The lessening land that might have been to me

A kindly giver of wife, child, and friend,

And happy life, or at the worser end

A quiet grave till doomsday rend the earth.

Night passed, day dawned, and we grew full of mirth

As with the ever-rising morning wind

Still further lay our threatened death behind,

Or so we thought: some eighty men we were,

Of whom but fifty knew the shipman's gear,

The rest were uplanders; midst such of these

As knew not of our quest, with promises

Went Nicholas dealing florins round about,

With still a fresh tale for each new man's doubt,

Till all were fairly won or seemed to be

To that strange desperate voyage o'er the sea.