Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/Sir Olaf
SIR OLAF.
(FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE.)
I.
Nigh the church two men are standing,
Each in scarlet mantle shrouded,—
One the king, with brow o'erclouded,
And the headsman is the other.
To the headsman speaks the monarch,
"When the priests have ceased their chanting,
Ceased the chant, the bridal ending,
Keep, oh! keep thy good axe ready."
Bells ring out, deep swells the organ,
Out of church the throng is streaming,
Bridal train of festive seeming—
In the midst the bride and bridegroom.
Pale as corpse, and trembling, weeping,
See the king's fair child appearing,—
Bold and proud, as nothing fearing,
Gaily smiling, walks Sir Olaf.
And, with lips so red and smiling,
To the gloomy king thus speaks he,
"Father of my wife, I greet thee,
Though my head must pay the forfeit.
"I must die to-day, yet let me,
Only let me live till midnight,
That, with feast and dance by torchlight,
I may celebrate my bridal;
"Let me live till the last goblet
To the last drop I have drained,
Till the last wild dance is ended,—
Let me, let me live till midnight."
And the king speaks to the headsman,—
"To the bridegroom grant we respite,
But his life must end at midnight.
Keep, oh! keep, thy good axe ready."
II.
Sir Olaf sits at the festive board,
Into his cup the last wine is poured,
And close at his side
Sits the weeping bride,
And the headsman stands in the doorway.
The dancing begins, the knight, in wild haste,
Hath clasped his arm round his fair wife's waist,
And they dance the last dance
By the torches' glance,
And the headsman stands in the doorway.
Merry the viols' clear notes float by,
But the flutes full softly and sadly sigh;
As the dancers draw near,
Each soul fills with fear,
And the headsman stands in the doorway.
And as through the quaking room they glide,
Sir Olaf whispers so low to his bride,—
"My love for thee can never be told—
The grave is so cold,"—
And the headsman stands in the doorway.
III.
Sir Olaf, hark! the midnight bell,
For thee shall rise no morrow;
To love a king's fair child too well
Bringeth but shame and sorrow.
Chant, ye monks, a prayer for the dead,
The dismal block is ready,
The headsman, wrapped in his mantle red,
Poiseth his axe so steady.
Sir Olaf the castle-yard doth reach.
Swords flash and lights are flaring,
But boldly he maketh his dying speech,
And his lips a smile are wearing.
"I bless the sun, and the moon, and each star
Its rays o'er the fair earth flinging,
The birds that in the free air afar
Their joyful songs are singing.
"I bless the land, and I bless the sea,
The flowers the earth entwining;
I bless the violets, sweet that be
As my wife's blue eyes so shining.
"Those eyes have cost my life to me,
Those violet eyes, love-lighted,
Yet I bless them, and the elder-tree
Where our rash love was plighted."