A man in coat of ice arrayed Stood up once by the Arctic Ocean; The whole earth shook with proud emotion And honor to the giant paid. A king came, to him climbing up, An Order in his one hand bearing: "Who great become, this sign are wearing." --The growling giant said but "Stop!" The frightened king fell down again, Began to weep with features ashen: "My Order is in this rude fashion Refused by just the greatest men. "My dear man, take it, 't is but fit, Of your king's honor be the warder; On your breast greater grows the Order, And we who bear it, too, by it."-- The Arctic giant was too good,-- A foible oft ascribed to giants, Who foolish trust in little clients,-- He took it,--while we mocking stood. But all the kings crept to him then, And each his Order brought, to know it Thereby renewed and greater, so it Gave rank to needy noblemen. _Honi soit_ ... and all the rest; Soon Orders covered all his breast. But oh! they greater grew no tittle, And he grew so confounded little. ROMSDAL (See Note 69) Come up on deck! The morning is clear,-- Memory wakes, as the landmarks appear. How many the islands, green and cheery, The salt-licking skerries, weed-wound, smeary! On this side, on that side, they frolic before us, Good friends, but wild,--in frightened chorus Sea-fowl shriek round us, a flying legion. We are in a region Of storms historic, unique for aye. We fare the fishermen's venturesome way! Far out the bank and the big fish shoaling, The captain narrates; and just now unrolling Sails run to shore a swift racing match;-- Good is the catch. Yes, yes,--I recognize them again, Romsdal's boats' weather-beaten men. They _know_ how to sail, when need's at hand. But I'm forgetting to look towards land! -- -- -- It whelms the sight Like lightning bright,-- In memory graven, but not so great. Wherever I suffer my eyes to wander, Stand mountain-giants, both here and yonder, The loin of one by the other's shoulder, Naught else to where earth and sky are blending. The dread of a world's din daunts the beholder; The silence vastens the vision unending. Some are in white and others in blue, With pointed tops that emulous tower; Some mass their power, In marching columns their purpose pursue. Away, you small folk!--In there "The Preacher" In high assembly the service intoning Of magnates primeval, their patriarch owning! Of what does he preach, my childhood's teacher? So often, so often to him I listened, In eager worship, devout and lowly; My songs were christened In light that fell from his whiteness holy.