We promised ourselves at the beginning of these papers a little entertainment betweenwhiles, and we have had rather dry reading lately. The political history of Scandinavia is not very fascinating, except here and there a period or a reign. Let us then declare a breathing space, and spend half an hour with Tegnér [Teng-nar´], the most brilliant and popular poet of the Swedes; besides, it will not be out of order, for it is of the glorious _Carolinska Tid_, or age of Charles XII., that we shall hear. Of Tegnér we shall learn hereafter, and I hope when we have read his poem we shall want to know a great deal about him. The story is called “Axel” [Ahk-sel], from the name of the hero, and explains itself. We make no pretentions to reproducing the poetry, but only something of the directness and force, of the original. The ancient days are dear to me, The days of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, For they were blithe as peace of Eden, And they were bold as victory. Nor yet their after-glow hath faded From northern skies which time hath shaded, But tall and stalwart forms we view, With belts of gold and coats of blue, Move up and down when evening blushes. With reverence my spirit hushes To see you, men of nobler day, With jerkins buff and steel array. I knew in childhood’s days long flown One whom King Charles had held of worth. He still remained upon the earth A trophy, ruinous and lone. From locks a century old there shone The only silver he possessed, And scars told on his brow and breast What runes tell on a bauta-stone.[A] Though he was poor, he understood Want was no foe, but friend concealed; He lived as if still in the field, His home a hut within the wood. Yet had he treasures twain in hoard, And deemed them of all wealth the best,— His Bible and his ancient sword, Which bore Carl Twelfth’s name deep impressed. The mighty king’s illustrious deeds, Which now no farthest zone but reads (For wide that eagle flew around), All lay within the old man’s mind As urns of warriors lie enshrined Within the green-clad burial mound. Oh! when he told of risks gone through For Charles, and for his lads in blue, How swelled his frame, how proud and high, How brightly gleamed his kindled eye! And mighty as a sabre stroke Rang every word the old man spoke. Thus oft till late at night he sat, And told again the tales we claimed, And every time King Charles was named Failed not to lift his tattered hat. I stood in wonder at his knee (No higher reached my wistful face), And pictures of his hero-race Hath memory kept till now for me; And many a saga then enshrined Hath since remained within my mind, As iris-germs beneath the snow In slumber wait their time to grow.