And huge on the hearth, that writhed, hissing, and bellied, an ingot of gold, The Yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally rolled. And its warmth and its glory, that glared, smote red through the width of the hall, And burnished the boar-skins and bucklers and war-axes hung on the wall. And the maidens, who hurried big goblets, that bubbled, excessive with barm, Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls as the shining steel mirrored each charm. And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the king, With the stormy-rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle reëchoing ring. For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were o'er; And Harald, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore. For the harrier, Harald the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf, With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for the wolf. Behold! for the battle was ended; the battle that clamored all day, With the rumble of shields that were shocked and of spears that were splintered like spray: With the hewing of swords that fierce-lightened like flames and that smoked with hot blood, And the crush of the mace that was hammered through helm and through brain that withstood: And the cursing and howling of men at their gods,--at their gods whom they cursed, Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their battling burst. And they fought; in the flying and drifting and silence of covering snow, Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff frozen in woe. And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched by the maniac wind Drave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors blind. Still they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met, till the battle-god, Thor, In his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and war. And they fell--like twin rocks of the mountains, or pines, that rush, hurricane-hurled, From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the wreck of the world. But, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the black iron altars of War Not in vain as victims, the warriors, their blood as libation to Thor!... Lo! a glitter and splendor of arms through the snow and the foam of the seas And the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries!... Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail are filled, With the steam of the flesh of the boar, and the reek of the ale that is spilled.