It was Einar Tamberskelver
  Stood beside the mast;
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver,
  Flew the arrows fast;
Aimed at Eric unavailing,
  As he sat concealed,
Half behind the quarter-railing,
  Half behind his shield.

First an arrow struck the tiller,
  Just above his head;
"Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller,"
  Then Earl Eric said.
"Sing the song of Hakon dying,
  Sing his funeral wail!"
And another arrow flying
  Grazed his coat of mail.

Turning to a Lapland yeoman,
  As the arrow passed,
Said Earl Eric, "Shoot that bowman
  Standing by the mast."
Sooner than the word was spoken
  Flew the yeoman's shaft;
Einar's bow in twain was broken,
  Einar only laughed.

"What was that?" said Olaf, standing
  On the quarter-deck.
"Something heard I like the stranding
  Of a shattered wreck."
Einar then, the arrow taking
  From the loosened string,
Answered, "That was Norway breaking
  From thy hand, O king!"

"Thou art but a poor diviner,"
  Straightway Olaf said;
"Take my bow, and swifter, Einar,
  Let thy shafts be sped."
Of his bows the fairest choosing,
  Reached he from above;
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing
  Through his iron glove.

But the bow was thin and narrow;
  At the first assay,
O'er its head he drew the arrow,
  Flung the bow away;
Said, with hot and angry temper
  Flushing in his cheek,
"Olaf! for so great a K‰mper
  Are thy bows too weak!"

Then, with smile of joy defiant
  On his beardless lip,
Scaled he, light and self-reliant,
  Eric's dragon-ship.
Loose his golden locks were flowing,
  Bright his armor gleamed;
Like Saint Michael overthrowing
  Lucifer he seemed.

Why is that wanton gossip Fame
 So dumb about this man's affairs?
Why do we titter at his name
 Who come to buy his curious wares?

Here is a shop of wonderment.
 From every land has come a prize;
Rich spices from the Orient,
 And fruit that knew Italian skies,

And figs that ripened by the sea
 In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil,
Strange pungent meats from Germany,
 And currants from a Grecian hill.

He is the lord of goodly things
 That make the poor man's table gay,
Yet of his worth no minstrel sings
 And on his tomb there is no bay.

Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised,
 This trafficker in humble sweets,
Because his little shops are raised
 By thousands in the city streets.

Yet stars in greater numbers shine,
 And violets in millions grow,
And they in many a golden line
 Are sung, as every child must know.

Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes,
 His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face,
His shop, and all he sells and buys
 Are desperately commonplace.

Well, it is true he has no sword
 To dangle at his booted knees.
He leans across a slab of board,
 And draws his knife and slices cheese.

He never heard of chivalry,
 He longs for no heroic times;
He thinks of pickles, olives, tea,
 And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes.

His world has narrow walls, it seems;
 By counters is his soul confined;
His wares are all his hopes and dreams,
 They are the fabric of his mind.

Yet -- in a room above the store
 There is a woman -- and a child
Pattered just now across the floor;
 The shopman looked at him and smiled.

For, once he thrilled with high romance
 And tuned to love his eager voice.
Like any cavalier of France
 He wooed the maiden of his choice.

And now deep in his weary heart
 Are sacred flames that whitely burn.
He has of Heaven's grace a part
 Who loves, who is beloved in turn.

And when the long day's work is done,
 (How slow the leaden minutes ran!)
Home, with his wife and little son,
 He is no huckster, but a man!

And there are those who grasp his hand,
 Who drink with him and wish him well.
O in no drear and lonely land
 Shall he who honors friendship dwell.

And in his little shop, who knows
 What bitter games of war are played?
Why, daily on each corner grows
 A foe to rob him of his trade.

He fights, and for his fireside's sake;
 He fights for clothing and for bread:
The lances of his foemen make
 A steely halo round his head.

He decks his window artfully,
 He haggles over paltry sums.
In this strange field his war must be
 And by such blows his triumph comes.

What if no trumpet sounds to call
 His armed legions to his side?
What if, to no ancestral hall
 He comes in all a victor's pride?

The scene shall never fit the deed.
 Grotesquely wonders come to pass.
The fool shall mount an Arab steed
 And Jesus ride upon an ass.

This man has home and child and wife
 And battle set for every day.
This man has God and love and life;
 These stand, all else shall pass away.

O Carpenter of Nazareth,
 Whose mother was a village maid,
Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath
 In scorn on any humble trade?

Have pity on our foolishness
 And give us eyes, that we may see
Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress
 The splendor of humanity!

(August 1813)

         WITH THOUGHTS OF SERGEANT M— (PENSIONER), WHO DIED 185–.

   “WHY, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way,
   As though at home there were spectres rife?
   From first to last ’twas a proud career!
   And your sunny years with a gracious wife
      Have brought you a daughter dear.

   “I watched her to-day; a more comely maid,
   As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue,
   Round a Hintock maypole never gayed.”
   —“Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too,
      As it happens,” the Sergeant said.

   “My daughter is now,” he again began,
   “Of just such an age as one I knew
   When we of the Line and Forlorn-hope van,
   On an August morning—a chosen few—
      Stormed San Sebastian.

   “She’s a score less three; so about was she—
   The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days . . .
   You may prate of your prowess in lusty times,
   But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays,
      And see too well your crimes!

   “We’d stormed it at night, by the vlanker-light
   Of burning towers, and the mortar’s boom:
   We’d topped the breach; but had failed to stay,
   For our files were misled by the baffling gloom;
      And we said we’d storm by day.

                      [Picture: Sketch of mountain]

   “So, out of the trenches, with features set,
   On that hot, still morning, in measured pace,
   Our column climbed; climbed higher yet,
   Past the fauss’bray, scarp, up the curtain-face,
      And along the parapet.

   “From the battened hornwork the cannoneers
   Hove crashing balls of iron fire;
   On the shaking gap mount the volunteers
   In files, and as they mount expire
      Amid curses, groans, and cheers.

   “Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form,
   As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on;
   Till our cause was helped by a woe within:
   They swayed from the summit we’d leapt upon,
      And madly we entered in.

   “On end for plunder, ’mid rain and thunder
   That burst with the lull of our cannonade,
   We vamped the streets in the stifling air—
   Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayed—
      And ransacked the buildings there.

   “Down the stony steps of the house-fronts white
   We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape,
   Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight,
   I saw at a doorway a fair fresh shape—
      A woman, a sylph, or sprite.

   “Afeard she fled, and with heated head
   I pursued to the chamber she called her own;
   —When might is right no qualms deter,
   And having her helpless and alone
      I wreaked my will on her.

   “She raised her beseeching eyes to me,
   And I heard the words of prayer she sent
   In her own soft language . . . Seemingly
   I copied those eyes for my punishment
      In begetting the girl you see!

   “So, to-day I stand with a God-set brand
   Like Cain’s, when he wandered from kindred’s ken . . .
   I served through the war that made Europe free;
   I wived me in peace-year.  But, hid from men,
      I bear that mark on me.

   “And I nightly stray on the Ivel Way
   As though at home there were spectres rife;
   I delight me not in my proud career;
   And ’tis coals of fire that a gracious wife
      Should have brought me a daughter dear!”

How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life,
A spatter of rust on its polished steel!
 The seasons reel
 Like a goaded wheel.
Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife.

The night is sliding towards the dawn,
And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees.
 A torn moon flees
 Through the hemlock trees,
The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn.

Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing
A rabble of clouds flares out of the east.
 Like dogs unleashed
 After a beast,
They stream on the sky, an outflung string.

A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark,
Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests,
 And the fierce unrests
 I keep as guests
Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.

Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt
My labouring mind, I have fought and failed.
 I have not quailed,
 I was all unmailed
And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt.

The moon drops into the silver day
As waking out of her swoon she comes.
 I hear the drums
 Of millenniums
Beating the mornings I still must stay.

The years I must watch go in and out,
While I build with water, and dig in air,
 And the trumpets blare
 Hollow despair,
The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.

An atom tossed in a chaos made
Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam.
 Whence have I come?
 What would be home?
I hear no answer.  I am afraid!

I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame.
Pushed into nothingness by a breath,
 And quench in a wreath
 Of engulfing death
This fight for a God, or this devil's game.