From harpings and sagas and mirth of the town,
Great Gisli, the chieftain strode merrily down.

His ruddy beard stretch'd in the loom of the wind,
His shade like a dusky God striding behind.

Gylfag, his true hound, to his heel glided near,
Sharp-fang'd, lank and red as a blood-rusted spear.

As crests of the green bergs flame white in the sky,
The town on its sharp hill shone brightly and high.

In fjords roared the ice below the dumb stroke
Of the Sun's red hammer rose blue mist like smoke.

It clung to the black pines, and clung to the bay-
The galleys of Gisli grew ghosts of the day.

It followed the sharp wings of swans, as they rose-
It fell to the wide jaws of swift riven floes.

It tam'd the wild shriek of the eagle-grew dull
The cries, in its foldings, of osprey and gull.

“Arouse thee, bold wind,” shouted Gisli “and drive
“Floe and Berg out to sea as bees from a hive.

“Chase this woman-lipped haze at top of thy speed,
“It cloys to the soul as the tongue cloys with mead!

“Come, buckle thy sharp spear again to thy breast!
“Thy galley hurl forth from the seas of the West.

“With thy long, hissing oars, beat loud the north sea.
“The sharp gaze of day give the eagles and me.

“No cunning mists shrouding the sea and the sky,
“Or the brows of the great Gods, bold wind, love I!

“As Gylfag, my hound, lays his fangs in the flank
“Of a grey wolf, shadowy, leather-thew'd, lank.

“Bold wind, chase the blue mist, thy prow in its hair,
“Sun, speed thy keen shafts thro' the breast of the air!

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