Page:The Heimskringla; or, Chronicle of the Kings of Norway Vol 1.djvu/467

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KINGS OF NORWAY.
453

the king; "but into my service, Halfred, thou shalt saga be received."

Halfred says, "If I am to be named the composer of difficulties[1] what dost thou give me, king, on my name-day?"

The king gave him a sword without a scabbard, and said, " How compose me a song upon this sword, and let the word sword be in every line of the verses." Halfred sang thus: —

"This sword of swords is my reward.
For him who knows to wield a sword,
And with his sw'ord to serve his lord,
Yet wants a sword, his lot is hard.
I would I had my good lord's leave
For this good sword a sheath to choose:
I'm worth three swords where men swords use,
But for the sword-sheath now I grieve."

Then the king gave him the scabbard, observing that the word sword was wanting in one line of his strophe. "But there are three swords at least in two other lines," says Halfred. "So it is," replies the king.[2]—Out of Halfred's lays we have taken the most of the true and faithful accounts that are here related about Olaf Tryggvesson.

Chapter XCI.
Thangbrand the priest returns from Iceland.

The same harvest Thanff brand the priest came back from Iceland to King Olaf, and told the ill success of his journey; namely, that the Icelanders had made lampoons about him; and that some even sought turns from Iceland.

  1. Vandrædascald—the despair of scalds, or the difficult scald.
  2. From this dialogue, which we may fairly take as a true representation of the tone of conversation, and very likely of the words, between a king and a man of literature or scald in the 10th century, it may be inferred that there was a considerable taste for the compositions of scalds, and for intellectual effort; but that this taste was gratified by the art of verse-making—by the reproduction of words, letters, metres, in difficult technical circumstances—much more than by the spirit of poetry. It is likely that in all ages, and even among individuals, the taste for the simple and natural in poetry is the last, not the first, developed taste. It is the savage who loves frippery in dress, and in what addresses itself to taste.