The frightened king fell down again,
Began to weep with features ashen:
"My Order is in this rude fashion
Refused by just the greatest men.
"My dear man, take it, 't is but fit,
Of your king's honor be the warder;
On your breast greater grows the Order,
And we who bear it, too, by it."—
The Arctic giant was too good,—
A foible oft ascribed to giants,
Who foolish trust in little clients,—
He took it,—while we mocking stood.
But all the kings crept to him then,
And each his Order brought, to know it
Thereby renewed and greater, so it
Gave rank to needy noblemen.
Honi soit … and all the rest;
Soon Orders covered all his breast.
But oh! they greater grew no tittle,
And he grew so confounded little.
ROMSDAL
(See Note 69)
Come up on deck! The morning is clear,—
Memory wakes, as the landmarks appear.
How many the islands, green and cheery,
The salt-licking skerries, weed-wound, smeary!
On this side, on that side, they frolic before us,
Good friends, but wild,—in frightened chorus
Sea-fowl shriek round us, a flying legion.
We are in a region
Of storms historic, unique for aye.
We fare the fishermen's venturesome way!
Far out the bank and the big fish shoaling,
The captain narrates; and just now unrolling
Sails run to shore a swift racing match;—
Good is the catch.
Yes, yes,—I recognize them again,
Romsdal's boats' weather-beaten men.
They know how to sail, when need's at hand.
But I'm forgetting to look towards land!
— — — It whelms the sight
Like lightning bright,—
In memory graven, but not so great.