Sick for thy native air.” L. E. L.
The champions had come from their fields of war,
Over the crests of the billows far;
They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,
Where the deep had foam’d to their flashing oars.
They sat at their feast round the Norse king’s board;
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour’d;
The hearth was heap’d with the pine-boughs high,
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.
The Scalds had chanted in Runic rhyme