Fitting for absolution,—or dark penance of set time
That daring such all dreaded sin, he gazes on the grave,
And tramples o'er the hallow'd dust of canoniz'd Olave.
Lone sepulchre in holy earth—sure wickedness so dire,
Of holy man, and sacred place, incenses heaven's ire;
Can less than ever banishment from Norway's ice bound land,
Stay sure revenge—pursuing fate—and justice' awful hand?
Away he sails—the foaming seas as Corsair now he laves,
Dauntless—heroic—daring winds, and man-entombing waves,
To visit other lands afar,—to combat chiefs of fame;