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NINTH SONG
THE SUMMER MARCH
Now it was Olaf Digre
Came through the forest down toward Trondelag,
The host its way slowly winding ;
In the sun.
Onward, down toward the valley
It made—whether o’er marsh or mead—its way.
The King rode all the live-long
Day alone.
Already the season drew
Near to autumn.
None. to approach him ventured ;—
Though every heart was o’erflowing, they silence kept.
Gently sloping, the homeland
Before them lay.
Birds rose up from the meadows,
The mid-day smoke over the forest swept;
The bishop was bade to sing praises
To the Lord.
Joyous the sight of home
After absence.
Rode then Bishop Sigurd
Forward the King to question; but made halt
While at some distance from him,
And waited.
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