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Over the gloomy foothills
The dark clouds heavily lowered,
Hung together and whispered
Their eternal message of terror.
Up from the west they came rolling
Over the forests of Iamtland;
White behind them lay Norway
Gleaming with snow-clad peaks.
’T was there that Olaf the Holy
The cross to the light uplifted;
Thor dropped his hammer, and Odin
Tottered and fell in the night.
Rumors were rife. In Iamtland
Often they found their way
To the hearing of gentle maidens
And of deep-thinking men;
Filling their dreams with omens,
Warning them in the daytime,
Glimmering like snow in sunlight
Before their uncertain gaze.
In the Iamtlanders’ low-lying settlement,
There lay on the edge of the forest
The house of the heathen priest,
Snug and warm for the wanderer.
Trand was his name, one daughter
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