Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - The "Skjærgaards."
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tearing his shidd asunder, rushing to the
bottom of the sea here, and fetching up stones,
which ordinary men could not raise – history
peoples these waters, these cliffs for us! A
future poet will conjure them to this
Scandinavian Archipelago, chisel the true forms
out of the old Sagas, the bold, the rude, the
greatness and imperfections of the time, in their
habits as they lived.
They rise again for us on yonder island,
where the wind is whistling through the
young fir wood. The house is of beams, roofed
with bark; the smoke from the fire on the
broad stone in the hall, whirls through the
air-hole, near which stands the cask of
mead; the cushions lie on the bench before
the closed bedsteads; deer-skins hang over the
balk walls, ornamented with shields, helmets,
and armour. Effigies of gods, carved, on
wooden poles, stand before the high seat where
the noble Viking sits, a high-born father’s
youngest son, great in fame, but still greater in
deeds; the skjalds (bards) and foster-brothers sit
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