Could Norway's priest-despising chief, deem sacrilege a crime
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;
In battle-field to spread around the dread of Norway's name.
Lone Mona's sea-girt isle he dares with spear and flashing sword,
Usurping regal rule and right by power of pirate horde;
Yet vengeance drear, and dark desert of direst actions, crave
A bloody death, a justice clear, and dark usurper's grave.
On Erin's lovely land he falls--awarded darksome doom,
When, ruffian-like, he dared profane the saintly Olave's tomb:
He leaves his conquests, kingdoms, crowns, and all of earthly state,
To sleep in loneliness, and fill his dark predicted fate.
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