Broad the sails o'er the North Sea go; br High on deck in the morning glow br Erling Skjalgsson from Sole br Scans all the sea toward Denmark: br 'Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?' br br Six and fifty the ships are there, br Sails are let down, toward Denmark stare br Sun-reddened men;-then murmur: br 'Where is the great Long Serpent? br Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?' br br When the sun in the second dawn br Cloudward rising no mast had drawn, br Grew to a storm their clamor: br 'Where is the great Long Serpent? br Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?' br br Silent, silent that moment bound, br Stood they all; for from ocean's ground br Sighed round the fleet a muffled: br 'Taken the great Long Serpent, br Fallen is Olaf Trygvason.' br br Ever since, through so many a year, br Norway's ships must beside them hear, br Clearest in nights of moonshine: br 'Taken the great Long Serpent, br Fallen is Olaf Trygvason.