Yule.

Behold! it was night; and the wind and the rushing of snow on the wind,
And the boom of the sea and the moaning of desolate pines that were thinned.
And the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail were filled,
With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that was spilled.
For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and they quaffed as from skulls of the slain,
And sware out round oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing sware laughing again.
Unharnessed from each shaggy throat that was hot with mad lust and with drink,
The burly wild skins and barbaric tossed rent from their broad golden link.
For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and the "waes-heils" were shouted and roared
By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.
And huge on the hearth, that writhed hissing and bellied a bullion of gold,
The yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally rolled.
And its warmth was a glory that glared and smote red through the width of the hall,
To burnish wild-boar skins and swords and great war-axes hung on the wall.
Till the maidens, who hurried big goblets that bubbled excessive with barm,
Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls when the shining steel mirrored each charm.
And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the king,
With the stormy rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle re-echoing ring.
For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were o'er,
And Harold, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore.
For the harrier, Harold the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf,
With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for the wolf.
Behold! for the battle was finished, the battle that boomed in the day
With the rumble of shields that were shocked and the shatter of spears that did slay;
With the hewing of swords that fierce lightened hot smoking with riotous blood,
And the crush of the mace that was crashed through the helm and the brain that withstood;
And the cursing and shrieking of men at their gods - at their gods whom they cursed,
Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their struggling burst.
And they fought in the flying and drifting and silence of covering snow,
Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff frozen in woe.
And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched of the maniac wind
Drave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors blind.
And they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met till the battle god, Thor,
From his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and war.
And they fell - like twin rocks of the mountain the ruinous whirlwinds have hurled
From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the strength of the world.
And, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the stern iron altars of War
Their flesh, their own flesh, yea, the victim, their blood the libation to Thor....
But a glitter and splendor of arms out of snow and the foam of the seas,
And the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries....
Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail are filled,
With the steam of the flesh of the boar and the reek of the ale that is spilled.
For the Yule and the vict'ry are theirs, and the "waes-heils" are shouted and roared
By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls 'round the ponderous board.