Much travelled, much winning in the realms of gold,
All whom he taught to share his enterprise
With Milton drank the milk of Paradise,
Observed the human comedy unfold
With Scott, with Boswell visited the Grand
Cham’s territories or heard True Thomas sing.
These held his youth, but with Time’s ripening
The North’s Valhöll became his Promised Land;
Its fjords and fells his country of the heart,
Its elder tongue his treasure. I see him there
As his friends see him, smiling at the chart
Of Iceland, a viking looking from his eyes,
The man of action in the scholar’s chair,
Like Gunnar gentle and like Ari wise.