VIII.

The Parting.

Ingeborg.

The day breaks clear, and Fridthjof cometh not,
Though yesterday the council was proclaimed
At Bele's grave. The place was rightly chosen,
His daughter's fate should be determined there.
How many supplications hath it cost me,
How many tears by Freyja counted o'er,
To melt the ice of hate around Fridthjof's heart.
And gain a promise from his haughty lips
To give his hand in reconciliation.
Alas! how hard is man! And for his honor,
So calleth he his pride, he counts it not,
Or lightly counts it, if he rudely break,
Of true and faithful hearts one more or less.
But wretched woman, leaning on his breast,
Is like the moss-growth blooming on the cliff,—
With faded tints, it difficultly holds
Itself unnoticed fast unto the rock,
Is only nourished by the dews of night.
But yesterday, indeed, my fate was fixed,
And now the evening sun hath set upon it,
Still Fridthjof cometh not. The pallid stars
Die one by one, and sadly disappear,
And with each one of them a hope is quenched
And goes from out my heart unto its grave.
Ah! wherefore still to hope? Valhal's gods
No longer love me; I've offended them.
And Balder, 'neath whose shelter I reside,
Is wroth with me, because a human love
Is too unholy for the sight of gods,
And earthly joy must never risk itself
Beneath the temple-arch in which the grave,
The haughty powers have fixed their dwelling-place.
And yet what fault is mine? and wherefore frowns
The pious god upon a maiden's love?
Is it not pure as Urd's bright sparkling fount,
And innocent as Gefjon's morning dream?
The shining sun doth never turn away
From loving ones, its pure and watchful eyes.
And daylight's widow, starry night, doth hear
With gladness, in her sorrow, all their vows.
That which is worthy under heaven's vault,
Can that be guilty 'neath the temple's dome?
I love my Fridthjof. Oh! through all the past,
As far as memory runs, I loved him well,—
A holy feeling twin-born with my soul,
I know not whence it came, nor comprehend
The dismal thought that it was ever gone.
As fruit is timely set about the stone
And groweth up, and round about it all
In summer sunshine wraps its cloth of gold,
So, too, indeed, have I maturing grown
About this stone, and my existence is
Of my affection but the outer shell.
Forgive me, Balder! With a faithful heart
Thy hall I sought, and with a faithful one
Will I go hence; I'll take it with me now
Out over Bifrost-bridge, and place myself
With all my love before great Valhal's gods.
And there my love, like them an Asa-child,
Shall see itself reflected in the shields,
And fly with loosened dove-wings through the blue
Unending space unto the Allfather's bosom,
From whence it came. Oh! wherefore is the frown,
In morning's twilight, on thy brow so fair?
There floweth in my veins, as flows in thine,
Old Odin's blood. What wilt thou, kinsman dear?
My ardent love I cannot offer thee,
Nor would I offer it, worth all thy joys;
But I can offer thee my life's delight,—
Can cast it from me as the stately queen
Her mantle flings aside, and still remains
Her queenly self. But my resolve is taken,
And Valhal high shall never be ashamed
To own me kindred. I will meet my fate
As meets the hero his. Ah! here he comes!
How wild he seems, how pale! 'Tis done, 'tis done!
My angry norn she comes beside him now:
Be strong, my soul! At last I welcome thee.
Our fate is fixed; 'tis plain to read it where
Upon thy brow it stands.

Fridthjof.

       And stand not there
As well the blood-red runes, which speak of shame,
And scorn and banishment?

Ingeborg.

Oh, Fridthjof; think! Relate what passed, for I have long foreseen
The worst, and am prepared for all.

Fridthjof.

I found the council at our fathers' graves.
Around the grassy mounds, shield meeting shield,
Stood many Northland sons with swords in hand,
One circle standing close within another
Unto the top. Upon the judgment seat,
A thunder cloud, thy brother Helge sat,—
A pallid headsman with a dusky look.
And next to him, a seeming grown up child,
Sat Halfdan,—-thoughtless, playing with his sword.
Then I arose, and, said: "War waiting stands
Within thy borders, beating on the shield,—
Thy kingdom now, king Helge, is in peril;
Give me my sister, and I'll give to thee
Mine arm, it may be usefu] in this strife.
Between us let ill will forgotten be,—
I would not cherish it 'gainst Ing'borg's brother.
To reason listen, king, and save at once
Thy golden crown, thy purest sister's heart.
Here is my hand. By Asa-Thor, I swear,
I'll never offer it again to thee."
An uproar shook the thing. A thousand swords
Approval hammered on a thousand shields.
The clang of weapons flew to heaven, which heard
With joy the assent of freemen to the right.
"To him give Ingeborg, the slender lily,
Most beautiful our dales have ever grown;
No better sword our favored land can boast,—
To him give Ingeborg." Our foster-father,
The reverend Hilding, with his silver-beard,
Stood forth and spoke in words of wisdom full,
Short apothegms, as keen as sharpened swords.
And Halfdan, too, from off of royal seat
Arose, with pleading words and pleading looks,—
But it was all in vain; each prayer was wasted,—
Like sunshine lavished on a barren rock,
No growth alluring from his stony heart.
King Helge's sullen countenance was like
His heart,—a pale-faced "No" to human prayers.
"A peasant's son," said he, contemptuously,
"Could Ing'borg gain, but who profanes the temple
Ill-suited seems to holy Valhal's daughter.
Hast thou not, Fridthjof, broken Balder's peace?
Hast thou not seen my sister in his temple
When day had hid itself from your communion?
Say yes, or no!" A deafening shout resounded
From all those rings of men: "Say no, say no,
We take thee at thy word, we sue for thee,—
Thou son of Thorstein, equal to a king;
Say no, say no, and Ingeborg is thine!"
"My life's delight hangs on a feeble word,"
Said I, "but fear it not, king Helge!
I would not lie myself to Valhal's joy,
Much less to earth's. Thy sister I have seen,
Have talked with her beneath the temple's night,
But Balder's peace I have not therefore broken."
They let me say no more. Abhorrent cries
Flew through the thing, and those who nearest stood
Drew back as from a pestilent disease;
And when I looked around, their superstition
Had palsied every tongue, and blanched each cheek
So lately glowing with expectant joy.
And then king Helge triumphed. With a voice
As sad, as awful as the ghostly vala's
In Vegtam's song, when she for Odin sung
Of asas' fate and grim Hel's victory,
So sad he spoke: "Though banishment or death
I could decree, by our ancestral laws
Against this crime, yet I'll be mild as Balder,
Whose sacred dwelling thou hast so profaned.
The western sea a wreath of islands holds,
Where Angantyr, the earl, is governor.
As long as Bele lived the earl each year
His tribute paid, but ceased when Bele died.
Go o'er the sea and drive this tribute in;
This penance thy audacity demands.
'Tis said," sneered he, with meanest mockery,
"That Angantyr hard-fisted is, and broods
Like dragon Fafner o'er his gold: but who
Can stand 'gainst our new Sigurd, Fafner's bane?
Exploits more manly must thou undertake
Than luring maidens under Balder's roof.
When summer comes shall we expect you here
With all thy honor, first of all the tribute.
If not, thou art to every man a felon,
And during life art outlawed through the land."
His judgment rendered, he dissolved the thing.

Ingeborg.

And your decision?

Fridthjof.

                   Have I aught to choose?
Is not mine honor bound by his decree?
And that will I redeem though Angantyr
His paltry gold doth hide in Nastrand's flood.
To-day will I depart.

Ingeborg.

And Ing'borg leave?

Fridthjof.

Nay, nay, I leave thee not, thou goest too.

Ingeborg.

Impossible!

Fridthjof.

             O! hear me, ere thou answerest.
Thy crafty brother seemeth to forget,
That Angantyr was my dear father's friend,
As well as Bele's. Perhaps he'll give
Without constraint what I demand; if not
A worthy advocate, a sharp one too,
Have I. 'Tis always ready at my side.
The gold he covets I'll to Helge send,
And thus will I from sacrificial knife
Of this crowned hypocrite redeem us both.
But we, my beauteous Ingeborg, will spread
O'er seas unknown Ellide's willing sail,
She'll kindly bear us to a friendlier strand
Where exiled love may safe asylum find.
What is the North to me? And what a race,
Which pales at every word of priest or king,
Whose shameless hands would pluck the living rose
From out the sanctuary of my heart?
So, Freyja help, it shall not prosper them!
The wretched slave is bound unto the turf
Where he was born, hut I will still be free,
Free as the mountain winds. A little earth
From Bele's grave and from my father's taken,
Can find a place ,upon our ship, and that
Is all of fatherland that we can need.
My loved one, there another sun is found
Than that which pales above these hills of snow,
And there another sky, more bright than this;
And milder stars with god-like glance adorned,
Look down therefrom in balmy summer nights
On lovers wandering in the laurel groves.
My father, Thorstein, Viking's son, in wars
Had journeyed far, and oft I've heard him tell,
By fireside light in winter evenings long,
About the Grecian sea with islands filled,—
Fresh groves of green in brightly shining waves.
A powerful race once had its dwelling there,—
And holy gods the marble temples graced.
But now they stand deserted; grasses thrive
In paths left desolate, and flowers grow
From out the runes that tell of ancient lore;
The slender columns stand like budding trees
Entwined by graceful stems of southern vines.
Throughout the year the earth spontaneous yields,
In unsown harvests, all that men require.
There golden apples glow between the leaves,
And blushing grapes from every bough hang down
And, ripening, swell luxurious as thy lips.
There, Ing'borg, there we'll build us near the wave
A little North, more beautiful than this;
And with our ever faithful love we'll fill
The radiant temple vaults, and thus delight
With human fondness the forgotten gods.
And when, with loosened sheets (no storms are there)
The sailor idly floats along our isle
In twilight's glow, and turns his joyous glance
From rosy-colored ripples to the strand,—
Upon the temple's threshold shall he see
A second Freyja, Aphrodite called
In southern tongue, and he shall wonder at
The golden locks, seen flowing in the breeze,
And eyes which brighter gleam than southern skies.
And one by one around her groweth up
A little temple-dwelling race of fairies,
With cheeks where yon might see the south had set,
In Northern snowdrifts, freshly blooming roses.
Ah! Ingeborg, how beautiful, how near.
Stands earthly happiness to faithful hearts;
If they are brave enough to seize it when disposed,

It follows willingly and builds for them
A Vingolf even here beneath the clouds.
O come, let's haste away, each spoken word
A moment shorter makes our waiting joy.
Come, all's prepared! Ellide stretches now
Her shadowy eagle wings for eager flight,—
And freshly blowing winds now guide the way
Henceforth from this inconstant land forever.
Why tarriest thou?

Ingeborg.

I cannot follow thee.

Fridthjof.

Not follow me?

Ingeborg.

               Ah! Fridthjof, thou art blest!
Thou followest none, but always in the front,
The stem of thy good dragon ship, dost place
Thy will beside the helm, to steer the way
With steady hand above the wrathful waves.
How widely different the case with me!
My cruel fate is held in other's hands,
Which loosen not the prey although it bleed;
And sacrifice, lament and lonesome pining,
Is all king Bele's daughter knows of freedom.

Fridthjof.

Art thou not free, if so thou willest? In the grave
Thy father sits.

INGEBORG,

                 No, Helge is my father,
Is in my father's stead; on his consent
My hand depends, and Ing'borg will not steal
Her happiness, however near it stands.
Ah! what would woman be if she cut loose
The sacred band with which the Allfather binds
Unto the stronger power her gentle being?
The water-lily pale resembles her;
It rises with the wave and with it falls.
The sailor's keel goes forward over it
And marks it not although it cut the stem.
Such is indeed her fate! And yet the flower,
As long as clings the root unto the sand,
Its growth increases, borrowing color pure
From its pale sister stars which shine above,—
Itself a star upon the waters blue.
But rudely broken loose, it ceaseless drives,
A withered leaf along deserted waves.
Last night,—that was indeed a fearful night,
An unrewarded watch I kept for thee,
And children of the night, the serious thoughts,
With raven locks went thronging closely by
My ever watchful, burning, tearful eyes;
And Balder too, the bloodless god looked down
On me with frowning glances full of threats.
Last night I pondered o'er my wretched fate.
My resolution's taken; I remain
Obedient victim at my brother's altar.
Yet it is well I did not hear thee then,
With fabled islands floating in the clouds
Where evening's glowing twilights always show
A flowery world of peace and happy love.
Who knows how weak one is? My childhood dreams
Though silent long, with joy rise up again,
And whisper in my anxious ear with voice
Familiar as a sister's kindly tones,
As tender as a lover's ardent praise.
I hear ye not! ah, no, I hear ye not,
Alluring accents once so fondly loved!
A child of Northland cannot elsewhere dwell;
Too pale am I for those bright summer roses;-
Too colorless my mind for that deep glow;
The scorching sun would quite consume me there.
Of anxious longing full, my eyes would seek
The northern star which always watchful stands
A heavenly sentry o'er our fathers' graves.
My noble Fridthjof shall not now desert
The cherished hind that he was born to guard;
He shall not fling away his honored name
To gain so poor a thing, a maiden's love.
A life where spins the sun from year to year,
And where each day is ever like the next—
A beauteous but unending sameness, is
For woman only, but for manly souls,
And most for thine, it's quiet, weary dullness.
Thou thrivest best where storms are raging round.
On foaming pacers o'er the heaving sea,
And on thy tossing plank, come life or death,
Thou mayest fight with peril for thine honor.
The beauteous desert thou dost paint, would be
A grave for high achievements, not yet born;
And like thy shield, with rust would be dissolved,
Thine independent mind. It shall not be!
I will not steal away my Fridthjof's name
From poet's storied song; I will not quench
My hero's glory in its morning dawn.
Be wise, my Fridthjof; let us yield unto
The haughty norn; let us rescue yet
Our cherished honor from this wreck of life;
Our happiness we cannot save, 'tis gone,
And separate we must!

Fridthjof.

                      And wherefore must?
Because a sleepless night disturbed thy mind?

Ingeborg.

Because my honor must be saved, and thine.

Fridthjof.

A woman's honor rests on manly love.

Ingeborg.

Not long loves he whom he cannot respect.

Fridthjof.

Respect is not by fickle fancy gained.

Ingeborg.

A sense of justice is a noble fancy.

Fridthjof.

Our love strove not with justice yesterday.

Ingeborg.

Nor love to day, but all the more our flight.

Fridthjof.

Necessity commands our flight,—Oh, come!

Ingeborg.

What's right and noble, that's necessity.

Fridthjof.

High rides the sun and time is fleeting by.

Ingeborg.

Ah, me, it has gone by, gone by forever!

Fridthjof.

Consider well. Is that thy last resolve?

Ingeborg.

I have considered well; it is my last.

Frydthjof.

Farewell then, fare thee well, king Helge's sister.

Ingeborg.

Oh, Fridthjof! Fridthjof! must we separate thus?
Hast thou indeed no friendly glance to give
Thy childhood's friend; no kindly hand to reach
To the unfortunate, once so beloved?
Think'st thou I stand on roses here, and turn
Away with smiles my happiness for life?
And that I pangless tear from out my breast
A hope that hath with my affections grown?

Oh! wert thou not my heart's own morning dream?
Each joy that I have known was Fridthjof named,
And all of life that great or noble seemed,
Did Fridthjof's likeness take before mine eyes.
Bedim the image not: oh, do not meet
With cruelty the weak one offering up
The dearest thing upon the face of earth.
The dearest thing that Valhal's gods can give!
That offering, Fridthjof, is severe enough.
And words of consolation well deserves.
I know thou lovest me—that I have known
E'er since my being first began to dawn;
And Ing'borg's thoughts will surely follow thee
For years to come wherever thou may'st go.
The clang of warlike weapons deadens grief.
'Tis blown away upon the wild, wild waves,
Nor ventures to return when champions all
Their victory celebrate with drinking horn.
Yet sometimes, then, when in the peace of night,
Thy thoughts review again forgotten days,
There will among them glide an image pale,
Thou knowest well; it fondly greeteth thee
From regions dear; it is the image of
That virgin pale in Balder's holy grove.
Thou must not drive it thence away, although
It looketh sorrowful, but whisper kind
Into its ear a friendly word; the winds
Of night on faithful wings will bear it me;
One comfort yet, I have none else beside.
For me there's naught to dissipate my grief;
In all surrounding me it hath a tongue;
The holy temple vaults speak but of thee:
The temple's God, which should all threatening seem,
Thy likeness takes when shines the streaming moon.
Behold the sea—there swam thy keel through foam
To her who on the strand awaited thee;
Behold the woods—there stand so many stems
With Ing'borg's runes engraven in the bark;
Now grows the bark and wears away my name,
And that betokens death, the sagas say.
I ask the day when last it saw thy form,
I ask the night, but both are silent still:
And e'en the sea which bears thee, gives reply
But with a solemn sigh along the shore.
With evening's ruddy glow I'll send to thee
A greeting, when it sinks into thy waves.
And heaven's long ship, the fleeting cloud, shall take
On board the wail of the abandoned one.
So shall I sit within my virgin bower,
In mourning clad, of all life's joy bereft,
And broken lilies sew into the cloth,
Until the Spring its cloth doth weave, and sew
It full of better lilies on my grave.
And when I sadly take the harp to sing
Unending sorrow in profoundest tones,
Then burst the burning tears as now—

Fridthjof.

Thou conquerest, Bele's daughter, weep no more!
Forgive my wrath, it was alone my sorrow
Which for a moment took a wrathful dress, -
A wrathful dress it cannot long endure.
Thou art my kindest norn, my Ingeborg.
A noble mind best teaches what is noble.
Necessity's real wisdom cannot have
A fairer, better advocate than thou,
Thou beauteous vala with the rosy lips!
I yield indeed unto necessity;
I part with thee but part not with my hope;
I'll take it with me over western waves,
I'll take it with me to the gates of death.
The nearest spring-day sees me here again:
King Helge, so I hope, shall see me too.
Then from my promise freed, his bidding done,
The calumny against me, too, atoned,
Then I'll request thee,—nay but I'll demand
In open council and with naked swords,
And not of Helge but of Northland's sons.
Who only can dispose a princess' hand;
I have a word for him who dare refuse.
Farewell till then; be true, forget me not,
And take in memory of our childhood's love,
My arm-ring here, a beauteous Volund-work,
With heaven's wonders graven in the gold;
The best of wonders is a faithful heart.
How well it suits thine arm so snowy-white—
A glow-worm coiled around the lily's stem!
Farewell, my bride, my loved one, fare thee well.
Ere many moons our mournful lot will change.

[He goes.]

Ingeborg.

How glad, how trusting, and of hope how full!
He sets the glittering point of his good sword
Against the norns, and says: "Ye must retreat!"
Thou wretched Fridthjof, the norns will ne'er retreat;
They go their way and laugh at Angervadil.
How little knowest thou my gloomy brother.
Thy brave, heroic temper fathoms not
The awful depths of his, nor understands
The hate that in his envious bosom burns.
His sister's hand he'll never give to thee;
He'd sooner give his crown, pour out his life,
Of me an offering make to Odin old,
Or to old Ring, whom now he fights against.
Wherever I may look, no hope is found,—
Yet am I glad hope lives within thy breast.
In secret will I keep my poor heart's wound,
And pray that all the good gods follow thee.
Here on thine arm-ring can I reckon up
Each separate month of all this lonesome sorrow.
In two, four, six,—then can'st thou come again,
But can'st not find again thine Ingeborg.

IX.

INGEBORG'S LAMENT.

Autumn has come;
Storming now heaveth the deep sea with foam,
Yet would I gratefully lie there,
Willingly die there.

Long gleamed his sail,
Flying to westward before the fierce gale;
Fortunate, Fridthjof to follow
O'er the wild billow.

Swell not so high,
Billows of blue with your deafening cry!
Stars lend assistance, a shining
Pathway defining.

With the spring doves
Fridthjof will come, but the maiden he loves
Cannot in hall or dell meet him,
Lovingly greet him.

Buried she sleeps,
Dead for her love's sake, or bleeding she weeps,
Heart-broken, given by her brother
Unto another.

Falcon he left,
Mine shalt thou be, winged hunter bereft;
I for thy owner will heed thee,
Lovingly feed thee.

Here on his hand~
'Broidering I'll picture thee on the cloth's rand,
Silvery pinions I'll give thee,
Golden claws weave thee.

Once, it is said,
Freyja with falcon-wings north and south sped,
Seeking for Oder, her lover,
All the world over.

Vainly I seek
Wings of the falcon, for mortals too weak.
Only in passing death's portal
Soareth a mortal.

Sit here with me,
Beautiful hunter and look at the sea;—
Longing and looking forever
Bringeth him never.

Dead shall I be,
When Fridthjof comes again over the sea;
Bear thou my love for his weeping,
I shall be sleeping.

X.

FRIDTHJOF AT SEA.

 On shore king Helge stood,
 By turns he sang and prayed,
 And in embittered mood
 Besought the goblins' aid.

See! the heavens with darkness toiling,
 Empty space with thunders boom,
Lo, the furious waves are boiling,
 Ocean's surface hid with foam.
Lightnings now the clouds are streaking,
 Here and there a bloody rand,
All the sea-fowls now are shrieking.
 Hasting to the safer strand.

 "Hard's the weather, brothers!
 Hear the stormy pinions
 Flapping in the distance,
 Yet we do not pale.
 Sit within the temple,
 Think on me with longing,
 Beauteous in thy weeping,
 Beauteous Ingeborg."

——
 'Gainst Ellide's stem,
   Two goblins warfare made.
  One was wind-cold Ham,
   One was snowy Heyd.

Now the storm-wind wildly drifts them
 O'er the deep, and madly down;
Now it beating, whirling lifts them,
 Upward where the heavens frown.
All the powers of evil coming,
 Riding on the billows' top,
From the bottomless, the foaming,
 From the wide graves up.

 "Brighter was the journey
 By the pale moon's glimmer,
 Over mirrored waters
 Unto Balder's grove;
 Warmer was it, nearer
 Ing'borg's heart reposing;
 Whiter than the sea-foam
 Swelled her bosom fair."

———
 Solund island fair
 Above the waves so white!
 Stiller seas are there,
 Harbors safe invite.

But the bold sea-rover feareth
 Less upon the trusted oak,
Mans the helm himself and jeereth
 At the wild wind's sportive stroke.
Tighter now the sail he fastens,
 Fleeter o'er the water skims,
Straight to westward fearless hastens,
 Goes where'er the billow swims.

 "Fighting for a moment
 With the storm delighteth:
 Storm and Northman prosper
 Well upon the wave.

 Ingeborg would redden
 Should her sea-eagle fly with
 Slackened wings, affrighted
 By a passing breeze."

——-
 Higher rise the waves,
 Deeper furrows plow,
 Cordage madly raves,
 Creak both keel and prow.

Waves whichever way contending,
 With or 'gainst Ellide's form,
Meet good timbered sides, defending
 Menaced ship, defying storm.
Like an evening meteor sweeping,
 Joyful glides she through the night,
Like an Alpine roebuck leaping
 Over precipice and height.

 "Better was it kissing
 her in Balder's temple,
 Than to stand here tasting
 Salt-foam as it whirls.

 Better 'twas embracing
 Bele's royal daughter
 Than to stand here gripping
 Fast the rudder's helm."

 From the cold sky's field
 Snows intense prevail,
 And on deck and shield
 Rattling storms of hail.

Lo, o'er all the vessel flying
 Night has placed her sable pall,
As in rooms where dead are lying,
 Gloomy darkness covers all.
Wave implacable now lashes
 Toward his doom the sailor brave
White-gray as with sifted ashes
 Frightful yawns a boundless grave.

 "Pillows Ran is making,
 Luring us to quiet;
 Thine I know are waiting,
 Ingeborg, for me.

 Faithful men are plying
 Oars of good Ellide;
 Gods the keel have made us,
 Bear us yet awhile."

———
 See the sea advances,
 Seeking now a wreck,
 Ere the eye can glance,
 Clears the starboard deck.

Fridthjof's sinewy arm adorning,
 Shone a massive golden ring,
Bright its rays of early morning,
 'Twas the gift of Bele, king.
This in many pieces broken,—
 Made by dwarfs with skillful art,—
Gives to all on board a token.
 Every man receives a part.

 "Gold is good to carry
 When you go a-wooing,
 Empty-handed no one
 Comes to sea-blue Ran.

 Cold is she to kisses,
 Flee'th from embraces,
 But the sea-bride yieldeth
 Met with shining gold."

 Now with threatenings new
  Falls the frozen storm,
 Rends his sail in two,
  Snaps the brittle arm.

O'er Ellide's side prevailing
 Entering rolls the mountain wave,
Men of giant strength are bailing,
 'Gainst, the sea make battle brave.
Fridthjof cannot fail discerning
 That he carries death on board;
Then above the billows storming
 Rises his commanding word.

 "Bjorn, attend the rudder,
 Grip it with a bear's paw;
 Valhal's holy powers
 Never sent such storm.

 Goblins rule the voyage;
 Coward Helge chanted
 Safety o'er the waters;
 I will up and see."

 Like a bird he flew
 Up the icy spar,
 Sat on high to view
 Fiendish goblins war.

See, before Ellide gliding,

 Like an island floating free,
Sea-whale on whose back are riding,
 Loathsome goblins of the sea.
Heyd a snowy pelt, doth cover,
 Figure like a polar bear;
Ham hath wings which, waving hover
 Eagle-like in stormy air.

 "Now. Ellide, ready!
 Show if hero temper
 Dwells within your banded
 Convex breast of oak.

 Listen to my order;
 Are you Valhal's daughter?
 Strike with keel of copper,
 Gore the conjured whale!"

——-
 Brave Ellide hears
 Fridthjof's proud behest.
 With a spring she rears
 'Gainst the monster's breast.

From the wound a stream is driving,
 To the skies 'tis quickly sped,
Now the wounded monster diving,
 Roaring seeks his miry bed.
Fridthjof's giant strength then casteth
 Lances at the goblins bold,
One in Ice-bear's bosom fasteneth,
 One Storm-eagle's breast doth hold.

 "Bravely done, Ellide!
 Not so quickly riseth
 Helge's magic dragon
 Up from out the mire.

 Ham and Heyd no longer
 Rule the sea together;
 Bitter is it biting
 'Gainst the dark-blue steel."

——-
 Quickly disappears
 Storm from sea and land,
 Gentle wavelet steers
 Toward the nearing strand.

All at once the sun advances,
 Like a king doth he unveil,
All enlivens, all entrances,
 Ship and billow, mount and dale.
Last rays, gleaming now like amber,
 Tops of cliff and forest bound,
Now each sailor well remembers
 The emerald shores of Efje Sound.

 "Ingeborg, pale maiden,
 Prayers sent unto Valhal;
 Lily-white she bowed her
 Knees on sacred gold.

 Light-blue eyes in weeping,
 Breast of swan's down, sighing,
 Moved the hearts of asas;
 Let us give them thanks."

——-
 Now Ellide leaks,
  Faithful dragon ship,
 Shallow water seeks.—
  Wearied of the trip.

Still more tired by labor dreary,
 Fridthjof's men desire the land;
But enfeebled, faint and weary,
 Sword-supported, scarce can stand.
Bjorn, on powerful shoulders, beareth
 Four of them and safely lands;
Fridthjof, too, the labor shareth,
 Eight sets round the burning brands.

 "Do not bhtsh, pale heroes!
 Waves are sturdy vikings;
 Hard indeed is fighting
 'Gainst the ocean's bride.

 See, there comes the mead-horn,
 Gold the feet that bear it.
 Warm your frozen members;
 Skoal to Ingeborg!

XI.

FRIDTHJOF WITH ANGANTYR.

'Tis now to tell the story
 How in his fir-wood hall,
Sat Angantyr, the hoary,
 And drank with champions all.
He, joyous and light-hearted,
 Looked out to where the sun
Behind the waves departed,
 Just like a golden swan.

Outside the hall's commotion
 Old Halvard watched,—indeed
Not only watched the ocean,
 But also watched his mead.
His custom, seldom broken,
 Was, quick the horn to drain,
And ere a word was spoken,
 To thrust it in again.

But now he threw it; striding

 Into the hall he spake:
"I see the billows riding
 A ship, whose timbers shake;
I see some sailors dying
 Already on the strand,
And two strong giants, trying
 To bring the rest to land."

O'er waves no longer foaming,
 The noble earl looked out:
"That is Ellide coming,
 And Fridthjof too, no doubt;
His step, so firm and steady,
 Bespeaks him Thorstein's son.
Such brow, and smile so ready,
 In Northland there is none."

Then viking Atle sturdy
 Sprang up at one swift bound;
Black-bearded berserk, bloody,
 And fiercely looked around.
"Now, I will prove," he thunders,
 "What rumor means by this,
That all blades Fridthjof sunders,
And never sues for peace."

And with the doughty viking,
 His twelve best champions start,
And in the air sharp striking,
 They brandish sword and dart.
They storm the strand, where by it
 The weary dragon lay;
But Fridthjof, sitting nigh it,
 Looks ready for the fray.

"Quite easy could I fell thee,"
 The noisy Atle cries:
"No one comes here, I tell thee,
 But either fights or flies.
If peace thou ask'st, believe me,—
 I fight, but am no churl,—
In friendship I'll receive thee,
 And lead thee to the earl."

"Although I'm scarcely rested,"
 Is Fridthjof's sharp reply,
"Our good swords must be tested,
 Before for peace I cry."
Then swift the sun-brown fighter
 His flashing sword-blade swung,
Bright glowed the runes and brighter
 On Angervadil's tongue.

Blows fell without cessation,
 Now deadly blows like rain,
And now in quick rotation
 Each shield is cleft in twain.
Unhurt, with wrath unspoken
 They stand within the ring,—
Now Atle's sword is broken
And Fridthjof's sword is king.

Said he: "A swordless foeman
 I've no desire to slay;
But if you will, as yeomen,
 We'll try another way."
As waves 'gainst waves are pushing,
 And breaking crest on crest,
So on each other rushing,
 They wrestled breast to breast.

They fought like two bears trying
 Their strength on crust of snow,
Or, as o'er mad waves flying
 The eagle meets his foe.
The firm earth trembled round them,
 Though based on solid rock,
And oaks, though strong roots bound them,
 Could scarce withstand the shock.

Their brows with sweat were beaded,
 Their breasts heaved with a sound,
The brush and stones unheeded,
 They scattered all around.
The twelve in expectation
 Stood quaking on the sand;
Renowned through every nation
 That struggle on the strand.

But Fridthjof was the stronger,
 He felled his foe at last,
And said with fiery anger,
 His knee on Atle's breast:
"Had I my good sword ready,
 Thou berserk blackbeard, now
Thy miserable body
 I'd straightway plunge it through."

"Go bring it! Who'll prevent thee?"
 Is generous Atle's cry,
"And if it will content thee,
 As now I'll quiet lie.
Why should it make me sorrow?
 For all must Valhal see;
I go to-day—to-morrow
 Perhaps thy turn will be."

Then Fridthjof quick returning,
 Desired to end the fray;
Raised Angervadil burning,—
 But Atle quiet lay.
The falling blade ne'er harmed him,
 For Fridthjof struck the sand;
Such courage had disarmed him,
 He took brave Atle's hand.

With gleeful admonition
 Old Halvard swung his staff:
"For your battle-meal potation
 There's nothing here to quaff;
Upon the board hot-smoking
 The silver dishes glow;
A cold meal is provoking,
 And thirst annoys me so.'

Appeased, with friendly feeling,
 The portals they pass through,
And here from floor to ceiling,
 To Fridthjof all was new.
Rough planks well matched together
 Lined not the spacious hall,
But 'broidered golden leather
 Was stretched along the wall.

The center was not littered
 By mortared hearthstone wide;
A marble fireplace glittered,
 Built up against the side.
No smoke 'mid rafters flitted,
 No roof with soot spread o'er;
Glass panes the windows fitted,
 A lock secured the door.

No woollen torches crackling,
 Illumed the champions' feast,
But waxen candles, sparkling,
 In silver sconces placed.
A roasted stag, well larded,
 The table's center graced;
Gold bands his raised hoof guarded,
 With flowers his horns were dressed.

Beside each champion sitting,
 A youthful maiden stood,—
An evening star, bright flitting,
 Behind a stormy cloud
The blue eyes beamed, in showers
 The gold-brown tresses flowed,
Complete as sculptured flowers
 The little rose-lips glowed.

On silver stool, high mounted,
 Sat Angantyr, the old;
His helm shot rays uncounted,
 His corselet was of gold.
His mantle, rich and splendid,
 With golden stars was strewn,—
And where the purple ended,
 The spotless ermine shone,

Three steps the earl descended
 To Fridthjof genially
He said, with hand extended:
 "Come higher, sit by me.
Of horns I've emptied many
 With Thorstein in his day;
His son, more famed than any,
 Shall not sit far away."

He filled each goblet brimming

 With wine from Sicily,—
Like sparks of fire 'twas gleaming,
 And foaming like the sea.
"Welcome!" exclaimed the speaker,
 "My friend's most worthy son!
To Thorstein fill a beaker,—
 And drink now, every one!"

Now woke the harpstring's slumbers,
 A skald from Morven's hills,
In Gaul's melodious numbers,
 Sad hero-songs he trills.
But Thorstein's praise was chanted
 In old Norwayan tongue;
His noble deeds were vaunted,
 His daring valor snug.

The earl asked much concerning
 His friends of days gone by;
In words replete with learning
 Young Fridthjof made reply.
A judgment given blindly,
Swift accusation brings,
He spoke like Saga, kindly,
Remembering holy things.

And when he there recounted
 How Helge goblins sent,
Which first the blue waves mounted,
 Then, conquered, downward, went,
The champions cheered him loudly,
 And Angantyr the same,—
In high approwd, proudly,
 They echoed Fridthjof's name.

But when he spoke in anguish,
 Of Ing'borg in her bloom,
How she was left to languish,
 Her heart with grief o'ercome,—
Each maiden's cheek was burning,
 Each bosom sore distressed;
And to her lover turning,
 His faithful hand she pressed.

His embassy to mention
 He ventured by and by;
The earl gave pleased attention,
 And then he made reply:
"I ne'er was tributary;
 King Bele's health, maybe,
To drink was customary,
 But from his law we're free.

"His sons, I do not know them;
 If tribute they demand,
Custom the way will show them,
 We'll meet them on the strand,
And see who best is reckoned;
 But Thorstein was my friend."
His daughter then he beckoned,
 Who sat quite near at hand.

Then rose the maiden tender,
 From stool all golden bound,
Her waist is trim and slender,
 Her bosom full and round,
Each dimpled cheek encloses
 An Astrild, roguish sprite,
As when on opening roses,
 The butterflies alight.

She hastened to her bower,
 A green silk purse she brought,
With bird and tree and flower
 And beast 'twas deftly wrought;
On seas were white-winged vessels,
 Beneath the silver moon,
Of gold were all the tassels,
 The clasp with rubies shone.

She placed the dainty treasure
 Within her father's band;
He filled it, brimming measure,
 With coin from foreign land.
"This welcome gift is only
 A tribute to a friend;
And now the winter lonely
 Consent with us to spend.

True courage knows no danger,
 But Heyd and Ham, I fear,
Revived await the ranger,
 And winter storms are here.
All foes the deep is hiding,
 Ellide may not shun,
And many whales are riding
 The waves, though conquered one."

With jesting and potation
 The hours till day were spent,
Without inebriation
 The wine-cup gladness lent.
A brimming skoal was given
 To Angantyr at last;
So Fridthjof in this haven
 The cheerful winter passed.

XII.

THE RETURN.

Now spring is breathing in skies of blue,
And earth her carpet has woven anew,
And Fridthjof grateful his kind host leaving
Again the billowy plain is cleaving,
And gayly speeding through silver-spray,
His black swan ploweth her sunny way.

The western breezes that spring is bringing,
Like nightingales in the sails are singing,
And AEger's daughters in veils of blue
About the rudder their sports pursue.
Ah, how delightful when safely clearing
A foreign land, to be homeward steering!
When memory pictures the smoke that curled
Above one's hearthstone, his childhood's world,
The fount where playing his swift feet hurried,
The honored graves where his dead are buried.
He thinks of her who perchance may be
On high cliffs standing to watch the sea.
Six days he sailed on his way returning,
The seventh a strip of blue discerning
Low down the horizon, he neared it fast,
Saw rock and islet and land at last.
That land is his; from the waves advancing,
He sees green forests in sunlight dancing.
He hears the roar of the foaming streams,
Can trace each cliff which with granite gleams,
Salutes the headland and sound, then glideth
Along by the groves where his Ing'borg bideth.
Thinks how last summer each evening fair,
With her beside him he wandered there.
"Where is she? Guesses she not her lover
Is near her, safely the blue waves over?
Perhaps, removed from her Balder's care,
She strikes the harp in the palace, where
Her grief she'd lessen, her needle plying."

Then sudden rises his falcon, flying
From temple turret, then downward flits
To Fridthjof's shoulder, and there he sits,
As was his wont, of his love to assure him.
From Fridthjof's shoulder can none allure him,
He scratches fast with his gold-tipped claws,
He gives no quiet, he makes no pause.
To Fridthjof's ear now his beak he bendeth,
Perchance some loved one a message sendeth;
Is it Ingeborg? Wildly his pulses bound,
But none interprets the broken sound.

Ellide gayly the headland rounding,
Skips lightly on, like a roebuck bounding.
Familiar waters surround the prow
Where happy Fridthjof is standing now.
He rubs his eyes and his hand he places
Above his brow to discern the traces
Of home so dear; but he looks in vain,—
Of Framness ashes alone remain.
The naked chimney stands lone and dreary,
Like warriors' bones of their grave-mounds weary;
The garden place is a blackened floor,
The ashes whirl round the wasted shore.
In bitter mood from his ship he hasteth,
Around the ruins his eyes he casteth,
His father's dwelling, his childhood's pride.
Then faithful Bran with the shaggy hide,
Comes running toward him, each moment faster,—
Of forest bears had he oft been master;
How high he springs in his gladsome glee,
How leaps with pleasure his friend to see.
The milk-white steed he so oft had ridden
Comes bounding up from the valley hidden,
With swan-like neck and the frame of a hind
And gold mane floating upon the wind.
He curves his neck and he stamps while standing,
His food from Fridthjof's own hand demanding;
But Fridthjof, poorer by far than they,
Has nought to give them,—he turns away.

Unsheltered, sorrowful stands the rover;
He looks at the meadow and grove burnt over,-
Of Hilding's coming quite unaware,
His foster-father with silver hair.
"At what I see I can scarcely wonder,
When eagles flit then their nests are plunder.
'Tis Helge's deed lest the land be wroth,
So well he keeps his crowning oath!
To hate mankind and to gods be loyal,
While blackened homes mark his progress royal!
More grief it gives me and less of pain;
But where does my Ingeborg meanwhile remain?"
"The word I hear," Hilding said in sadness,
"I fear will bring you but little gladness.
You scarce had sailed when king Ring came on,
Five shields I counted against our one.
In Disar-dale did we prove our valor,—
The river foamed with a crimson color.
King Halfdan's jest and his laugh arose,
So too the sound of his manly blows.
My shield I held as a buckler o'er him,
Well pleased with fruits his bravery bore him.
Not long indeed did the battle last.
King Helge yielded, and flying fast,
Though asa-blood in his veins was welling,
In passing Framness he fired the dwelling.
Before the brothers the choice was placed,
To give their sister to Ring, disgraced.
(By her alone could his wrongs be righted),
Or give their throne for his offer slighted.
Then hither and thither the messengers hied,
But now has Ring carried home his bride."

"O woman, woman!" said Fridthjof, scorning,
"Old Loke's thought should have been a warning;
His thought a lie, was in woman's form,
To man he sent it his heart to warm,
A blue-eyed lie that with tears alarms us,
Forever cheats and forever charms us;
A rose-checked lie with bust defined,
Of spring-ice virtue and faith like wind;
From out whose heart folly often glances,
On whose fresh lips basest falsehood dances.
And yet how dear to my heart was she!
And dear as ever she still must be.
My wife I've called her since in the wildwood.
We played together in happy childhood.
Of high achievement if e'er I thought,
Her love alone was the prize I sought;
As stems which grow from one root together,
If Thor strikes one then they both will wither;
If one its vesture of emerald shows,
The other mantles with green its boughs.
Our lives in joy and in grief thus blended,
I cannot think of the union ended.
But I'm alone. O, thou noble Var
Who wanderest over the earth afar,
To record on gold every vow that's spoken,
Forego thy pastime, the vows are broken.
The tablet filled with but falsest lies,
The faithful gold 'gainst the insult cries.
Of Balder's Nanna I've oft been dreaming,
But truth in mortals is only seeming.
In faithfulness can no heart rejoice
Since falsehood borrows my Ingeborg's voice,—
A voice like wind which o'er flower fields strayeth
Or harp-strings' music when Brage playeth.
I'll list no more when the harp is tried,
I will not think of my faithless bride;
Where storms are raging there will I follow,
Till blood thou drinkest, thou ocean billow.
Where swords sow seeds for pale death to reap,
On mount or vale I my vigil keep.
If king I meet and to combat dare him
I smile to think how my sword shall spare him.
But if in battle a youth I meet,
With heart enamored and visions sweet,
Deluded fool who on faith relieth,
I'll hew him down e'er the vision flyeth,
Will kindly slay him ere yet he be
Deceived, disgraced and betrayed like me."

"The blood that's youthful no boundaries heedeth,"
Old Hilding said, "how much it needeth
The cooling touch of the snows of age.
You wrong the maid with your senseless rage.
My foster-daughter beware of blaming
For adverse fortune which, heaven ordaining,
The wrathful norns upon men below
Hurl down, for none can escape the blow.
Like silent Vidar, no outward token
The maiden gave that her heart was broken.
Her grief was mute as in southern grove
The voiceless woe of the widowed dove.
To me alone who her childhood guided
Was all the pain she endured confided.
As dives the sea-fowl with wounded breast
Lest daylight's eye should upon it rest,
And there remaineth with life-blood flowing,
No sign of weakness or misery showing,
So she in darkness her suffering bore,
And only I saw her anguish sore.
She often said: 'I am but an offering
For Bele's kingdom; who talks of suffering!
The snow-drop fragrant, with leaf and vine
To deck the victim in wreaths they twine.
How sweet to die and escape from anguish!
But no, in pain must I live and languish;
For Balder's wrath will no rest allow

My aching heart and my throbbing brow.
But tell to no one my secret sorrow,
I'd rather suffer than pity borrow;
King Bele's daughter her fate may dare,—
But kindly greeting to Fridthjof bear.'
The wedding day with its footsteps fateful
Arrived at last. O, the day most hateful!
To the temple marched in procession sad,
The white-robed virgins and men steel-clad;
A bard dejected the train was guiding,
The pale bride followed, a black steed riding
As pale was she as the wraith which sits
On a storm-cloud black, when the lightning flits.
From off the saddle I quietly took her,
Nor at the temple door forsook her;
But led her up to the altar, where
Her vows she uttered in accents clear.
She wept and prayed, on good Balder calling,
While down her cheeks were the tear-drops falling.
When Helge saw on her arm your band,
He tore it off with an angry hand;
On Balder's image now hangs the jewel.
My wrath burst forth at this act so cruel;
My sword was by me, I drew it forth,—
King Helge then was but little worth.
'Let be,' said Ing'borg, in accents broken,
'My brother might surely have spared this token;
How much one suffers ere death sets free,—
The Allfather judgeth 'twixt him and me.'"

"The Allfather judgeth," said Fridthjof slowly,
"I too would give him my judgment lowly.
Is't not now mid-summer, Balder's feast?
And in the temple the crowned priest,—
The king, who sold the maiden tender?
Ah! yes, my judgment I fain would render."

XIII.

BALDER'S FUNERAL PILE.

Midnight's sun on the mountain lay,
 Blood-red was its gleaming
It was not night nor was it day,
 But just between them seeming.

Balder's bale-fire, symbol bright,
 On sacred hearth was burning,—
Soon is quenched its wasted light,
 Hoder's reign returning.

Priests around the temple wall
 Burning brands were grasping;
Silver-bearded, old men all,—
 Their hard hands flint knives clasping.

The crowned king stands the altar near;
 Hark! the midnight soundeth,—
With clash of weapons, sharp and clear,
 The sacred grove resoundeth.

"Bjorn, stand fast by yonder door,
 No one must pass under,
Whosoe'er would cross the floor,
 Cleave his skull asunder."

Helge paled: he knew too well
 Whose that voice so ringing.
Forth stood Fridthjof; his fierce words fell
 Like autumn storm winds singing.

"Here's the ordered tribute; it came
 Safe through the tempest's rattle;
Take it; then here by Balder's flame,
 For life or death we'll battle.

"Shields behind us, our bosoms free.
 Fair the fight be reckoned;
As king, the first blow belongs to thee,
 Mind thou, mine's the second.

"Caught at last is the wily fox,
 Vain all thought of flying;
Think of her with the golden locks,
 Of Framness wasted lying."

Thus he spake, and the purse he'd brought,
 Forth he quickly drew it,
Careless of the mischief wrought,
 In Helge's face he threw it.

Darkness swam before the eyes
 Of asas' kinsman sainted;
Blood gushed forth, he could not rise,
 But near his altar fainted.

"With the gold you as tribute claim,
 Are you overpowered?
None shall Angervadil blame
 For felling such a coward.

"Silence, priests with altar-knives,
 Moonshine princes, quiet!
Else my sword may drink your lives;
 Thirsting 'tis to try it.

"Holy Balder, thy wrath forbear,
 Nor 'gainst me enrol it:
But the arm-ring which you wear,
 Yonder craven stole it.

"Not for thee did Volund old
 Work its fair dimensions;
The maiden wept, but the thief was bold;
 Away, such false pretensions."

Bravely drew he; together fast
 Arm and ring seemed growing;
Angered Balder, when loosed at last,
 Fell 'mid the embers glowing.

Hark! each flame, as it leaps on high,
 A golden tooth resembles;
Bjorn, all pale, stands the doorway nigh,
 Fridthjof, anxious, trembles.

"Open, Bjorn, let the people go,
 Bv watchmen unimpeded;
The temple burns; throw water, throw
 The ocean full, if needed."

Now a chain is knit to the strand,
 Not a link is missing;
Flies the billow from hand to hand
 Against the fire-brands hissing.

Fridthjof sits like the god of rain
 High o'er beam and water,
Gives to all his orders plain,
 Calm amid the slaughter.

Vain! the fire has the upper hand,
 Smoke-clouds dense are growing,
Gold falls first on the red-hot sand,
 Silver streams are flowing.

All is lost! to the half-burned hall
 A fire-red cock is clinging,
He sits and crows on the roof-peak tall,
 His loosened pinions swinging.

The wind-blown flame mounts the vaulted sky,
 Everything it levels,
Balder's grove is summer dry,
 The hungry fire-king revels.

Fiercely leaping from height to height
 Aiming yet still higher;
O, what wild and terrific light!
 Strong is Balder's pyre!

Hark, it crackles! the roots now burn,
 The tops are fiery showers;
Muspel's ruddy children spurn
 Man's mere human powers.

A fire-sea billows in Balder's grove,
 Strandless breaks and hisses,
The sun is up, but bay and cove
 Mirror flaming abysses.

Soon in smoldering ashes lay
 Grove and temple's adorning;
Sadly then Fridthjof turned away,—
 Wept in the light of morning.

XIV.

FRIDTHJOF GOES INTO EXILE

On deck at night
In summer bright,
Sat Fridthjof grieving;
Like billows heaving,
Now wrath, now grief,
In his heart was chief;
And shoreward turning
Saw fires still burning.

"Thou temple reek
Fly up and seek
High Valhal's towers;
The White God's powers
Call down on me
With wrath's decree.
And tell, swift bounding,
The vault resounding,
The temple burned
To dust is turned;
The imaged glory
But lives in story.
Quick burned the god
Like common wood.
The grove protected
Nor once neglected
Since men swords bore
Is now no more;
By fire the slaying
Not time's decaying.
Forget no word
Thou hast seen or heard,
In Balder's dwelling
The story telling,
Thou message cloud
Of gods the shroud.
Long live in story
King Helge's glory,
Who exiled me
From him and thee,
My father's nation.
We'll roam creation
Where blue is king,
Where wild waves sing.
Thou canst not rest thee
Ellide, haste thee;
Earth's farthest bound
We'll sail around.
Soon thou'lt be rocking,
The sea-foam mocking,
My dragon good;
A drop of blood
Will nothing hinder
As on we wander.

In fiercest storm
Art thou my home;—
The one I cherished
By Helge perished.
Thou art my North
My foster-earth,—
The other leaving
I wander grieving:
My bride caressed
In black robes dressed;
The one in lustre
I could not trust her.

Thou ocean free,
Unknown to thee
Is king oppressive,
Untrue, aggressive.
Thy king is he
Among the free
Who trembles never
How high soever,
With wrath oppressed,
Heaves thy white breast.
Blue fields are charming
And not alarming;
There heroes plow
With keel and bow,
And blood-rain showers
In oaken bowers.
The good steel blade
Is seed-corn made.
The fields bring yearly
Not honor merely,
But gold as well.
Oh, kindly swell,
Thou ocean billow!
Thee will I follow.
My father's grave
Calm waters lave
(How still he sleepeth
Where green grass creepeth).
Mine blue shall be,
Flecked like the sea;
Forever floating,
On tempest gloating,
And fathoms deep
Draw men to sleep;
To me thou'rt given
For life a haven;
My grave thou'lt be,
Thou ocean free."

Thus inly burning
Sang Fridthjof, turning
His prow so true
From seas he knew,
And slowly creeping
'Mid rocks still keeping
Their faithful ward
O'er shallow fjord.

But vengeance watcheth;
King Helge fetcheth
Ten dragons out.
Thh people shout,
With breath abated:
"The king is fated;
He offers fight,
We scorn his might;
Though heaven-descended,
His reign is ended;
From earth we know
He now must go,
The blood god-given
Now longs for heaven."

Scarce was it spoke
Ere keels of oak
By unseen power
Began to lower;
Then on and on
Are downward drawn
To Ran's safe keeping.
King Helge, leaping,
Is glad to swim
From the sinking stem.
And Bjorn, none blaming,
Laughed loud, exclaiming:
"Thou asa-blood,
The art was good;
No one detected,
Or e'en suspected,
I bored so quick,—
A worthy trick!
May waves enfold them
And Ran still hold them
As heretofore.
It grieves me sore
That Helge misses
False Ran's cold kisses."

In wrathful mood
King Helge stood
From death delivered;
His round bow quivered,
Though made of steel,
As toward the shoal
So hard he drew it,
Though scarce he knew it,
It clanging broke.
Then Fridthjof spoke,
His lance well aiming,
While loud exclaiming:
"A death-bird here,
Enchained I bear:
If once set; flying,
Then low is lying
Thy coward head.
By Loke led
Thy fear abuseth;
My lance, refuseth

A coward's blood;
It is too good
For food so craven;
Its worth be graven
On funeral stone,
But not upon
A name which beareth
The stain thine weareth.
One exploit brave
Sank 'neath the wave;
The next one failed thee,
Nor aught availed thee;
Thy bow rust broke,
Not thou. The stroke,
When I aspire,
Is set much higher,
As thou mayst see
'Tis far from thee."

His carved oar limber
Was fir-tree timber,—
A mast-fir tall,
From Gudbrand's dale.
Taking another,
With both together
He rowed amain;
Like arrowy cane
Or steel blade brilliant
Were the oars resilient.
The sun climbs up
The mountain slope,
The winds, advancing
From land, to dancing
In morning's light
The waves invite.
Where foam-crest swimmeth
Ellide skimmeth
On joyous wings;
But Fridthjof sings:

"Thou front of creation,
 Exalted North!
I have no station
 On thy green earth.
Thy lineage sharing
 My pride doth swell,
Thou home of daring!
 Farewall, farewell!

Farewell thou royal
 Valhalla-throne!
Thou night's-eye loyal,
 Midsummer sun!
Thou sky unclouded
 As hero's soul!
Thou vault star-crowded!
Farewell, farewell!

Ye mountain ranges
 Where honor dwells,
Creation's changes
 Your rune-face tells.
Ye lakes and highlands
 I knew so well,
Ye rocks and islands,
 Farewell, farewell!

Farewell ye grave-mounds
 Where the linden showers
Near azure wave bounds
 The dust of flowers!
But time revealeth
 And judgeth well
What earth concealeth;
 Farewell, farewell!

Farewell ye bowers,
Beneath whose shade
So many hours
By brooks I've played;
Ye friends of childhood
Ye meant me well,
I love your wildwood;
Farewell, farewell!

My love is cheated,
 My home is burned,
My shame completed,
 I'm exiled, spurned.
From land appealing
 To ocean's swell,
Life's joyous feeling,
 Farewell, farewell!