{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3759/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3759","id":"gutenberg_3759","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3759","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Legends -- Iceland","Swedish poetry -- Translations into English"],"text":"Ver.07/27/01*END*\n\n\n\n\nFRIDTHJOF'S SAGA\n\nBy Esaias Tegne'r\n\n\n\n\nNOTE BY THE TRANSLATORS\n\n\nTegne'r's poem, \"Fridthjof's Saga,\" has been printed in Sweden in many large\neditions and in almost every possible style. It has been illustrated, and it\nhas been set to music. It has been translated into nearly all the modern\nEuropean languages. Moreover it has been rendered into English by eighteen\ndifferent translators, and has been twice reprinted in America. Bayard Taylor\nedited an American edition of a translation by Rev. William L. Blackley of\nDublin, and published it about ten years ago. Professor R. B. Anderson has\njust published in his \"Viking Tales,\" a translation made by Professor George\nStephens of Copenhagen, and which received the sanction of Bishop Tegne'r\nhimself.\n\nAnd yet we venture to add another, and present here the _first_complete_\nAmerican translation. Mr. Taylor said in his preface to Blackley's version\nthat there had never been an English Fridthjof's Saga which was satisfactory\nto Swedes. This is probably owing to the fact that the Swedes have become so\nfamiliar with its original measures and so accustomed to its peculiar rhythm,\nthat they cannot willingly dispense with any part of the form which Tegne'r\ngave it. Several of the metres employed by him were unknown to Swedish readers\nuntil they appeared in this poem. Tegne'r's experiment of introducing them was\na successful one; and they are now, in the minds of Swedes, as much a part of\nthe work as the story itself. The feminine rhymes, occurring in fifteen of the\ntwenty-four cantos, are so melodious that no one who had heard the original,\neven if he did not understand a word of it, could be quite satisfied with a\nversion which does not reproduce them. The feminine rhymes and the\nalliteration of Canto XXI have presented obstacles which no single translation\nhas hitherto overcome.\n\nThe original measures the feminine rhymes and the alliteration of \"Ring's\nDrapa,\"  are, in our estimation, essential features of a good rendering of the\npoem, and if we have done our work well we do not fear that any one will think\nthere are too many translations.\n\nFor a fuller history of \"Fridthjof 's Saga\" than can be given in this note, we\nrefer the reader to Anderson's \"Viking Tales,\" where the sagas on which this\nstory is founded appear in full.\n\nThe preparation of this translation has been a home work which has brightened\nfor us the firelight of many a pleasant evening. We publish it in full faith\nthat it will have a like happy effect in whatever home it may be read.\n\n   October, 1876.\n \n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nCanto I. Fridthjof and Ingeborg\n         -\n\nCanto II. King Bele and Thorstein\n\nCanto III. Fridthjof's Inheritance\n\nCanto IV. Fridthjof's Courtship\n\nCanto V. King Ring\n\nCanto VI. Fridthjof Plays Chess\n\nCanto VII. Fridthjof's Happiness\n\nCanto VIII. The Parting\n\nCanto IX. Ingeborg's Lament\n\nCanto X. Fridthjof at Sea\n\nCanto XI. Fridthjof with Angantyr\n\nCanto XII. The Return\n\nCanto XIII. Balder's Funeral Pile\n\nCanto XIV. Fridthjof Goes Into Exile\n\nCanto XV. The Viking Code\n\nCanto XVI. Fridthjof and Bjorn\n\nCanto XVII. Fridthjof Comes to King Ring\n\nCanto XVIII. The Ride on the Ice\n\nCanto XIX. Fridthjof's Temptation\n\nCanto XX. King Ring's Death\n\nCanto XXI. Ring's Drapa\n\nCanto XXII. The King's Election\n\nCanto XXIII. Fridthjof at his Father's Grave\n\nCanto XXIV. The Reconciliation\n\nGlossary\n\n\n\n\nCHARACTERS\n\n\nBele. (Pronounced Bay'-lay.) King of Sogn, in Norway.\n\nHelge (Hel'-gay)  and Halfdan. His sons.\n\nIngeborg. (Ing'-e-borg.) His daughter.\n\nThorstein. (Tor'-stine.) A peasant, -friend and companion-in-arms of King\nBele.\n\nFridthjof. (Freet'-yof.) Son of Thorstein.\n\nHilding. Foster-father and teacher of Fridthjof and Ingeborg.\n\nBjorn. (B'yorn.) A sworn foster-brother of Fridthjof.\n\nRing. King of Ringric, in Norway.\n\nAngantyr. (Ang'-an-teer.) Ruler of the Orkney Islands.\n\nAtle. (At'-lay.) A berserk, and one orf Angantyr's warriors.\n\n\nSCENE--Northern Norway and the Orkney Islands.\n\n\n\n\nFRIDTHJOF'S SAGA.\n\n\n\nFridthjof and Ingeborg.\n\n\nIn Hilding's garden, green and fair,\nProtected by his fostering care,\nTwo rare and stately plants were growing,\nUnequaled grace and beauty showing.\n\nThe one a sturdy oak tree grew,\nWith lance-like stem so straight and true,\nIts crown in northern tempests shaking\nLike helmet plume in battle quaking.\n\nThe other like a rose sprang forth\nWhen tardy winter leaves the north,\nAnd spring, which in the buds lies dreaming,\nStill waits with gems to set them gleaming.\n\nAround the earth the storm-king raves,\nThe wrestling oak its anger braves;\nThe sun dissolves frost's mantle hoary,\nThe buds reveal their hidden glory.\n\nSo they grew up in joy and glee,\nAnd Fridthjof was the young oak tree;\nUnfolding in the vale serenely,\nThe rose was Ingeborg the queenly.\n\nSaw you those two by light of day\nYou seem in Freyja's house to stay,\nWhere bride-pairs, golden-haired, were swinging,\nTheir way on rosy pinions winging.\n\nBut seeing them by moonlight pale\nRound dancing in the leafy vale,\nYou'd think: The elf-king now advances,\nAnd leads his queen in fairy dances.\n\nHow joyful 'twas, how lovely too,\nWhen firs[ he learned his futhorc through;\nNo kings had e'er such honor brought them\nAs when to Ingeborg he taught them.\n\nHow joyously his boat would glide\nWith those two o'er the dark blue tide:\nWhile he the driving sail was veering,\nHer small white hands gave hearty cheering.\n\nNo bird's nest found so high a spot,\nThat he for her could find it not;\nThe eagle's nest from clouds he sundered,\nAnd eggs and young he deftly plundered.\n\nHowever swift, there ran no brook,\nBut o'er it Ingeborg he took;\nHow sweet when roaring torrents frighten,\nTo feel her soft arms round him tighten.\n\nThe first; spring flowers by sunshine fed,\nThe earliest berries turning red,\nThe first of autumn's golden treasure,\nHe proffered her with eager pleasure.\n\n********************\n\nBut quickly sped are childhood's days,--\nThere stands a youth whose ardent gaze\nWith pleading and with hope is laden,\nAnd there, with budding charms, a maiden.\n\nYoung Fridthjof followed oft the chase,\nWhich led to many a fearful place;\nWith neither spear nor lance defended,\nThe wild bear's life he quickly ended.\n\nWhen, struggling, met they breast to breast,\nThe hunter won, though hardly pressed,\nAnd brought the bearskin home; such prizes,\nThink you, a maiden e'er despises?\n\nFor woman values courage rare;\nThe brave alone deserves the fair,\nEach one the other's grace completing,\nAs brow and helmet fitly meeting.\n\nAnd when in winter evenings long,\nBy firelight reading, in a song,\nOf fair abodes in radiant heaven\n\nTo every god and goddess given,\n\nHe thought: \"Of gold is Ing'borg's hair,\nA net for rose and lily fair:\nLike Freyja's bounteous golden tresses,\nA wheat-field which the breeze caresses.\n\nFair Idun's beauteous bosom beats\nBeneath the green silk's safe retreats,--\nI know a silk whose sheen encloses\nLight; fairies two, with buds of roses.\n\nAnd Frigg's mild eyes are blue and clear\nAs heaven, when no clouds appear,--\nBut I know eyes beside whose sparkles\nA light, blue spring day quickly darkles.\n\nAnd Gerd's fair cheeks, why praise them so?\nThe northern-lights, on new fall'n snow,--\nI know of cheeks whose rosy warnings\nPortray at once two ruddy mornings.\n\nI know a heart affection-crowned\nLike Nanna's, though not so renowned\nAnd Nanna's love, in song and story,\nis justly reckoned Balder's glory.\n\nFor oh, what joy when death appears,\nTo have a faithful maiden's tears!\nTo prove a love so strong and tender,\nWith Hel's grim shades I'd gladly wander.\"\n\nMeanwhile the princess gayly wove\nIn cloth, blue wave and greenest grove;\nAnd as she sang a hero's story,\nShe also wove a hero's glory.\n\nFor soon there grew in snow-white wool\nBright shields from off the golden spool,\nHere, red prevail the battle lances,\nThere, silver-stiffened armor glances.\n\nAnon her fingers deftly trace\nA hero,--see, 'tis Fridthjof's face;\nAnd though at first almost affrighted,\nShe blushes, smiles and is delighted.\n\nThe birch tree's stem where Fridthjof went\nShowed I and F in beauty blent;\nAs grew those runes in one, delighted,\nSo too those hearts in one united.\n\nWhen Day invests the upper air,\nThe world-king with the golden hair,\nWhen men to action urge each other,\nThey think alone of one another.\n\nWhen Night pervades the upper air,\nThe world-queen with the raven hair,\nWhen stars in silence greet each other,\nThey dream alone of one another.\n\n\"Thou Earth, who in the spring-time fair,\nBedeck'st with flowers thine emerald hair,\nGive me the best; in wreaths I'll wind them,\nAnd round my Fridthjof's brow will bind them.\"\n\n\"Thou sea, who mak'st thy dark caves bright\nWith myriad pearls' refulgent light,\nGive me the best; I'll weave the clearest\nA necklace for my Ing'borg dearest.\"\n\n\"Thou ornament of Odin's throne,\nEye of the world, O golden sun,\nWert thou but mine, thy blazing splendor\nI'd give a shield to my defender.\"\n\n\"Thou guide in Odin's house at night,\nThou pale moon with thy lovely light,\nWere thou but mine, thy pearly lustre\n'Mid Ing'borg's golden hair should cluster.\"\n\nBut Hilding said: \"My foster-son,\nYour reason is by love outrun;\nThe norns are partial in bestowing\nThe blood that in her veins is flowing.\n\nTo Odin high, where bright stars shine,\nAscendeth her ancestral line;\nNo hope may son of Thorstein nourish,\nFor like with like alone can flourish.\"\n\nBut Fridthjof smiled: \"My race,\" he said,\n\"Goes down unto the valiant dead;\nThe forest-king I slew, and merit\nThereby, the honor kings inherit.\n\n\"The free-born man will never yield,\nHe owns the world's unconquered field;\nFor fate can bind what she has broken,\nAnd hope is crowned with kingly token.\n\n\"All power is noble; Thor presides\nIn Thrudvang, where all strength abides;\nThere worth, and not descent, is leader,--\nThe sword is e'er a valiant pleader.\n\n\"I'd fight the world for my sweet bride,\nYea, though the thunder-god defied.\nBe glad and brave, my lily, never\nShah mortal dare our lives to sever.\"\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\nKing Bele And Thorstein.\n\n\nKing Bele, sword-supported, in the palace stood;\nAnd with him Thorstein, Viking's son, the peasant good.\nHis ancient war companion, grown old in glory,\nHis brow was scarred like rune-stones, his hair was hoary.\n\nThey stood, as on the mountain two temples stand\nTo honored gods devoted, now half in sand;\nAnd many words of wisdom the walls are saying,\nAnd holy recollections through domes are straying.\n\n\"The evening steals upon me,\" king Bele said,\n\"The helmet now is heavy, and stale the mead;\nThe fate of man grows darker, but all the clearer\nHigh Valhal shines before me, as death draws nearer.\n\n\"My sons I here have summoned, and Thorstein's son\nFor they should cling together, as we have done;\nBut I would give the eaglets some words of warning--\nWords may in death be sleeping ere dawns the morning.\"\n\nObedient to the mandate, the three advance--\nFirst, Helge, dark and gloomy, with sullen glance;\nHe dwelt amid diviners; the hand he proffered\nWas red with blood of victims, on altars offered.\n\nThe next who came was Halfdan, a light-haired swain:\nHis countenance was noble, but weak and vain;\nHe gaily bore a falchion, with which he gestured,\nAnd seemed a youthful maiden, in armor vestured.\n\nAnd after them came Fridthjof, in mantle blue;\nHe was stronger than the others, and taller, too;\nHe stood between the brothers, by contrast seeming\nLike noon 'twixt night and morning, in splendor beaming.\n\n\"Ye sons,\" the king said gently, \"my son goes down;\nTogether rule the kingdom and take the crown;\nFor unity is power, and no endeavor,\nWhile lance with ring is circled, its stem can sever.\n\n\"Let power stand as sentry on every hand,\nAnd freedom bloom protected throughout the land:\nThe sword is for protection, and not for plunder.\nAnd shields are locks for peasants no foe can sunder.\n\n\"How foolish is the ruler his land to oppress,\nFor the people give the power which kings possess;\nThe crown of leafy verdure which decks the mountain\nWill wither if the sunshine dries up the fountain.\n\n\"On four gigantic pillars is heaven's throne--\nThe throne of nations resteth on law alone!\nDestruction waits on judgment; if misdirected;\nBy right are men ennobled and kings perfected.\n\n\"In Disarsal, O Helge, the high gods dwell--\nNot pinioned as the snail is within his shell;\nAs far as daylight flieth, or thought's swift pinion,\nFar as resound the echoes, is gods' dominion.\n\nThe offered hawk gives tokens which oft deceive.\nNot all runes monumental can we believe:\nBut an honest heart, O Helge, of pure endeavor,\nWith Odin's runes is written, misleading never.\n\n\"Be not severe, king Helge, but firm and staid;\nThe sword that bites the sharpest has the limberest blade.\nKings are adorned by mercy, as shields by flowers,\nAnd spring can more accomplish than winter's powers.\n\n\"A man, however mighty, deprived of friends,\nLike tree of bark denuded, how soon life ends!\nBut he by friends surrounded, like trees shall flourish,\nWhose crowns, in groves protected, the brooklets nourish.\n\n\"Boast not ancestral wisdom; each man alone\nA single bowstring uses, and that his own;\nWhat matters it to any the worth that's buried?\nBy its own waves the current o'er seas is carried.\n\n\"A joyous spirit, Halfdan, advantage brings,\nBut idle talk is needless, and most, to kings;\nOf hops, as well as honey, is mead compounded,\nLet sports on vigor, lances on steel, be founded.\n\n\"No man has too much wisdom, though learned he be,\nAnd much too little, many less learned than he;\nTo fools, though high in station, no praise is meted,\nThe wise hy all are honored, though lowly seated.\n\n\"The steadfast friend, O Halfdan! of mingled blood,\nLives near indeed, though distant be his abode;\nBut to thy foeman's dwelling the way is weary,--\nThough standing by thy pathway, 'tis far and dreary.\n\n\"For friend choose not the first one that's so disposed,--\nAn empty house stands open, a full one closed;\nChoose one, the best, O Halfdan, nor seek another,\nThe world soon knows the secrets of three together.\"\n\nThese words then Thorstein uttered in clearest tone:\n\"King Bele unto Odin goes not alone;\nWe've always stood together, whatever tried us,\nAnd death, now drawing near, shall not divide us.\n\n\"Fridthjof, old age hath whispered in my rapt ear\nFull many words of wisdom, which thou must hear.\nBirds fly from graves to Odin, with wisdom freighted,\nThe words by old men spoken, should not be slighted.\n\n\"First, give the high gods honor; for good or ill,\nStorms come as well as sunshine, by Heaven's will.\nThe gods perceive the secrets in thy possession.\nAnd years must make atonement for each transgression.\n\n\"Obey the king: most wisely rules one alone,\nThe eyes of night are many, day has but one.\nThe better are contented by best directed,--\nThe blade must have a handle to be perfected.\n\n\nGreat strength is heaven's dower; but, Fridthjof, learn\nThat power devoid of wisdom, can little earn.\nStrong bears by one are taken,--one man of reason;\nSet shields to turn the sword stroke, let law stop treason.\n\n\"A few may fear the haughty, whom all despise,\nAnd with the proud in spirit, destruction lies:\nThose once flew high, who're now on crutches creeping;\nThe winds rule fortune, weather, time of reaping.\n\n\"The day thou'lt rightly prize, whose sun has sunk,\nAdvice when it is followed, and ale when drunk.\nThe hopes of youth on shadows are often rested,\nBut strength of sword and friendship, by use are 'tested.\n\n\"Trust not the snow of spring-time, nor night-old ice;\nThe serpent when he sleepeth, nor girl's advice;\nThe mind of changeful woman not long abideth,\nAnd fickleness of spirit, 'neath flower-tints hideth.\n\n\"All men will surely perish with all they prize,\nBut one thing know I, Fridthjof, which never dies,--\nAnd that is reputation', therefore, ever\nThe noble action strive for, the good endeavor.\"\n\nSo warned the aged chieftains in the palace hall.\nAs since the skald has chanted in Ha'vama'l,\nSo passed these sayings pithy through generations;\nAnd still from graves they whisper 'mid northern nations.\n\nThen many words and heartfelt, these warriors found\nTo tell their lasting friendship, so wide renowned.\nHow friends till death, if fortune or frowned or slighted.\nLike two hands clasped together they stood united.\n\n\"And back to back in battle we held the field,\nAnd which way norns did threaten, they smote a shield;\nBefore you now to Valhal we old men hasten,\nAnd may their fathers' spirit our children's chasten.\"\n\nThe king said much concerning brave Fridthjof's worth,\nHeroic power surpassing all royal birth;\nAnd much was said by Thorstein, how graces cluster\nRound Northland's honored monarchs, with Asa-lustre.\n\n\"But hold ye fast together, ye children three,\nThe Northland then your conqueror shall never see;\nFor royalty and power, when duly ordered,\nAre like a bright shield golden, by blue steel bordered.\n\n\"Salute my daughter Ing'borg, the rosebud sweet,\nIn quiet was she nurtured, as seemed meet:\nProtect her, lest the storm-king, with cruel power,\nShould fasten in his helmet my tender flower.\n\n\"I lay on thee, king Helge, a father's care,\nLove Ing'borg as a daughter, the jewel rare!\nRestraint galls noble spirits, but gentle manner\nWill lead both man and woman to right and honor.\n\n\n\"But lay us now, ye children, in two mound-graves.\nClose where the blue gulf tosses its ceaseless waves;\nOur souls shall then forever enjoy the ringing\nOf dirges which in breaking the waves are singing.\n\n\"When the moon's pale beams the mountains and valleys fill,\nAnd midnight's dew is falling on grove and hill;\nThen will we sit, O Thorstein, above our pillows,\nAnd talk about the future, across the billows.\n\n\"And now, farewell, ye children, our work is done;\nUnto the Allfather gladly we hasten on,\nLike weary rivers longing for sea's caressing;\nOn you be Thor's and Odin's and Frey's rich blessing.\"\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nBuried were Bele and Thorstein together, as they had commanded;\nHigh rose their grave-mounds on each side the gulf by the blue rolling water,\nDeath having sundered the hearts that in life were so closely united.\nHelge and Halfdan, by will of the people, took jointly the kingdom\nLeft by their father; but Fridthjof, an only son, heired alone Framness,\nTook unmolested possession, and settled himself there in quiet.\n\nStretching around him for twelve miles unbroken his acres extended;\nThree sides were dale, hill and mountain, the fourth side looked out on the\nocean;\nCrowned were the hill-tops with forests of birch-wood, but, on their sides\nsloping,\nGolden corn plentiful grew, and like billows the tall rye was waving.\nMany in number the lakes which their mirrors held up for the mountains;\nHeld them up, too, for the woods in whose thickets the high-horned elks\nwandered,\nMaking there kingly roads, drinking from running brooks counted by hundreds.\nBut in the valleys wide, on the smooth greensward were quietly grazing\nGlossy-skinned herds, which with udders distended now long for the milk-pail.\nScattered among them were myriads of white-wooled sheep, constantly moving,\nLooking like fleecy clouds sailing serenely across the blue heavens,\nWafted now hither now thither in crowds by the winds in the spring-time.\n\nTwelve times two coursers, fierce whirlwinds, defiant though fettered,\nStood in the rows of stalls, stamping and restless, the meadow-hay chewing,\nKnotted their long manes with red, and their hoofs were with iron shoes\nglistening.\n\nStanding apart was the drinking-hall, built of the choicest fir timber;\nCounting ten twelves to the hundred, not five hundred warriors assembled\nFilled up the spacious apartment, when all met to drink mead at Yule-time.\nDown through the middle, from end to end, ran a strong table of stone-oak,\nPolished with wax and like steel shining; carved on two pillars of elm-wood,\nFar at one end, Frey and Odin supported the dais of honor,\nOdin with lordly look, Frey with the sun for a crest on his bonnet.\n\n'Twixt the two, on a bear-skin (black as a coal was this bear-skin,\nScarlet the mouth, while the tips of the claws were with bright silver\nshining),\nThorstein among his friends sat--hospitality ministering to Gladness.\n\n\nOft when the moon in the heavens was riding, the old man related\nWonders of foreign lands seen by him when as a viking he journeyed,\nFar on the waves of the Baltic, the White, and the Northern seas tossing.\nMutely the company listened. Fixed were their eyes on the speaker,\nEven as bees upon roses; the poet was thinking of Brage,*\n\n*(Bra'-gay)\n\nBrage with silver beard flowing, and tongue clothed in wisdom the choicest,\nSitting 'neath shadowy birches, telling a story by Mimer's\nUnceasingly murmuring fountain, he too a saga unending.\nCovered with straw was the floor, and upon a walled hearth in the center,\nConstantly burned, warm and cheerful, a fire, while down the wide chimney\nTwinkling stars, heavenly friends, glanced upon guest and hall, quite\nunforbidden.\n\nStudded with nails were the walls, and upon them were hanging\nHelmets and coats-of-mail closely together; also between them\nHere and there flashed down a sword, like a meteor shooting at evening.\nBrighter than helmet or sword were the sparkling shields ranged round the\nchamber;\nBright as the time of the sun were they, clear as the moon's disc of silver.\nOft as the horns needed filling, there passed round the table a maiden;\nModestly blushing she cast down her eyes, her beautiful image\nMirrored appeared in the shields, and gladdened the heart of each warrior.\n\nRich was the house, and the eye of the stranger, whichever way gazing,\nRested on cellar well filled, or on pantry or press overflowing.\nJewels the rarest, trophies of conquest, gleamed in profusion;\nGold carved in runes with great skill, and wonderful things wrought in silver.\nChief in this limitless treasure three things were most of all valued.\n\nFirst of the three was a sword, which from sire and from grandsire descended.\nCalled Angervadil, or grief-wader, sometimes, too, brother of lightning.\nFar, far away in the East it was forged--so at least says the story--\nTempered in fire by the dwarfs. Bjorn Bluetooth the first one who bore it.\n\nBjorn lost at once both the sword and his life in a bravely-fought battle,\nSouthward in Groning Sound, where he struggled with Vifil the powerful.\nVifil's possessions descended to Viking.\n\n     At Woolen-Acre,\nOld and infirm, there lived a great king with a beautiful daughter.\nSee, from the depths of the forest there cometh a giant misshapen,\nHigher in stature than man, a monster ferocious and shaggy,\nBoldly demanding a hand-to-hand combat, or kingdom and daughter.\n\nNo one, however, accepted the challenge, for none had a weapon\nAble his hard skull to pierce, and therefore they called him the Iron-skull.\n\nViking, whose winters scarce fifteen had numbered, nobly advancing,\nEntered the fray, secure in his strong arm and good Angervadil.\nCleft at one blow the hideous goblin, and rescued the maiden.\nViking bequeathed the good weapon to Thorstein, his son, and Thorstein,\nTo Odin ascended, bequeathed it to Fridthjof. Whenever he drew it,\nLight filled the hall as when northern lights entered, or lightning flashed\nthrough it.\nHammered of gold was the hilt, with strange letters 'twas covered;\nWonderful mysteries were they in Northland, but known to the people\nWho dwell near the gates of the sun, where our fathers lived ere they came\nhither.\n\nFaint were the runes when the land was in quiet throughout all its borders;\nBut when the followers of Hild were summoned, then were they burning\nRed as the comb of a cock when he fighteth. Lost was the warrior\nWho met, on the field of encounter, the blade with its red letters glowing.\nHighly renowned was that sword, and of swords was the chief in the Northland.\n\nNext highly prized was the ponderous arm-ring, widely notorious,\nForged by the Vulcan of northern tradition, the halting smith Volund;\nThree marks it weighed, and gold was the metal of which it was fashioned;\nCarved were the heavens with twelve towering castles, where dwell the\nimmortals,--\nEmblem of changing months, called by the poets the sun's glorious dwelling.\nFirst there was Frey's castle Alfheim, that is the sun, which born newly,\nStarts once again to ascend the steep pathway of Heaven at Yule-time.\nThere too was Sokvabek; seated within it were Odin and Saga\nDrinking together their wine from a gold shell,--that shell is the Ocean,\nColored with gold from the glow of the morning. Saga is Spring-time,\nWrit on the green of the fresh springing field, with flowers for letters.\nBalder, the kingly, is pictured there, throned on the sun at midsummer,\nWhich pours from the firmament riches untold,-- personified goodness;\nFor lights are the good, radiant, resplendent, but the evil are darkness.\nConstantly rising the sun groweth weary; the good also falter,\nGiddy with walking precipitous heights; sighing they downward\nSink to the land of the shades,--down to Hel. That is of Balder\nThe funeral pile. Glitner, the castle of Peace, is there; seated\nWithin it was Forse'te',* scales in hand, meting out justice.\n\n*For-se-te\n\nMany more pictures with these there engraven, betoken the conflict\nWaged against darkness, on earth and in heaven; bright were they shining,\nWrought by a master's hand on the broad arm-ring. Clustering rubies\nCrown its high center, e'en as in summer the sun crowns the heavens.\nLong was the circlet a family heir-loom. On the side of the mother\nTraced they their pedigree back to old Volund, ancestor mighty.\nOnce, says tradition, the jewel was stolen by robber named Soti,\nRoaming abroad through the seas. Long was it ere 'twas recovered.\nFinally (so runs the story) 'twas said that the robber had buried\nHimself with his ship, and. his treasure, deep on the far coast of Britain.\nPleasure or quiet he found not, a ghost was his irksome companion.\nHearing the rumor, Thorstein with Bele the dragon ship mounted,\nDashed through the foaming waves, straight to the place of the sepulcher\nsteering.\nWide as a temple's arch, or a king's gateway, bedded in gravel,\nCovered with grassy turf, arched to the top, the tomb rose forbidding.\nLight issued from it. Through a small crevice within the closed portal,\nPeered the two champions. There the pitched viking ship\nStood with its masts, its yards and its anchor. High in the stern sheets\nWas seated a terrible figure, clad in a mantle all flaming,\nFurious demon scouring a blade that with blood spots was covered.\nVain was his labor, naught could remove them. All his rich booty\nRound him was scattered, and on his arm was the ring he had stolen.\n\n\"Go we,\" said Bele, \"down thither and fight with the hideous goblin,\nTwo 'gainst a spirit of fire.\" But Thorstein half angrily answered:\n\"One against one is the rule of our fathers. I fight well singly.\"\nLong they contended which first of the two the encounter should venture,\nProving the perilous journey. Bele at last took his helmet,\nShaking two lots therein. Watched by the stars Thorstein saw by their shimmer\nHis was the lot first appearing. A blow from his javelin of iron\nCleft the huge bolts and strong locks. He descended. Did any one question\nWhat was revealed in the cavern, then was he silent and shuddered.\nBele at first heard strange music. It rang like the song of a goblin;\nThen was a clattering noise, like the clashing of blades in a combat,\nLastly a hideous shriek,--then silence. Out staggered Thorstein,\nConfounded, bewildered, all pale was his face, for with death had he battled;\nYet bore he the arm-ring a trophy. \"'Twas dear bought,\" he often said\nfrowning;\n\"Once in my life was I frightened; 'twas when I recovered that arm-ring.\"\nWidely renowned was that ring, and of rings was the chief in the Northland.\n\nLastly the ship, called Ellide, was one of the family jewels.\nViking, so say they, returning triumphant from venturesome journeys,\nSailed along coasting near Framness. There he espied on a shipwreck,\nCarelessly swinging, a sailor, sporting as 'twere with the billows.\nNoble of figure, tall in his stature, joyful his visage,\nChangeable too, like the waves of the sea when they sport ill the sunshine,--\nBlue was his mantle, golden his girdle and studded with corals;\nSea-green his hair, but his beard was as white as the foam of the ocean.\nViking his serpent steered thither to rescue the unfortunate stranger,--\nTook him half frozen to Framness, and there as a guest entertained him.\nWhen by his host to repose he was bidden, smiling he answered:\n\"Fair sits the wind, and my ship which you boarded, is not yet disabled;\nLong ere the morning I trust she will hear me a hundred miles seaward.\nThanks for thy bidding, 'twas well meant and kindly. Ah! could I only\nLeave thee a gift to remind thee of me! but afar on the ocean\nLieth my kingdom. Perhaps in the morning 'twill waft thee a token.\"\nViking next day by the sea-shore was standing, when lo! like an eagle\nMadly pursuing its prey, a dragon ship sailed into harbor.\nNowhere was visible sailor or captain, or even a steersman;\nWinding 'mid rocks and through breakers, the rudder a path sought unaided;\nWhen the firm strand it was nearing, sudden, as ruled by a spirit,\nReefed were the sails unassisted. Untouched by finger of mortal,\nThe anchor sped through the clear water and fastened its barbs in the bottom.\nViking gazed, speechless with wonder; the sportive winds sang in low cadence:\n\"AEger the rescued forgetteth no kindness, he gives thee the dragon.\"\nKingly the gift to behold. The heavy curved planks of oak timber\nMatched not together like others, but grew in one broad piece united.\nIt stretched its huge form in the sea like a dragon, its stem proudly lifted,\nA stately head high in the air. Its throat with red gold was all blazing;\nSprinkled its belly with yellow and azure, and back of the rudder,\nCovered with scales of pure silver, its tail lashed the waves in a circle.\nBordered with red were its inky black pinions. When all unfolding,\nIt flew in a race with the whirlwind, and left far behind the swift eagle.\nWhen it was filled with armed warriors, you'd fancy you were beholding\nA citadel swimming the billows, or palace o'er ocean ave flying.\nWidely renowned was that ship, and of ships was the chief in the Northland.\n\nAll this and other vast treasures did Fridthjof receive from his father.\nScarce was there found in the Northland any with richer possessions,\nSave were he heir of a kingdom, for of kings is the wealth always greatest.\nThough from no king he descended, yet was his mind truly royal,\nCourteous, noble and kind. Daily became he more famous.\nTwelve gray-haired champions, valorous chieftains, sat at his table,\nThorstein's steel-breasted companions, whose brows were with scars deeply\nfurrowed.\nNext to the warriors was seated a youth of the same age as Fridthjof,--\n\nLike a fresh rose 'mid the dry leaves of autumn; Bjorn was this blossom.\nGrown up with Fridthjof, in days of their boyhood their blood they commingled,\nBrothers becoming in good northern fashion, sworn to each other\nIn joy and in grief, the survivor avenging the death of his comrade.\n\nIn the midst of the warriors and guests who had come to the funeral banquet,\nFridthjof, a sorrowing host, his eyelids with tears overflowing\nDrank in accordance with ancestral usage, a skoal to his father,\nHeard the old minstrels sing loudly his praises, a thundering drapa,\nRightfully took of his late father's seat undisputed possession,\nAnd sat between Odin and Frey. So sitteth Thor up in Valhal.\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nFridthjof's Courtship.\n\n\nLoud sounded the music in Fridthjof's hall,\nHis ancestors' praises sang poets all.\nO'erwhelmed with sadness\nIs Fridthjof, he hears not their songs of gladness.\n\nThe earth has again donned her mantle of green\nAnd dragon-ships breasting the waves are seen\nBut Fridthjof, pondering,\nIs at the moon gazing or in the woods wandering.\n\nHow fortunate was he but lately, and glad,\nFor Helge and Halfdan as guests he had;\nAnd with the brothers,\nCame Ingeborg; Fridthjof scarce saw the others.\n\nHe sat by her side and her soft hand he pressed;\nHe felt in the pressure returned him thrice blest,\nEnraptured gazing\nOn her whom he honored beyond all praising.\n\nIn glad conversation recalling their plays,\nWhen life's morning dew presaged bright future days\nFor memory truthful\nKeeps life's rosy gardens in noble minds youthful.\n\nHow fondly she greets him from dale and from park,\nFrom loving names growing in White birchen bark,\nFrom hills where flourish\nThe oaks which the ashes of heroes nourish.\n\n\"'Tis never so pleasant at home as here,\nFor Halfdan is childish and Helge severe;\nTho kings attending\nTo nothing but prayers and praise unending.\n\n\"And no one (nor could she her blushes hide)\nTo whom my complainings I may confide.\nThe palace building,\nHow stifling compared with the groves of Hilding.\n\n\"The doves that we petted, and tamed and fed,\n\nBy hawks oft affrighted away have fled;\nOne pair remaineth,\nLet Fridthjof take one, one Ing'borg retaineth.\n\n\"She'll long like another her friend to see,--\nAnd homeward returning will fly to me:\nYour message, bind it\nBeneath her flee pinion,--there none will find it.\"\n\nAll day they sat whispering side by side,\nNor ceased the low murmur at eventide;\nSo breathe in whispers\nThe zephyrs through lindens at twilight vespers.\n\nBut now she has gone, and his joy forsooth\nHas gone with the maiden. The blood of youth\nHis cheek is mounting,\nHe silently sighs while the past recounting.\n\nHis grief at her absence he sent by the dove,\nWhich joyous set out with its message of love;\nBut oh! new sorrow,\nIt stayed with its mate, nor returned on the morrow.\n\nHis conduct to Bjorn was displeasing; said he:\n\"What ails our young eagle, he seems to be\nLike some shy sparrow,--\nHas his breast or his pinion been pierced by an arrow?\n\n\"What wilt thou, Fridthjof? We have for need\nThe yellow bacon, and the good, brown mead;\nAnd poets singing,\nTheir jubilant music forever ringing.\n\n\"The steeds impatiently stamp in the stalls,--\nTo the chase! to the chase! the falcon calls;\nBut Fridthjof retaineth\nHis gloom. He hunteth in clouds and complaineth.\n\n\"Ellide is restless upon the main,--\nShe frets and she chafes at her cable chain;\nLie still my treasure!\nOur Fridthjof is peaceable. Strife is no pleasure.\n\n\"Who dies on his pallet,, is dead indeed;\nBy the lance, as did Odin, we'll die, if need,--\nAnd thus ensure us\nA welcome to Hel, and heaven secure us.\"\n\nThen Fridthjof unloos'd the dragon,--and proud,\nWith full swelling canvas, the waves she plowed,\nAnd swiftly over\nThe bay to the palace she bore the lover.\n\nThe kings were at Bele's grave met that day,--\nTo administer justice and counsel weigh;\nFridthjof advances,--\nHis voice sounds afar like clashing lances.\n\n\"Ye kings, lovely Ing'borg, the people's pride,\nI choose, from all women, to be my bride;\nThe king intended\nOur lives thus united in one should be blended.\n\n\"He reared us together in Hilding's sight,--\nAs two forest saplings whose tops unite,--\nA golden cover\nOf lace bindeth Freyja the green tops over.\n\n\"My sire was a peasant, no earl nor king,--\nYet his memory will live while the poets sing;\nIn runic story\nThe grave-mounds are telling my ancestors' glory.\n\n\"I could easily win me a crown and land,\nBut choose to remain on my native strand:\nIn battle wielding\nMy sword for the king, and the peasant shielding.\n\n\"On king Bele's grave we are standing now,\nHe hears every word in the grave below,\nWith me he pleadeth,--\nA dead father's counsel a wise son heedeth.\"\n\nThen Helge uprose, and replied with scorn,\n\"Our sister was not for a peasant born,\nTo kings 'tis given\nTo strive for our Ingeborg, daughter of heaven.\n\n\"You boastfully call yourself chief of swords,--\nWin men by violence, women bv words;\nBoast not of slaughter,\nFor arrogance winneth not Odin's daughter.\n\n\"My kingdom doth not seek protection from thee,\nI shield it myself. My man wouldst thou be,--\nA situation\nAmong my domestics befits thy station.\"\n\n\"Thy servant! no, never!\" was Fridthjof's reply,\n\"My father had never a master--shall I?\nFrom thy silver dwelling\nNow fly, Angervadil, the insult repelling.\"\n\nIn sunshine now glitters the blue steel blade,--\nDisplaying its letters in flaming red.\n\"My good sword loyal,\nThy lineage at least,\" said Fridthjof, \"is royal.\n\n\"And were it not now for the high grave's renown,\nRight here would I hew thee, swarthy king, down:\nYet will I teach thee\nTo come not again where my sword can reach thee.\"\n\nSo saying, be severed at one fell blow\nThe gold shield of Helge which hung on a bough.\nIt fell asunder,--\nIts clang on the grave-mound was echoed under.\n\n\"Well done, Angervadil. lie still and dream\nOf high achievements,-- meanwhile the gleam\nOf rune-fires paling!\nAnd now we'll go home o'er the blue waters sailing.\"\n\n\n\nV.\n\nKing Ring.\n\n\nKing Ring moved his gold-stool back. Then uprose\n Champion and dreamer;--\nFor where in the North does such goodness repose?\nHis word o'erflows\n With the wisdom which dwells in god Mimer.\n\nLike the groves of the peaceful gods was his land,--\n War's sable pinion\nCast not a shadow where on every hand\nFlowers expand\nThrough the length of his quiet dominion.\n\nHere Justice alone on the judgment-seat\n With Right presided;\nAnd Peace every year paid its tribute meet,--\nWhile golden wheat\n With plenty the harvest provided.\n\nAnd swarthy-prowed ships to this favored shore,\n With snowy pinions\nThe products of numberless nations bore,--\nA varied store\n Of riches for fortune's rich minions.\n\nHere freedom and peace did in concord dwell,\n Kindly united;\nAnd all loved their father, the king, full well,\nFor each might tell\n His mind in the thing,* none were slighted.\n\n*See glossary.\n\nSupreme in the Northland through thirty years\n His reign extended;\nContented each went to his daily cares;\nAt evening prayers\n The king's name in blessings ascended.\n\nKing Ring moved his gold-stool back. From the board\n All there assembled\nArose to attend on the royal word,--\nRenowned where heard:\n But he sighed, and in accents that trembled,\n\nHe said: \"My lost queen is in Folkvang-hall\n On purple seated;\nBut here on her grave is a grassy pall,\nWhile breathe o'er all\n The flowers with sweet odor freighted.\n\n\"So queenly, so honored, so good and so fair,\n There's not another.\nImmortal she dwelleth in Valhal's care,\nBut the people's prayer,\n The children's desire, is a mother.\n\n\"King Bele oft sat as a guest at my side\n When winter ended;\nThe daughter he left I would choose for my bride,--\nHer father's pride,\n In whose cheeks rose and lily are blended.\n\n\n\"I know she is young, and in youth sublime.\n Would gather flowers;\nMy flower is past and my early prime;\nMy locks has Time\n Besprinkled with snowy showers.\n\nOh, could she but honor the withered tree\n Which age has blighted;\nAnd could she a friend to the motherless be,\nThen should you see\n To the throne Spring by Autumn invited.\n\n\"Take gold froth my coffers, take jewels rare,\n Unstinted measure\nLet minstrels attending the way prepare\nTo win the fair,--\n For song heralds wooing and pleasure.\"\n\nWith gold and petitions, a noisy throng,\n The young men speeded;\nAnd minstrels and skalds, in procession long,\nWith hero-song\n To the sons of King Bele proceeded.\n\nThe feast, where with wassail they drink and sing,\n For three days lasted,\nBut they sought the fourth morning what answer they'd bring\nFrom Helge king,--\n For now their return must be hasted.\n\nIn the grove Helge offered both bird and beast,--\n A sacred duty;\nAsked counsel of vala, consulted the priest\nWhat answer was best\n For the queen of affection and beauty.\n\nThe offerings and vala and priest denied\n The wished-for token;\nAnd Helge, affrighted by signs he'd tried,\nWith \"No,\" replied,\n For men must obey when the gods have spoken.\n\nBut merry king Halfdan laughed gayly, and said,\n \"The feast is ended,\nKing Gray-beard himself should have come instead,\nI'd glad have led\n His beast, and his mounting attended.\"\n\nIndignant the embassy went away,\n Nor longer tarried;\n\"King Graybeard his honor'll avenge one day,\"\nIs Ring heard to say,\n When to him the curt message is carried.\n\nHe strikes his bright shield hanging high on a bough,--\n His weapon seizes;\nAnd many a dragon is hurrying now,\nWith blood-red prow,\n And helmet plumes wave in the breezes.\n\nThe tidings flew swiftly to Helge king,\n Who answered slowly:\n\"The strife will be bloody, for mighty is Ring;\nMy sister bring\n To the temple of Balder, the holy.\"\n\nThere sitteth the loving one, full of woes,\n Though safe abiding:\nShe weeps, while with silk and with god she sews\nA tear overflows,--\n The dew 'mid the lilies is hiding.\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nFridthjof Plays Chess\n\n\nBjorn and Fridthjof chess were playing\nOn a board, whose squares displaying\n Gold and silver deftly fitted,\n  Skill and beauty both combined.\nThen stepped Hilding in. \"Come nigher,\"\nFridthjof said, \"and sit thee higher\n 'Till our game shall be completed,--\n  Foster-father kind.\"\n\nHilding answered: \"From the palace\nI am come to you for solace.\n Evil are the times at present,\n  You are all the people's hope.\"\nFridthjof said: \"The foe encroaches,\nDanger, Bjorn, your king approaches;\n You can save him by a peasant.--\n  He is nothing, give him up.\n\n\"Fridthjof, anger kings no longer,\nLo, the eagle's young grow stronger;\n Ring may thwart, their weak endeavor,\n  Thou wilt surely find it hard.\"\n\"Bjorn, I see you storm the tower.\nAnd in vain your threatening power\n 'Gainst the castle is; it ever\n  Safety seeks behind its guard.\"\n\n\"Ing'borg sits in Balder's dwelling,\nGrief her constant tears compelling:\n She should make thee seize thy armor\n  She with tearful eyes of blue.\"\n\"Vain you strive my queen to capture,\nDear from childhood's days of rapture;\n Best of all, there's nought shall harm her\n  Come what may, to her I'm true.\"\n\n\"Fridthjof, art thou still unheeding\nAll thy foster-father's pleading?\n For thy foolish game art ready\n  I should go without a word?\"\nFridthjof then arises, laying\nHilding's hand in his, and saying:\n \"My resolve is firm and steady,\n  And my answer you have heard.\n\n\"Go to Bele's sons and warn them,\nPeasants love not those who scorn them;\n To their power I bid defiance,\n  Their behests will not obey.\"\n\"In thy chosen way abide thee,\nFor thy wrath I can not chide thee;\n Odin must be our reliance,\"\n  Hilding said, and went his way.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\n\n\nFridthjof's Happiness.\n\n\nKing Bele's sons may go requesting\n From dale to dale the peasants' aid,\nIn Balder's grove my world is resting,\n For them I will not draw my blade.\nThen on king's vengeance or earth's sadness,\n I will no longer look or think,\nBut only will the high gods' gladness,\n From out one cup with Ing'borg drink.\n\nWhile yet the hazy sunshine sendeth\n Its purple rays on flowers at rest,\nLike rosy gossamer which lendeth\n An added charm to Ing'borg's breast,\nWith sighs along the strand I wander,\n My soul with longing all aflame,\nUpon the sand I gaze and ponder\n And with my sword write Ing'borg's name.\n\nHow slowly go the lonesome hours!\n Thou Delling's son, why stayest thou?\nHast thou not seen our mountain bowers,\n Our lakes and islands until now?\nDwells there in western halls no maiden\n Who waits since morn first kissed the sea,\nUpon thy breast her joys to unladen,\n Whose whole of life is love and thee?\n\nAt last thy footsteps grow uncertain,\n Thy weary journey thou must close,\nNow evening draws the rosy curtain,\n Behind whose folds the gods repose.\nThe brooks and breezes to each other\n In softest whispers love express;\nO! welcome Night, of gods the mother,\n With pearls upon thy wedding dress.\n\nThe stars are gliding like a lover\n On tiptoe to a maiden true;\nEllide! fly the deep gulf over,\n Roll on, roll on, ye billows blue.\nYon sacred grove a temple hideth,\n Good Balder's temple, doubly dear,\nFor there love's goddess safe abideth,\n Unto the gods our course we steer.\n\nThy shores I tread with joyous measure,\n I kiss thy brown cheek, smiling earth,\nAnd all ye little flowers, with treasure\n Of white and red, that edge my path.\nI hail thee, moon, with pale light streaming\n On temple-grove and flowers at rest,\nHow beautiful thou sittest dreaming\n Like Saga at a wedding feast.\n\nTo speak with flowers, O, brook, who taught thee\n The feeling in my heart a guest?\nYe northern nightingales, where caught ye\n The wailing stolen from my breast?\nWith evening's red the fairies playing,\n In clouds my Ing'borg's form disclose,\nBut Freyja, jealousy displaying.\n Away the image quickly blows.\n\nThough changing clouds lose her resemblance,\n Like radiant hope herself appears,\nAs true as childhood's sweet remembrance,\n She comes, my love's reward she bears.\nCome, loved one, come, and let me press thee\n Unto the heart that holds thee dear,\nMy soul's desire, through life, I'll bless thee,\n Come to my arms, and rest thee here.\n\nFrail as the lily's stem so slender,\n Yet like spring roses fresh and fair,\nAs Freyja's troth-plight, warm and tender,\n Thou as the will of gods art pure.\nKiss me, and let my burning passion\n Kindle thy soul to perfect bliss,\nOf earth and heaven I lose the vision,\n Enraptured by thy melting kiss.\n\nFear not, for here can come no stranger,\n Without stands Bjorn. his sword in hand,\nHis champions guarding ns from danger,\n If need be, can the world withstand;\nAnd I, if fighting for my treasure,\n Whose form I on my bosom bear,\nTo Valhal now would go with pleasure,\n Could'st then be my valkyrie there.\n\nAnd why fear Balder's fierce resentment,\n The pious god to whom we pray?\nHe looks on us with calm contentment,\n For, loving, we his law obey.\nThe god whose brow with sunshine beameth,\n With whom all truth abideth sure,\nHis love unto his Nanna seemeth\n Like mine to thee, so warm, so pure.\n\nThere stands his image, not indignant,\n But mild and soft as sunset ray,\nUpon this shrine of god benignant,\n My heart a sacrifice I lay.\nTogether let us kneel before him,\n No better offering can be found\nThan two fond hearts which both adore him,\n With love like his together bound.\n\nScorn not my love, my blossom cherished,\n Which more to heaven than earth belongs,\nIn heaven itself that love was nourished,\n And for that glorious home it longs.\nOh! that my weary soul releasing,\n The gods would take me up above;\nTriumphantly, with joy unceasing,\nI'd go, embraced by my dear love.\n\nWhen bugle-notes the champions rally,\n From out the silver gates they ride;\nBut I alone join not the sally,\n I linger gladly by thy side.\nWhen Valhal's maidens pass me, smiling,\n The mead-horn with its rim of gold;\nThee, only thee, my love beguiling,\n My tender, loving arms enfold.\n\nA leafy cottage near the meadow\n I'd build us by the dark-blue sea,\nAnd there we'd rest us 'neath the shadow\n Of many a golden-fruited tree;\nAnd when bright Valhal's sun each morning,\n With his clear torch in splendor rose,--\nWe'd hasten to the gods returning,\n Yet longing for our home's repose.\n\nThy golden locks, with sunshine flushing,\n Wreathed with a starry crown should be;\nSo my pale lily, rosy blushing,\n In Vingolf-hall should dance with me.\nThen, by my love from danger guarded,\n I'd with thee to our home repair,--\nWhere singeth Brage, silver-bearded,\n Our wedding song each evening fair.\n\nHow sweet the evening song-bird's vesper!\n It cometh forth from Valhal's shore;\nHow soft the moon-beams' gentle whisper,\n From where the dead live evermore!\nThey tell of light and love unbroken,\n In homes devoid of care and pain;\nWhere joyous words alone are spoken,\n There thou my love shalt ever reign.\n\nOh, weep not, love, those tears regretful,\n While through my heart the life-blood streams;\nBut sweetly sleep,--of grief forgetful\n May love and Fridthjof fill thy dreams.\nOh! when thine arms thou foldest round me,\n When thy dear eyes but look on me,\nHow quickly breaks the spell that bound me,\n How turn my thoughts from heaven to thee!\n\n\"List to the lark's melodious numbers.\"\n Nay, 'tis a dove his love-song sings,\nThe lark on yonder hillock slumbers,\n Beside his mate with folded wings.\nHow happy they, always together,\n As free their life as wings that bear\nThrough cheerless storm or sunny weather,\n Above the clouds, that happy pair.\n\n\"See, daybreak comes.\" Nay, but ascended\n From some far beacon is the light;\nOur happy talk is not yet ended,\n Nor yet so soon the lovely night.\nBright morning stat sleep till to-morrow,\n And when night cometh, slumber still,\nYour waking brings to Fridthjof sorrow,--\n So sleep till doomsday, if you will.\n\nVain hope! No longer earth reposes,\n The morning breeze new pleasure seeks;\nAlready bud the eastern roses,\n As fresh as those on Ing'borg's checks.\nI hear the winged songsters twitter,\n A thoughtless throng in the opening sky;\nAll life's astir, the wavelets glitter,\n And lover must with shadows fly.\n\nAh! there he comes, in glory beaming;\n Forgive, O golden sun, my prayer.\nHow beautiful, in splendor gleaming!\n I feel--I know a god is near.\nOh! who could, in thy path advancing,\n With equal grace and power tread,\nAll hearts with light and joy entrancing,\n A life like thine victorious lead!\n\nHere, 'neath thy watchful eye I leave her--\n My peerless beauty of the North!\nLet not the rough world's troubles grieve her,\n Thy likeness on the green-clad earth.\nHer soul is pure as rays of morning,\n Her eyes as blue as thine own sky,\n\nThe same rich tints thy crown adorning\n Among her golden tresses lie.\n\nFarewell, my love, be not forgetful,\n Some longer night again we'll meet;\nI, lingering, kiss thy brow, regretful,\n One kiss I give thy lips so sweet.\nSleep now, beloved; in thy slumber,\n May dreams of me thy bosom swell,\nAt mid-day wake, and with me number\n Each absent hour: farewell, farewell.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n\n\nThe Parting.\n\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nThe day breaks clear, and Fridthjof cometh not,\nThough yesterday the council was proclaimed\nAt Bele's grave. The place was rightly chosen,\nHis daughter's fate should be determined there.\nHow many supplications hath it cost me,\nHow many tears by Freyja counted o'er,\nTo melt the ice of hate around Fridthjof's heart.\nAnd gain a promise from his haughty lips\nTo give his hand in reconciliation.\nAlas! how hard is man! And for his honor,\nSo calleth he his pride, he counts it not,\nOr lightly counts it, if he rudely break,\nOf true and faithful hearts one more or less.\nBut wretched woman, leaning on his breast,\nIs like the moss-growth blooming on the cliff,--\nWith faded tints, it difficultly holds\nItself unnoticed fast unto the rock,\nIs only nourished by the dews of night.\nBut yesterday, indeed, my fate was fixed,\nAnd now the evening sun hath set upon it,\nStill Fridthjof cometh not. The pallid stars\nDie one by one, and sadly disappear,\nAnd with each one of them a hope is quenched\nAnd goes from out my heart unto its grave.\nAh! wherefore still to hope? Valhal's gods\nNo longer love me; I've offended them.\nAnd Balder, 'neath whose shelter I reside,\nIs wroth with me, because a human love\nIs too unholy for the sight of gods,\nAnd earthly joy must never risk itself\nBeneath the temple-arch in which the grave,\nThe haughty powers have fixed their dwelling-place.\nAnd yet what fault is mine? and wherefore frowns\nThe pious god upon a maiden's love?\nIs it not pure as Urd's bright sparkling fount,\nAnd innocent as Gefjon's morning dream?\nThe shining sun doth never turn away\nFrom loving ones, its pure and watchful eyes.\nAnd daylight's widow, starry night, doth hear\nWith gladness, in her sorrow, all their vows.\nThat which is worthy under heaven's vault,\nCan that be guilty 'neath the temple's dome?\nI love my Fridthjof. Oh! through all the past,\nAs far as memory runs, I loved him well,--\nA holy feeling twin-born with my soul,\nI know not whence it came, nor comprehend\nThe dismal thought that it was ever gone.\nAs fruit is timely set about the stone\nAnd groweth up, and round about it all\nIn summer sunshine wraps its cloth of gold,\nSo, too, indeed, have I maturing grown\nAbout this stone, and my existence is\nOf my affection but the outer shell.\nForgive me, Balder! With a faithful heart\nThy hall I sought, and with a faithful one\nWill I go hence; I'll take it with me now\nOut over Bifrost-bridge, and place myself\nWith all my love before great Valhal's gods.\nAnd there my love, like them an Asa-child,\nShall see itself reflected in the shields,\nAnd fly with loosened dove-wings through the blue\nUnending space unto the Allfather's bosom,\nFrom whence it came. Oh! wherefore is the frown,\nIn morning's twilight, on thy brow so fair?\nThere floweth in my veins, as flows in thine,\nOld Odin's blood. What wilt thou, kinsman dear?\nMy ardent love I cannot offer thee,\nNor would I offer it, worth all thy joys;\nBut I can offer thee my life's delight,--\nCan cast it from me as the stately queen\nHer mantle flings aside, and still remains\nHer queenly self. But my resolve is taken,\nAnd Valhal high shall never be ashamed\nTo own me kindred. I will meet my fate\nAs meets the hero his. Ah! here he comes!\nHow wild he seems, how pale! 'Tis done, 'tis done!\nMy angry norn she comes beside him now:\nBe strong, my soul! At last I welcome thee.\nOur fate is fixed; 'tis plain to read it where\nUpon thy brow it stands.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\n       And stand not there\nAs well the blood-red runes, which speak of shame,\nAnd scorn and banishment?\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nOh, Fridthjof; think! Relate what passed, for I have long foreseen\nThe worst, and am prepared for all.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nI found the council at our fathers' graves.\nAround the grassy mounds, shield meeting shield,\nStood many Northland sons with swords in hand,\nOne circle standing close within another\nUnto the top. Upon the judgment seat,\nA thunder cloud, thy brother Helge sat,--\nA pallid headsman with a dusky look.\nAnd next to him, a seeming grown up child,\nSat Halfdan,---thoughtless, playing with his sword.\nThen I arose, and, said: \"War waiting stands\nWithin thy borders, beating on the shield,--\nThy kingdom now, king Helge, is in peril;\nGive me my sister, and I'll give to thee\nMine arm, it may be usefu] in this strife.\nBetween us let ill will forgotten be,--\nI would not cherish it 'gainst Ing'borg's brother.\nTo reason listen, king, and save at once\nThy golden crown, thy purest sister's heart.\nHere is my hand. By Asa-Thor, I swear,\nI'll never offer it again to thee.\"\nAn uproar shook the thing. A thousand swords\nApproval hammered on a thousand shields.\nThe clang of weapons flew to heaven, which heard\nWith joy the assent of freemen to the right.\n\"To him give Ingeborg, the slender lily,\nMost beautiful our dales have ever grown;\nNo better sword our favored land can boast,--\nTo him give Ingeborg.\" Our foster-father,\nThe reverend Hilding, with his silver-beard,\nStood forth and spoke in words of wisdom full,\nShort apothegms, as keen as sharpened swords.\nAnd Halfdan, too, from off of royal seat\nArose, with pleading words and pleading looks,--\nBut it was all in vain; each prayer was wasted,--\nLike sunshine lavished on a barren rock,\nNo growth alluring from his stony heart.\nKing Helge's sullen countenance was like\nHis heart,--a pale-faced \"No\" to human prayers.\n\"A peasant's son,\" said he, contemptuously,\n\"Could Ing'borg gain, but who profanes the temple\nIll-suited seems to holy Valhal's daughter.\nHast thou not, Fridthjof, broken Balder's peace?\nHast thou not seen my sister in his temple\nWhen day had hid itself from your communion?\nSay yes, or no!\" A deafening shout resounded\nFrom all those rings of men: \"Say no, say no,\nWe take thee at thy word, we sue for thee,--\nThou son of Thorstein, equal to a king;\nSay no, say no, and Ingeborg is thine!\"\n\"My life's delight hangs on a feeble word,\"\nSaid I, \"but fear it not, king Helge!\nI would not lie myself to Valhal's joy,\nMuch less to earth's. Thy sister I have seen,\nHave talked with her beneath the temple's night,\nBut Balder's peace I have not therefore broken.\"\nThey let me say no more. Abhorrent cries\nFlew through the thing, and those who nearest stood\nDrew back as from a pestilent disease;\nAnd when I looked around, their superstition\nHad palsied every tongue, and blanched each cheek\nSo lately glowing with expectant joy.\nAnd then king Helge triumphed. With a voice\nAs sad, as awful as the ghostly vala's\nIn Vegtam's song, when she for Odin sung\nOf asas' fate and grim Hel's victory,\nSo sad he spoke: \"Though banishment or death\nI could decree, by our ancestral laws\nAgainst this crime, yet I'll be mild as Balder,\nWhose sacred dwelling thou hast so profaned.\nThe western sea a wreath of islands holds,\nWhere Angantyr, the earl, is governor.\nAs long as Bele lived the earl each year\nHis tribute paid, but ceased when Bele died.\nGo o'er the sea and drive this tribute in;\nThis penance thy audacity demands.\n'Tis said,\" sneered he, with meanest mockery,\n\"That Angantyr hard-fisted is, and broods\nLike dragon Fafner o'er his gold: but who\nCan stand 'gainst our new Sigurd, Fafner's bane?\nExploits more manly must thou undertake\nThan luring maidens under Balder's roof.\nWhen summer comes shall we expect you here\nWith all thy honor, first of all the tribute.\nIf not, thou art to every man a felon,\nAnd during life art outlawed through the land.\"\nHis judgment rendered, he dissolved the thing.\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nAnd your decision?\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\n                   Have I aught to choose?\nIs not mine honor bound by his decree?\nAnd that will I redeem though Angantyr\nHis paltry gold doth hide in Nastrand's flood.\nTo-day will I depart.\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\n                       And Ing'borg leave?\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nNay, nay, I leave thee not, thou goest too.\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nImpossible!\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\n             O! hear me, ere thou answerest.\nThy crafty brother seemeth to forget,\nThat Angantyr was my dear father's friend,\nAs well as Bele's. Perhaps he'll give\nWithout constraint what I demand; if not\nA worthy advocate, a sharp one too,\nHave I. 'Tis always ready at my side.\nThe gold he covets I'll to Helge send,\nAnd thus will I from sacrificial knife\nOf this crowned hypocrite redeem us both.\nBut we, my beauteous Ingeborg, will spread\nO'er seas unknown Ellide's willing sail,\nShe'll kindly bear us to a friendlier strand\nWhere exiled love may safe asylum find.\nWhat is the North to me? And what a race,\nWhich pales at every word of priest or king,\nWhose shameless hands would pluck the living rose\nFrom out the sanctuary of my heart?\nSo, Freyja help, it shall not prosper them!\nThe wretched slave is bound unto the turf\nWhere he was born, hut I will still be free,\nFree as the mountain winds. A little earth\nFrom Bele's grave and from my father's taken,\nCan find a place ,upon our ship, and that\nIs all of fatherland that we can need.\nMy loved one, there another sun is found\nThan that which pales above these hills of snow,\nAnd there another sky, more bright than this;\nAnd milder stars with god-like glance adorned,\nLook down therefrom in balmy summer nights\nOn lovers wandering in the laurel groves.\nMy father, Thorstein, Viking's son, in wars\nHad journeyed far, and oft I've heard him tell,\nBy fireside light in winter evenings long,\nAbout the Grecian sea with islands filled,--\nFresh groves of green in brightly shining waves.\nA powerful race once had its dwelling there,--\nAnd holy gods the marble temples graced.\nBut now they stand deserted; grasses thrive\nIn paths left desolate, and flowers grow\nFrom out the runes that tell of ancient lore;\nThe slender columns stand like budding trees\nEntwined by graceful stems of southern vines.\nThroughout the year the earth spontaneous yields,\nIn unsown harvests, all that men require.\nThere golden apples glow between the leaves,\nAnd blushing grapes from every bough hang down\nAnd, ripening, swell luxurious as thy lips.\nThere, Ing'borg, there we'll build us near the wave\nA little North, more beautiful than this;\nAnd with our ever faithful love we'll fill\nThe radiant temple vaults, and thus delight\nWith human fondness the forgotten gods.\nAnd when, with loosened sheets (no storms are there)\nThe sailor idly floats along our isle\nIn twilight's glow, and turns his joyous glance\nFrom rosy-colored ripples to the strand,--\nUpon the temple's threshold shall he see\nA second Freyja, Aphrodite called\nIn southern tongue, and he shall wonder at\nThe golden locks, seen flowing in the breeze,\nAnd eyes which brighter gleam than southern skies.\nAnd one by one around her groweth up\nA little temple-dwelling race of fairies,\nWith cheeks where yon might see the south had set,\nIn Northern snowdrifts, freshly blooming roses.\nAh! Ingeborg, how beautiful, how near.\nStands earthly happiness to faithful hearts;\nIf they are brave enough to seize it when disposed,\n\nIt follows willingly and builds for them\nA Vingolf even here beneath the clouds.\nO come, let's haste away, each spoken word\nA moment shorter makes our waiting joy.\nCome, all's prepared! Ellide stretches now\nHer shadowy eagle wings for eager flight,--\nAnd freshly blowing winds now guide the way\nHenceforth from this inconstant land forever.\nWhy tarriest thou?\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\n                   I cannot follow thee.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nNot follow me?\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\n               Ah! Fridthjof, thou art blest!\nThou followest none, but always in the front,\nThe stem of thy good dragon ship, dost place\nThy will beside the helm, to steer the way\nWith steady hand above the wrathful waves.\nHow widely different the case with me!\nMy cruel fate is held in other's hands,\nWhich loosen not the prey although it bleed;\nAnd sacrifice, lament and lonesome pining,\nIs all king Bele's daughter knows of freedom.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nArt thou not free, if so thou willest? In the grave\nThy father sits.\n\n   INGEBORG,\n\n                 No, Helge is my father,\nIs in my father's stead; on his consent\nMy hand depends, and Ing'borg will not steal\nHer happiness, however near it stands.\nAh! what would woman be if she cut loose\nThe sacred band with which the Allfather binds\nUnto the stronger power her gentle being?\nThe water-lily pale resembles her;\nIt rises with the wave and with it falls.\nThe sailor's keel goes forward over it\nAnd marks it not although it cut the stem.\nSuch is indeed her fate! And yet the flower,\nAs long as clings the root unto the sand,\nIts growth increases, borrowing color pure\nFrom its pale sister stars which shine above,--\nItself a star upon the waters blue.\nBut rudely broken loose, it ceaseless drives,\nA withered leaf along deserted waves.\nLast night,--that was indeed a fearful night,\nAn unrewarded watch I kept for thee,\nAnd children of the night, the serious thoughts,\nWith raven locks went thronging closely by\nMy ever watchful, burning, tearful eyes;\nAnd Balder too, the bloodless god looked down\nOn me with frowning glances full of threats.\nLast night I pondered o'er my wretched fate.\nMy resolution's taken; I remain\nObedient victim at my brother's altar.\nYet it is well I did not hear thee then,\nWith fabled islands floating in the clouds\nWhere evening's glowing twilights always show\nA flowery world of peace and happy love.\nWho knows how weak one is? My childhood dreams\nThough silent long, with joy rise up again,\nAnd whisper in my anxious ear with voice\nFamiliar as a sister's kindly tones,\nAs tender as a lover's ardent praise.\nI hear ye not! ah, no, I hear ye not,\nAlluring accents once so fondly loved!\nA child of Northland cannot elsewhere dwell;\nToo pale am I for those bright summer roses;-\nToo colorless my mind for that deep glow;\nThe scorching sun would quite consume me there.\nOf anxious longing full, my eyes would seek\nThe northern star which always watchful stands\nA heavenly sentry o'er our fathers' graves.\nMy noble Fridthjof shall not now desert\nThe cherished hind that he was born to guard;\nHe shall not fling away his honored name\nTo gain so poor a thing, a maiden's love.\nA life where spins the sun from year to year,\nAnd where each day is ever like the next--\nA beauteous but unending sameness, is\nFor woman only, but for manly souls,\nAnd most for thine, it's quiet, weary dullness.\nThou thrivest best where storms are raging round.\nOn foaming pacers o'er the heaving sea,\nAnd on thy tossing plank, come life or death,\nThou mayest fight with peril for thine honor.\nThe beauteous desert thou dost paint, would be\nA grave for high achievements, not yet born;\nAnd like thy shield, with rust would be dissolved,\nThine independent mind. It shall not be!\nI will not steal away my Fridthjof's name\nFrom poet's storied song; I will not quench\nMy hero's glory in its morning dawn.\nBe wise, my Fridthjof; let us yield unto\nThe haughty norn; let us rescue yet\nOur cherished honor from this wreck of life;\nOur happiness we cannot save, 'tis gone,\nAnd separate we must!\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\n                      And wherefore must?\nBecause a sleepless night disturbed thy mind?\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nBecause my honor must be saved, and thine.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nA woman's honor rests on manly love.\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nNot long loves he whom he cannot respect.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nRespect is not by fickle fancy gained.\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nA sense of justice is a noble fancy.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nOur love strove not with justice yesterday.\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nNor love to day, but all the more our flight.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nNecessity commands our flight,--Oh, come!\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nWhat's right and noble, that's necessity.\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nHigh rides the sun and time is fleeting by.\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nAh, me, it has gone by, gone by forever!\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nConsider well. Is that thy last resolve?\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nI have considered well; it is my last.\n\n   Frydthjof.\n\nFarewell then, fare thee well, king Helge's sister.\n\n   Ingeborg.\n\nOh, Fridthjof! Fridthjof! must we separate thus?\nHast thou indeed no friendly glance to give\nThy childhood's friend; no kindly hand to reach\nTo the unfortunate, once so beloved?\nThink'st thou I stand on roses here, and turn\nAway with smiles my happiness for life?\nAnd that I pangless tear from out my breast\nA hope that hath with my affections grown?\n\nOh! wert thou not my heart's own morning dream?\nEach joy that I have known was Fridthjof named,\nAnd all of life that great or noble seemed,\nDid Fridthjof's likeness take before mine eyes.\nBedim the image not: oh, do not meet\nWith cruelty the weak one offering up\nThe dearest thing upon the face of earth.\nThe dearest thing that Valhal's gods can give!\nThat offering, Fridthjof, is severe enough.\nAnd words of consolation well deserves.\nI know thou lovest me--that I have known\nE'er since my being first began to dawn;\nAnd Ing'borg's thoughts will surely follow thee\nFor years to come wherever thou may'st go.\nThe clang of warlike weapons deadens grief.\n'Tis blown away upon the wild, wild waves,\nNor ventures to return when champions all\nTheir victory celebrate with drinking horn.\nYet sometimes, then, when in the peace of night,\nThy thoughts review again forgotten days,\nThere will among them glide an image pale,\nThou knowest well; it fondly greeteth thee\nFrom regions dear; it is the image of\nThat virgin pale in Balder's holy grove.\nThou must not drive it thence away, although\nIt looketh sorrowful, but whisper kind\nInto its ear a friendly word; the winds\nOf night on faithful wings will bear it me;\nOne comfort yet, I have none else beside.\nFor me there's naught to dissipate my grief;\nIn all surrounding me it hath a tongue;\nThe holy temple vaults speak but of thee:\nThe temple's God, which should all threatening seem,\nThy likeness takes when shines the streaming moon.\nBehold the sea--there swam thy keel through foam\nTo her who on the strand awaited thee;\nBehold the woods--there stand so many stems\nWith Ing'borg's runes engraven in the bark;\nNow grows the bark and wears away my name,\nAnd that betokens death, the sagas say.\nI ask the day when last it saw thy form,\nI ask the night, but both are silent still:\nAnd e'en the sea which bears thee, gives reply\nBut with a solemn sigh along the shore.\nWith evening's ruddy glow I'll send to thee\nA greeting, when it sinks into thy waves.\nAnd heaven's long ship, the fleeting cloud, shall take\nOn board the wail of the abandoned one.\nSo shall I sit within my virgin bower,\nIn mourning clad, of all life's joy bereft,\nAnd broken lilies sew into the cloth,\nUntil the Spring its cloth doth weave, and sew\nIt full of better lilies on my grave.\nAnd when I sadly take the harp to sing\nUnending sorrow in profoundest tones,\nThen burst the burning tears as now--\n\n   Fridthjof.\n\nThou conquerest, Bele's daughter, weep no more!\nForgive my wrath, it was alone my sorrow\nWhich for a moment took a wrathful dress, -\nA wrathful dress it cannot long endure.\nThou art my kindest norn, my Ingeborg.\nA noble mind best teaches what is noble.\nNecessity's real wisdom cannot have\nA fairer, better advocate than thou,\nThou beauteous vala with the rosy lips!\nI yield indeed unto necessity;\nI part with thee but part not with my hope;\nI'll take it with me over western waves,\nI'll take it with me to the gates of death.\nThe nearest spring-day sees me here again:\nKing Helge, so I hope, shall see me too.\nThen from my promise freed, his bidding done,\nThe calumny against me, too, atoned,\nThen I'll request thee,--nay but I'll demand\nIn open council and with naked swords,\nAnd not of Helge but of Northland's sons.\nWho only can dispose a princess' hand;\nI have a word for him who dare refuse.\nFarewell till then; be true, forget me not,\nAnd take in memory of our childhood's love,\nMy arm-ring here, a beauteous Volund-work,\nWith heaven's wonders graven in the gold;\nThe best of wonders is a faithful heart.\nHow well it suits thine arm so snowy-white--\nA glow-worm coiled around the lily's stem!\nFarewell, my bride, my loved one, fare thee well.\nEre many moons our mournful lot will change.\n\n                                [He goes.]\n\nIngeborg.\n\nHow glad, how trusting, and of hope how full!\nHe sets the glittering point of his good sword\nAgainst the norns, and says: \"Ye must retreat!\"\nThou wretched Fridthjof, the norns will ne'er retreat;\nThey go their way and laugh at Angervadil.\nHow little knowest thou my gloomy brother.\nThy brave, heroic temper fathoms not\nThe awful depths of his, nor understands\nThe hate that in his envious bosom burns.\nHis sister's hand he'll never give to thee;\nHe'd sooner give his crown, pour out his life,\nOf me an offering make to Odin old,\nOr to old Ring, whom now he fights against.\nWherever I may look, no hope is found,--\nYet am I glad hope lives within thy breast.\nIn secret will I keep my poor heart's wound,\nAnd pray that all the good gods follow thee.\nHere on thine arm-ring can I reckon up\nEach separate month of all this lonesome sorrow.\nIn two, four, six,--then can'st thou come again,\nBut can'st not find again thine Ingeborg.\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nINGEBORG'S LAMENT.\n\nAutumn has come;\nStorming now heaveth the deep sea with foam,\nYet would I gratefully lie there,\nWillingly die there.\n\nLong gleamed his sail,\nFlying to westward before the fierce gale;\nFortunate, Fridthjof to follow\nO'er the wild billow.\n\nSwell not so high,\nBillows of blue with your deafening cry!\nStars lend assistance, a shining\nPathway defining.\n\nWith the spring doves\nFridthjof will come, but the maiden he loves\nCannot in hall or dell meet him,\nLovingly greet him.\n\nBuried she sleeps,\nDead for her love's sake, or bleeding she weeps,\nHeart-broken, given by her brother\nUnto another.\n\nFalcon he left,\nMine shalt thou be, winged hunter bereft;\nI for thy owner will heed thee,\nLovingly feed thee.\n\nHere on his hand~\n'Broidering I'll picture thee on the cloth's rand,\nSilvery pinions I'll give thee,\nGolden claws weave thee.\n\nOnce, it is said,\nFreyja with falcon-wings north and south sped,\nSeeking for Oder, her lover,\nAll the world over.\n\nVainly I seek\nWings of the falcon, for mortals too weak.\nOnly in passing death's portal\nSoareth a mortal.\n\nSit here with me,\nBeautiful hunter and look at the sea;--\nLonging and looking forever\nBringeth him never.\n\nDead shall I be,\nWhen Fridthjof comes again over the sea;\nBear thou my love for his weeping,\nI shall be sleeping.\n\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\nFRIDTHJOF AT SEA.\n\n On shore king Helge stood,\n By turns he sang and prayed,\n And in embittered mood\n Besought the goblins' aid.\n\nSee! the heavens with darkness toiling,\n Empty space with thunders boom,\nLo, the furious waves are boiling,\n Ocean's surface hid with foam.\nLightnings now the clouds are streaking,\n Here and there a bloody rand,\nAll the sea-fowls now are shrieking.\n Hasting to the safer strand.\n\n \"Hard's the weather, brothers!\n Hear the stormy pinions\n Flapping in the distance,\n Yet we do not pale.\n Sit within the temple,\n Think on me with longing,\n Beauteous in thy weeping,\n Beauteous Ingeborg.\"\n\n----\n 'Gainst Ellide's stem,\n   Two goblins warfare made.\n  One was wind-cold Ham,\n   One was snowy Heyd.\n\nNow the storm-wind wildly drifts them\n O'er the deep, and madly down;\nNow it beating, whirling lifts them,\n Upward where the heavens frown.\nAll the powers of evil coming,\n Riding on the billows' top,\nFrom the bottomless, the foaming,\n From the wide graves up.\n\n \"Brighter was the journey\n By the pale moon's glimmer,\n Over mirrored waters\n Unto Balder's grove;\n Warmer was it, nearer\n Ing'borg's heart reposing;\n Whiter than the sea-foam\n Swelled her bosom fair.\"\n\n------\n Solund island fair\n Above the waves so white!\n Stiller seas are there,\n Harbors safe invite.\n\nBut the bold sea-rover feareth\n Less upon the trusted oak,\nMans the helm himself and jeereth\n At the wild wind's sportive stroke.\nTighter now the sail he fastens,\n Fleeter o'er the water skims,\nStraight to westward fearless hastens,\n Goes where'er the billow swims.\n\n \"Fighting for a moment\n With the storm delighteth:\n Storm and Northman prosper\n Well upon the wave.\n\n Ingeborg would redden\n Should her sea-eagle fly with\n Slackened wings, affrighted\n By a passing breeze.\"\n\n-----\n Higher rise the waves,\n Deeper furrows plow,\n Cordage madly raves,\n Creak both keel and prow.\n\nWaves whichever way contending,\n With or 'gainst Ellide's form,\nMeet good timbered sides, defending\n Menaced ship, defying storm.\nLike an evening meteor sweeping,\n Joyful glides she through the night,\nLike an Alpine roebuck leaping\n Over precipice and height.\n\n \"Better was it kissing\n her in Balder's temple,\n Than to stand here tasting\n Salt-foam as it whirls.\n\n Better 'twas embracing\n Bele's royal daughter\n Than to stand here gripping\n Fast the rudder's helm.\"\n\n From the cold sky's field\n Snows intense prevail,\n And on deck and shield\n Rattling storms of hail.\n\nLo, o'er all the vessel flying\n Night has placed her sable pall,\nAs in rooms where dead are lying,\n Gloomy darkness covers all.\nWave implacable now lashes\n Toward his doom the sailor brave\nWhite-gray as with sifted ashes\n Frightful yawns a boundless grave.\n\n \"Pillows Ran is making,\n Luring us to quiet;\n Thine I know are waiting,\n Ingeborg, for me.\n\n Faithful men are plying\n Oars of good Ellide;\n Gods the keel have made us,\n Bear us yet awhile.\"\n\n------\n See the sea advances,\n Seeking now a wreck,\n Ere the eye can glance,\n Clears the starboard deck.\n\nFridthjof's sinewy arm adorning,\n Shone a massive golden ring,\nBright its rays of early morning,\n 'Twas the gift of Bele, king.\nThis in many pieces broken,--\n Made by dwarfs with skillful art,--\nGives to all on board a token.\n Every man receives a part.\n\n \"Gold is good to carry\n When you go a-wooing,\n Empty-handed no one\n Comes to sea-blue Ran.\n\n Cold is she to kisses,\n Flee'th from embraces,\n But the sea-bride yieldeth\n Met with shining gold.\"\n\n Now with threatenings new\n  Falls the frozen storm,\n Rends his sail in two,\n  Snaps the brittle arm.\n\nO'er Ellide's side prevailing\n Entering rolls the mountain wave,\nMen of giant strength are bailing,\n 'Gainst, the sea make battle brave.\nFridthjof cannot fail discerning\n That he carries death on board;\nThen above the billows storming\n Rises his commanding word.\n\n \"Bjorn, attend the rudder,\n Grip it with a bear's paw;\n Valhal's holy powers\n Never sent such storm.\n\n Goblins rule the voyage;\n Coward Helge chanted\n Safety o'er the waters;\n I will up and see.\"\n\n Like a bird he flew\n Up the icy spar,\n Sat on high to view\n Fiendish goblins war.\n\nSee, before Ellide gliding,\n\n Like an island floating free,\nSea-whale on whose back are riding,\n Loathsome goblins of the sea.\nHeyd a snowy pelt, doth cover,\n Figure like a polar bear;\nHam hath wings which, waving hover\n Eagle-like in stormy air.\n\n \"Now. Ellide, ready!\n Show if hero temper\n Dwells within your banded\n Convex breast of oak.\n\n Listen to my order;\n Are you Valhal's daughter?\n Strike with keel of copper,\n Gore the conjured whale!\"\n\n-----\n Brave Ellide hears\n Fridthjof's proud behest.\n With a spring she rears\n 'Gainst the monster's breast.\n\nFrom the wound a stream is driving,\n To the skies 'tis quickly sped,\nNow the wounded monster diving,\n Roaring seeks his miry bed.\nFridthjof's giant strength then casteth\n Lances at the goblins bold,\nOne in Ice-bear's bosom fasteneth,\n One Storm-eagle's breast doth hold.\n\n \"Bravely done, Ellide!\n Not so quickly riseth\n Helge's magic dragon\n Up from out the mire.\n\n Ham and Heyd no longer\n Rule the sea together;\n Bitter is it biting\n 'Gainst the dark-blue steel.\"\n\n-----\n Quickly disappears\n Storm from sea and land,\n Gentle wavelet steers\n Toward the nearing strand.\n\nAll at once the sun advances,\n Like a king doth he unveil,\nAll enlivens, all entrances,\n Ship and billow, mount and dale.\nLast rays, gleaming now like amber,\n Tops of cliff and forest bound,\nNow each sailor well remembers\n The emerald shores of Efje Sound.\n\n \"Ingeborg, pale maiden,\n Prayers sent unto Valhal;\n Lily-white she bowed her\n Knees on sacred gold.\n\n Light-blue eyes in weeping,\n Breast of swan's down, sighing,\n Moved the hearts of asas;\n Let us give them thanks.\"\n\n-----\n Now Ellide leaks,\n  Faithful dragon ship,\n Shallow water seeks.--\n  Wearied of the trip.\n\nStill more tired by labor dreary,\n Fridthjof's men desire the land;\nBut enfeebled, faint and weary,\n Sword-supported, scarce can stand.\nBjorn, on powerful shoulders, beareth\n Four of them and safely lands;\nFridthjof, too, the labor shareth,\n Eight sets round the burning brands.\n\n \"Do not bhtsh, pale heroes!\n Waves are sturdy vikings;\n Hard indeed is fighting\n 'Gainst the ocean's bride.\n\n See, there comes the mead-horn,\n Gold the feet that bear it.\n Warm your frozen members;\n Skoal to Ingeborg!\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nFRIDTHJOF WITH ANGANTYR.\n\n\n'Tis now to tell the story\n How in his fir-wood hall,\nSat Angantyr, the hoary,\n And drank with champions all.\nHe, joyous and light-hearted,\n Looked out to where the sun\nBehind the waves departed,\n Just like a golden swan.\n\nOutside the hall's commotion\n Old Halvard watched,--indeed\nNot only watched the ocean,\n But also watched his mead.\nHis custom, seldom broken,\n Was, quick the horn to drain,\nAnd ere a word was spoken,\n To thrust it in again.\n\nBut now he threw it; striding\n\n Into the hall he spake:\n\"I see the billows riding\n A ship, whose timbers shake;\nI see some sailors dying\n Already on the strand,\nAnd two strong giants, trying\n To bring the rest to land.\"\n\nO'er waves no longer foaming,\n The noble earl looked out:\n\"That is Ellide coming,\n And Fridthjof too, no doubt;\nHis step, so firm and steady,\n Bespeaks him Thorstein's son.\nSuch brow, and smile so ready,\n In Northland there is none.\"\n\nThen viking Atle sturdy\n Sprang up at one swift bound;\nBlack-bearded berserk, bloody,\n And fiercely looked around.\n\"Now, I will prove,\" he thunders,\n \"What rumor means by this,\nThat all blades Fridthjof sunders,\nAnd never sues for peace.\"\n\nAnd with the doughty viking,\n His twelve best champions start,\nAnd in the air sharp striking,\n They brandish sword and dart.\nThey storm the strand, where by it\n The weary dragon lay;\nBut Fridthjof, sitting nigh it,\n Looks ready for the fray.\n\n\"Quite easy could I fell thee,\"\n The noisy Atle cries:\n\"No one comes here, I tell thee,\n But either fights or flies.\nIf peace thou ask'st, believe me,--\n I fight, but am no churl,--\nIn friendship I'll receive thee,\n And lead thee to the earl.\"\n\n\"Although I'm scarcely rested,\"\n Is Fridthjof's sharp reply,\n\"Our good swords must be tested,\n Before for peace I cry.\"\nThen swift the sun-brown fighter\n His flashing sword-blade swung,\nBright glowed the runes and brighter\n On Angervadil's tongue.\n\nBlows fell without cessation,\n Now deadly blows like rain,\nAnd now in quick rotation\n Each shield is cleft in twain.\nUnhurt, with wrath unspoken\n They stand within the ring,--\nNow Atle's sword is broken\nAnd Fridthjof's sword is king.\n\nSaid he: \"A swordless foeman\n I've no desire to slay;\nBut if you will, as yeomen,\n We'll try another way.\"\nAs waves 'gainst waves are pushing,\n And breaking crest on crest,\nSo on each other rushing,\n They wrestled breast to breast.\n\nThey fought like two bears trying\n Their strength on crust of snow,\nOr, as o'er mad waves flying\n The eagle meets his foe.\nThe firm earth trembled round them,\n Though based on solid rock,\nAnd oaks, though strong roots bound them,\n Could scarce withstand the shock.\n\nTheir brows with sweat were beaded,\n Their breasts heaved with a sound,\nThe brush and stones unheeded,\n They scattered all around.\nThe twelve in expectation\n Stood quaking on the sand;\nRenowned through every nation\n That struggle on the strand.\n\nBut Fridthjof was the stronger,\n He felled his foe at last,\nAnd said with fiery anger,\n His knee on Atle's breast:\n\"Had I my good sword ready,\n Thou berserk blackbeard, now\nThy miserable body\n I'd straightway plunge it through.\"\n\n\"Go bring it! Who'll prevent thee?\"\n Is generous Atle's cry,\n\"And if it will content thee,\n As now I'll quiet lie.\nWhy should it make me sorrow?\n For all must Valhal see;\nI go to-day--to-morrow\n Perhaps thy turn will be.\"\n\nThen Fridthjof quick returning,\n Desired to end the fray;\nRaised Angervadil burning,--\n But Atle quiet lay.\nThe falling blade ne'er harmed him,\n For Fridthjof struck the sand;\nSuch courage had disarmed him,\n He took brave Atle's hand.\n\nWith gleeful admonition\n Old Halvard swung his staff:\n\"For your battle-meal potation\n There's nothing here to quaff;\nUpon the board hot-smoking\n The silver dishes glow;\nA cold meal is provoking,\n And thirst annoys me so.'\n\nAppeased, with friendly feeling,\n The portals they pass through,\nAnd here from floor to ceiling,\n To Fridthjof all was new.\nRough planks well matched together\n Lined not the spacious hall,\nBut 'broidered golden leather\n Was stretched along the wall.\n\nThe center was not littered\n By mortared hearthstone wide;\nA marble fireplace glittered,\n Built up against the side.\nNo smoke 'mid rafters flitted,\n No roof with soot spread o'er;\nGlass panes the windows fitted,\n A lock secured the door.\n\nNo woollen torches crackling,\n Illumed the champions' feast,\nBut waxen candles, sparkling,\n In silver sconces placed.\nA roasted stag, well larded,\n The table's center graced;\nGold bands his raised hoof guarded,\n With flowers his horns were dressed.\n\nBeside each champion sitting,\n A youthful maiden stood,--\nAn evening star, bright flitting,\n Behind a stormy cloud\nThe blue eyes beamed, in showers\n The gold-brown tresses flowed,\nComplete as sculptured flowers\n The little rose-lips glowed.\n\nOn silver stool, high mounted,\n Sat Angantyr, the old;\nHis helm shot rays uncounted,\n His corselet was of gold.\nHis mantle, rich and splendid,\n With golden stars was strewn,--\nAnd where the purple ended,\n The spotless ermine shone,\n\nThree steps the earl descended\n To Fridthjof genially\nHe said, with hand extended:\n \"Come higher, sit by me.\nOf horns I've emptied many\n With Thorstein in his day;\nHis son, more famed than any,\n Shall not sit far away.\"\n\nHe filled each goblet brimming\n\n With wine from Sicily,--\nLike sparks of fire 'twas gleaming,\n And foaming like the sea.\n\"Welcome!\" exclaimed the speaker,\n \"My friend's most worthy son!\nTo Thorstein fill a beaker,--\n And drink now, every one!\"\n\nNow woke the harpstring's slumbers,\n A skald from Morven's hills,\nIn Gaul's melodious numbers,\n Sad hero-songs he trills.\nBut Thorstein's praise was chanted\n In old Norwayan tongue;\nHis noble deeds were vaunted,\n His daring valor snug.\n\nThe earl asked much concerning\n His friends of days gone by;\nIn words replete with learning\n Young Fridthjof made reply.\nA judgment given blindly,\nSwift accusation brings,\nHe spoke like Saga, kindly,\nRemembering holy things.\n\nAnd when he there recounted\n How Helge goblins sent,\nWhich first the blue waves mounted,\n Then, conquered, downward, went,\nThe champions cheered him loudly,\n And Angantyr the same,--\nIn high approwd, proudly,\n They echoed Fridthjof's name.\n\nBut when he spoke in anguish,\n Of Ing'borg in her bloom,\nHow she was left to languish,\n Her heart with grief o'ercome,--\nEach maiden's cheek was burning,\n Each bosom sore distressed;\nAnd to her lover turning,\n His faithful hand she pressed.\n\nHis embassy to mention\n He ventured by and by;\nThe earl gave pleased attention,\n And then he made reply:\n\"I ne'er was tributary;\n King Bele's health, maybe,\nTo drink was customary,\n But from his law we're free.\n\n\"His sons, I do not know them;\n If tribute they demand,\nCustom the way will show them,\n We'll meet them on the strand,\nAnd see who best is reckoned;\n But Thorstein was my friend.\"\nHis daughter then he beckoned,\n Who sat quite near at hand.\n\nThen rose the maiden tender,\n From stool all golden bound,\nHer waist is trim and slender,\n Her bosom full and round,\nEach dimpled cheek encloses\n An Astrild, roguish sprite,\nAs when on opening roses,\n The butterflies alight.\n\nShe hastened to her bower,\n A green silk purse she brought,\nWith bird and tree and flower\n And beast 'twas deftly wrought;\nOn seas were white-winged vessels,\n Beneath the silver moon,\nOf gold were all the tassels,\n The clasp with rubies shone.\n\nShe placed the dainty treasure\n Within her father's band;\nHe filled it, brimming measure,\n With coin from foreign land.\n\"This welcome gift is only\n A tribute to a friend;\nAnd now the winter lonely\n Consent with us to spend.\n\nTrue courage knows no danger,\n But Heyd and Ham, I fear,\nRevived await the ranger,\n And winter storms are here.\nAll foes the deep is hiding,\n Ellide may not shun,\nAnd many whales are riding\n The waves, though conquered one.\"\n\nWith jesting and potation\n The hours till day were spent,\nWithout inebriation\n The wine-cup gladness lent.\nA brimming skoal was given\n To Angantyr at last;\nSo Fridthjof in this haven\n The cheerful winter passed.\n\n\n\nXII.\n\n\nTHE RETURN.\n\nNow spring is breathing in skies of blue,\nAnd earth her carpet has woven anew,\nAnd Fridthjof grateful his kind host leaving\nAgain the billowy plain is cleaving,\nAnd gayly speeding through silver-spray,\nHis black swan ploweth her sunny way.\n\nThe western breezes that spring is bringing,\nLike nightingales in the sails are singing,\nAnd AEger's daughters in veils of blue\nAbout the rudder their sports pursue.\nAh, how delightful when safely clearing\nA foreign land, to be homeward steering!\nWhen memory pictures the smoke that curled\nAbove one's hearthstone, his childhood's world,\nThe fount where playing his swift feet hurried,\nThe honored graves where his dead are buried.\nHe thinks of her who perchance may be\nOn high cliffs standing to watch the sea.\nSix days he sailed on his way returning,\nThe seventh a strip of blue discerning\nLow down the horizon, he neared it fast,\nSaw rock and islet and land at last.\nThat land is his; from the waves advancing,\nHe sees green forests in sunlight dancing.\nHe hears the roar of the foaming streams,\nCan trace each cliff which with granite gleams,\nSalutes the headland and sound, then glideth\nAlong by the groves where his Ing'borg bideth.\nThinks how last summer each evening fair,\nWith her beside him he wandered there.\n\"Where is she? Guesses she not her lover\nIs near her, safely the blue waves over?\nPerhaps, removed from her Balder's care,\nShe strikes the harp in the palace, where\nHer grief she'd lessen, her needle plying.\"\n\nThen sudden rises his falcon, flying\nFrom temple turret, then downward flits\nTo Fridthjof's shoulder, and there he sits,\nAs was his wont, of his love to assure him.\nFrom Fridthjof's shoulder can none allure him,\nHe scratches fast with his gold-tipped claws,\nHe gives no quiet, he makes no pause.\nTo Fridthjof's ear now his beak he bendeth,\nPerchance some loved one a message sendeth;\nIs it Ingeborg? Wildly his pulses bound,\nBut none interprets the broken sound.\n\nEllide gayly the headland rounding,\nSkips lightly on, like a roebuck bounding.\nFamiliar waters surround the prow\nWhere happy Fridthjof is standing now.\nHe rubs his eyes and his hand he places\nAbove his brow to discern the traces\nOf home so dear; but he looks in vain,--\nOf Framness ashes alone remain.\nThe naked chimney stands lone and dreary,\nLike warriors' bones of their grave-mounds weary;\nThe garden place is a blackened floor,\nThe ashes whirl round the wasted shore.\nIn bitter mood from his ship he hasteth,\nAround the ruins his eyes he casteth,\nHis father's dwelling, his childhood's pride.\nThen faithful Bran with the shaggy hide,\nComes running toward him, each moment faster,--\nOf forest bears had he oft been master;\nHow high he springs in his gladsome glee,\nHow leaps with pleasure his friend to see.\nThe milk-white steed he so oft had ridden\nComes bounding up from the valley hidden,\nWith swan-like neck and the frame of a hind\nAnd gold mane floating upon the wind.\nHe curves his neck and he stamps while standing,\nHis food from Fridthjof's own hand demanding;\nBut Fridthjof, poorer by far than they,\nHas nought to give them,--he turns away.\n\nUnsheltered, sorrowful stands the rover;\nHe looks at the meadow and grove burnt over,-\nOf Hilding's coming quite unaware,\nHis foster-father with silver hair.\n\"At what I see I can scarcely wonder,\nWhen eagles flit then their nests are plunder.\n'Tis Helge's deed lest the land be wroth,\nSo well he keeps his crowning oath!\nTo hate mankind and to gods be loyal,\nWhile blackened homes mark his progress royal!\nMore grief it gives me and less of pain;\nBut where does my Ingeborg meanwhile remain?\"\n\"The word I hear,\" Hilding said in sadness,\n\"I fear will bring you but little gladness.\nYou scarce had sailed when king Ring came on,\nFive shields I counted against our one.\nIn Disar-dale did we prove our valor,--\nThe river foamed with a crimson color.\nKing Halfdan's jest and his laugh arose,\nSo too the sound of his manly blows.\nMy shield I held as a buckler o'er him,\nWell pleased with fruits his bravery bore him.\nNot long indeed did the battle last.\nKing Helge yielded, and flying fast,\nThough asa-blood in his veins was welling,\nIn passing Framness he fired the dwelling.\nBefore the brothers the choice was placed,\nTo give their sister to Ring, disgraced.\n(By her alone could his wrongs be righted),\nOr give their throne for his offer slighted.\nThen hither and thither the messengers hied,\nBut now has Ring carried home his bride.\"\n\n\"O woman, woman!\" said Fridthjof, scorning,\n\"Old Loke's thought should have been a warning;\nHis thought a lie, was in woman's form,\nTo man he sent it his heart to warm,\nA blue-eyed lie that with tears alarms us,\nForever cheats and forever charms us;\nA rose-checked lie with bust defined,\nOf spring-ice virtue and faith like wind;\nFrom out whose heart folly often glances,\nOn whose fresh lips basest falsehood dances.\nAnd yet how dear to my heart was she!\nAnd dear as ever she still must be.\nMy wife I've called her since in the wildwood.\nWe played together in happy childhood.\nOf high achievement if e'er I thought,\nHer love alone was the prize I sought;\nAs stems which grow from one root together,\nIf Thor strikes one then they both will wither;\nIf one its vesture of emerald shows,\nThe other mantles with green its boughs.\nOur lives in joy and in grief thus blended,\nI cannot think of the union ended.\nBut I'm alone. O, thou noble Var\nWho wanderest over the earth afar,\nTo record on gold every vow that's spoken,\nForego thy pastime, the vows are broken.\nThe tablet filled with but falsest lies,\nThe faithful gold 'gainst the insult cries.\nOf Balder's Nanna I've oft been dreaming,\nBut truth in mortals is only seeming.\nIn faithfulness can no heart rejoice\nSince falsehood borrows my Ingeborg's voice,--\nA voice like wind which o'er flower fields strayeth\nOr harp-strings' music when Brage playeth.\nI'll list no more when the harp is tried,\nI will not think of my faithless bride;\nWhere storms are raging there will I follow,\nTill blood thou drinkest, thou ocean billow.\nWhere swords sow seeds for pale death to reap,\nOn mount or vale I my vigil keep.\nIf king I meet and to combat dare him\nI smile to think how my sword shall spare him.\nBut if in battle a youth I meet,\nWith heart enamored and visions sweet,\nDeluded fool who on faith relieth,\nI'll hew him down e'er the vision flyeth,\nWill kindly slay him ere yet he be\nDeceived, disgraced and betrayed like me.\"\n\n\"The blood that's youthful no boundaries heedeth,\"\nOld Hilding said, \"how much it needeth\nThe cooling touch of the snows of age.\nYou wrong the maid with your senseless rage.\nMy foster-daughter beware of blaming\nFor adverse fortune which, heaven ordaining,\nThe wrathful norns upon men below\nHurl down, for none can escape the blow.\nLike silent Vidar, no outward token\nThe maiden gave that her heart was broken.\nHer grief was mute as in southern grove\nThe voiceless woe of the widowed dove.\nTo me alone who her childhood guided\nWas all the pain she endured confided.\nAs dives the sea-fowl with wounded breast\nLest daylight's eye should upon it rest,\nAnd there remaineth with life-blood flowing,\nNo sign of weakness or misery showing,\nSo she in darkness her suffering bore,\nAnd only I saw her anguish sore.\nShe often said: 'I am but an offering\nFor Bele's kingdom; who talks of suffering!\nThe snow-drop fragrant, with leaf and vine\nTo deck the victim in wreaths they twine.\nHow sweet to die and escape from anguish!\nBut no, in pain must I live and languish;\nFor Balder's wrath will no rest allow\n\nMy aching heart and my throbbing brow.\nBut tell to no one my secret sorrow,\nI'd rather suffer than pity borrow;\nKing Bele's daughter her fate may dare,--\nBut kindly greeting to Fridthjof bear.'\nThe wedding day with its footsteps fateful\nArrived at last. O, the day most hateful!\nTo the temple marched in procession sad,\nThe white-robed virgins and men steel-clad;\nA bard dejected the train was guiding,\nThe pale bride followed, a black steed riding\nAs pale was she as the wraith which sits\nOn a storm-cloud black, when the lightning flits.\nFrom off the saddle I quietly took her,\nNor at the temple door forsook her;\nBut led her up to the altar, where\nHer vows she uttered in accents clear.\nShe wept and prayed, on good Balder calling,\nWhile down her cheeks were the tear-drops falling.\nWhen Helge saw on her arm your band,\nHe tore it off with an angry hand;\nOn Balder's image now hangs the jewel.\nMy wrath burst forth at this act so cruel;\nMy sword was by me, I drew it forth,--\nKing Helge then was but little worth.\n'Let be,' said Ing'borg, in accents broken,\n'My brother might surely have spared this token;\nHow much one suffers ere death sets free,--\nThe Allfather judgeth 'twixt him and me.'\"\n\n\"The Allfather judgeth,\" said Fridthjof slowly,\n\"I too would give him my judgment lowly.\nIs't not now mid-summer, Balder's feast?\nAnd in the temple the crowned priest,--\nThe king, who sold the maiden tender?\nAh! yes, my judgment I fain would render.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\n\nBALDER'S FUNERAL PILE.\n\nMidnight's sun on the mountain lay,\n Blood-red was its gleaming\nIt was not night nor was it day,\n But just between them seeming.\n\nBalder's bale-fire, symbol bright,\n On sacred hearth was burning,--\nSoon is quenched its wasted light,\n Hoder's reign returning.\n\nPriests around the temple wall\n Burning brands were grasping;\nSilver-bearded, old men all,--\n Their hard hands flint knives clasping.\n\nThe crowned king stands the altar near;\n Hark! the midnight soundeth,--\nWith clash of weapons, sharp and clear,\n The sacred grove resoundeth.\n\n\"Bjorn, stand fast by yonder door,\n No one must pass under,\nWhosoe'er would cross the floor,\n Cleave his skull asunder.\"\n\nHelge paled: he knew too well\n Whose that voice so ringing.\nForth stood Fridthjof; his fierce words fell\n Like autumn storm winds singing.\n\n\"Here's the ordered tribute; it came\n Safe through the tempest's rattle;\nTake it; then here by Balder's flame,\n For life or death we'll battle.\n\n\"Shields behind us, our bosoms free.\n Fair the fight be reckoned;\nAs king, the first blow belongs to thee,\n Mind thou, mine's the second.\n\n\"Caught at last is the wily fox,\n Vain all thought of flying;\nThink of her with the golden locks,\n Of Framness wasted lying.\"\n\nThus he spake, and the purse he'd brought,\n Forth he quickly drew it,\nCareless of the mischief wrought,\n In Helge's face he threw it.\n\nDarkness swam before the eyes\n Of asas' kinsman sainted;\nBlood gushed forth, he could not rise,\n But near his altar fainted.\n\n\"With the gold you as tribute claim,\n Are you overpowered?\nNone shall Angervadil blame\n For felling such a coward.\n\n\"Silence, priests with altar-knives,\n Moonshine princes, quiet!\nElse my sword may drink your lives;\n Thirsting 'tis to try it.\n\n\"Holy Balder, thy wrath forbear,\n Nor 'gainst me enrol it:\nBut the arm-ring which you wear,\n Yonder craven stole it.\n\n\"Not for thee did Volund old\n Work its fair dimensions;\nThe maiden wept, but the thief was bold;\n Away, such false pretensions.\"\n\n\nBravely drew he; together fast\n Arm and ring seemed growing;\nAngered Balder, when loosed at last,\n Fell 'mid the embers glowing.\n\nHark! each flame, as it leaps on high,\n A golden tooth resembles;\nBjorn, all pale, stands the doorway nigh,\n Fridthjof, anxious, trembles.\n\n\"Open, Bjorn, let the people go,\n Bv watchmen unimpeded;\nThe temple burns; throw water, throw\n The ocean full, if needed.\"\n\nNow a chain is knit to the strand,\n Not a link is missing;\nFlies the billow from hand to hand\n Against the fire-brands hissing.\n\nFridthjof sits like the god of rain\n High o'er beam and water,\nGives to all his orders plain,\n Calm amid the slaughter.\n\nVain! the fire has the upper hand,\n Smoke-clouds dense are growing,\nGold falls first on the red-hot sand,\n Silver streams are flowing.\n\nAll is lost! to the half-burned hall\n A fire-red cock is clinging,\nHe sits and crows on the roof-peak tall,\n His loosened pinions swinging.\n\nThe wind-blown flame mounts the vaulted sky,\n Everything it levels,\nBalder's grove is summer dry,\n The hungry fire-king revels.\n\nFiercely leaping from height to height\n Aiming yet still higher;\nO, what wild and terrific light!\n Strong is Balder's pyre!\n\nHark, it crackles! the roots now burn,\n The tops are fiery showers;\nMuspel's ruddy children spurn\n Man's mere human powers.\n\nA fire-sea billows in Balder's grove,\n Strandless breaks and hisses,\nThe sun is up, but bay and cove\n Mirror flaming abysses.\n\nSoon in smoldering ashes lay\n Grove and temple's adorning;\nSadly then Fridthjof turned away,--\n Wept in the light of morning.\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\nFRIDTHJOF GOES INTO EXILE\n\n\nOn deck at night\nIn summer bright,\nSat Fridthjof grieving;\nLike billows heaving,\nNow wrath, now grief,\nIn his heart was chief;\nAnd shoreward turning\nSaw fires still burning.\n\n\"Thou temple reek\nFly up and seek\nHigh Valhal's towers;\nThe  White God's powers\nCall down on me\nWith wrath's decree.\nAnd tell, swift bounding,\nThe vault resounding,\nThe temple burned\nTo dust is turned;\nThe imaged glory\nBut lives in story.\nQuick burned the god\nLike common wood.\nThe grove protected\nNor once neglected\nSince men swords bore\nIs now no more;\nBy fire the slaying\nNot time's decaying.\nForget no word\nThou hast seen or heard,\nIn Balder's dwelling\nThe story telling,\nThou message cloud\nOf gods the shroud.\nLong live in story\nKing Helge's glory,\nWho exiled me\nFrom him and thee,\nMy father's nation.\nWe'll roam creation\nWhere blue is king,\nWhere wild waves sing.\nThou canst not rest thee\nEllide, haste thee;\nEarth's farthest bound\nWe'll sail around.\nSoon thou'lt be rocking,\nThe sea-foam mocking,\nMy dragon good;\nA drop of blood\nWill nothing hinder\nAs on we wander.\n\nIn fiercest storm\nArt thou my home;--\nThe one I cherished\nBy Helge perished.\nThou art my North\nMy foster-earth,--\nThe other leaving\nI wander grieving:\nMy bride caressed\nIn black robes dressed;\nThe one in lustre\nI could not trust her.\n\nThou ocean free,\nUnknown to thee\nIs king oppressive,\nUntrue, aggressive.\nThy king is he\nAmong the free\nWho trembles never\nHow high soever,\nWith wrath oppressed,\nHeaves thy white breast.\nBlue fields are charming\nAnd not alarming;\nThere heroes plow\nWith keel and bow,\nAnd blood-rain showers\nIn oaken bowers.\nThe good steel blade\nIs seed-corn made.\nThe fields bring yearly\nNot honor merely,\nBut gold as well.\nOh, kindly swell,\nThou ocean billow!\nThee will I follow.\nMy father's grave\nCalm waters lave\n(How still he sleepeth\nWhere green grass creepeth).\nMine blue shall be,\nFlecked like the sea;\nForever floating,\nOn tempest gloating,\nAnd fathoms deep\nDraw men to sleep;\nTo me thou'rt given\nFor life a haven;\nMy grave thou'lt be,\nThou ocean free.\"\n\nThus inly burning\nSang Fridthjof, turning\nHis prow so true\nFrom seas he knew,\nAnd slowly creeping\n'Mid rocks still keeping\nTheir faithful ward\nO'er shallow fjord.\n\nBut vengeance watcheth;\nKing Helge fetcheth\nTen dragons out.\nThh people shout,\nWith breath abated:\n\"The king is fated;\nHe offers fight,\nWe scorn his might;\nThough heaven-descended,\nHis reign is ended;\nFrom earth we know\nHe now must go,\nThe blood god-given\nNow longs for heaven.\"\n\nScarce was it spoke\nEre keels of oak\nBy unseen power\nBegan to lower;\nThen on and on\nAre downward drawn\nTo Ran's safe keeping.\nKing Helge, leaping,\nIs glad to swim\nFrom the sinking stem.\nAnd Bjorn, none blaming,\nLaughed loud, exclaiming:\n\"Thou asa-blood,\nThe art was good;\nNo one detected,\nOr e'en suspected,\nI bored so quick,--\nA worthy trick!\nMay waves enfold them\nAnd Ran still hold them\nAs heretofore.\nIt grieves me sore\nThat Helge misses\nFalse Ran's cold kisses.\"\n\nIn wrathful mood\nKing Helge stood\nFrom death delivered;\nHis round bow quivered,\nThough made of steel,\nAs toward the shoal\nSo hard he drew it,\nThough scarce he knew it,\nIt clanging broke.\nThen Fridthjof spoke,\nHis lance well aiming,\nWhile loud exclaiming:\n\"A death-bird here,\nEnchained I bear:\nIf once set; flying,\nThen low is lying\nThy coward head.\nBy Loke led\nThy fear abuseth;\nMy lance, refuseth\n\nA coward's blood;\nIt is too good\nFor food so craven;\nIts worth be graven\nOn funeral stone,\nBut not upon\nA name which beareth\nThe stain thine weareth.\nOne exploit brave\nSank 'neath the wave;\nThe next one failed thee,\nNor aught availed thee;\nThy bow rust broke,\nNot thou. The stroke,\nWhen I aspire,\nIs set much higher,\nAs thou mayst see\n'Tis far from thee.\"\n\nHis carved oar limber\nWas fir-tree timber,--\nA mast-fir tall,\nFrom Gudbrand's dale.\nTaking another,\nWith both together\nHe rowed amain;\nLike arrowy cane\nOr steel blade brilliant\nWere the oars resilient.\nThe sun climbs up\nThe mountain slope,\nThe winds, advancing\nFrom land, to dancing\nIn morning's light\nThe waves invite.\nWhere foam-crest swimmeth\nEllide skimmeth\nOn joyous wings;\nBut Fridthjof sings:\n\n\"Thou front of creation,\n Exalted North!\nI have no station\n On thy green earth.\nThy lineage sharing\n My pride doth swell,\nThou home of daring!\n Farewall, farewell!\n\nFarewell thou royal\n Valhalla-throne!\nThou night's-eye loyal,\n Midsummer sun!\nThou sky unclouded\n As hero's soul!\nThou vault star-crowded!\nFarewell, farewell!\n\nYe mountain ranges\n Where honor dwells,\nCreation's changes\n Your rune-face tells.\nYe lakes and highlands\n I knew so well,\nYe rocks and islands,\n Farewell, farewell!\n\nFarewell ye grave-mounds\n Where the linden showers\nNear azure wave bounds\n The dust of flowers!\nBut time revealeth\n And judgeth well\nWhat earth concealeth;\n Farewell, farewell!\n\nFarewell ye bowers,\nBeneath whose shade\nSo many hours\nBy brooks I've played;\nYe friends of childhood\nYe meant me well,\nI love your wildwood;\nFarewell, farewell!\n\nMy love is cheated,\n My home is burned,\nMy shame completed,\n I'm exiled, spurned.\nFrom land appealing\n To ocean's swell,\nLife's joyous feeling,\n Farewell, farewell!\n\n\n\n\nXV.\n\nThe VIKING CODE.\n\n\n\nNow he floated around on the desolate sea, like a\n prey-seeking falcon he rode,\nTo the champions on board he gave justice and law;\n wilt thou hear now the sea-viking's code?\n\n\"Make no tent on thy ship, never sleep in a house, for\n a foe within doors you may view;\nOn his shield sleeps the viking; his sword in his hand,\n and his tent is the heavenly blue.\n\nSee how short is the shaft of the hammer of Thor, but\n an ell's length the sword blade of Frey;\n'Tis enough, for your weapon will ne'er be too short if\n you dare near the enemy stay.\n\n\"When the storm rageth fierce, hoist the sail to the top,--\n O how merry the storm-king appears;\nLet her drive! let her drive! better founder than strike,\n for who strikes is a slave to his fears.\n\n\"Never take on thy vessel the land-sheltered maid; were\n she Freyja herself she'd ensnare;\nFor the dimples she wears are but pitfalls for men, and\n a net is her free flowing hair.\n\n\"Wine is Allfather's drink, and the cup is allowed if you\n only can use it with sense;\nHe who falls on the land may arise,--who falls here he\n to Ran, the sleep-giving, goes hence.\n\n\"If a merchant sail by, you must shelter his ship, but\n the weak will not tribute withhold;\nYou are king of the waves, he a slave to his gains; and\n your steel is as good as his gold.\n\n\"Let your goods he divided by lot or by dice, how it\n falls you may never complain;\nBut the sea-king himself takes no part in the lots,--he\n considers the honor his gain.\n\n\"If a viking-ship come, there is grappling and strife,\n and the fight 'neath the shields will rejoice;\nIf you yield but a pace you are parted from us; 'tis the\n law, you may act by your choice.\n\n\"If you win, be content; he who praying for peace\n yields his sword, is no longer a foe;\n\"Prayer's a Valhalla-child, hear the suppliant voice; he's\n a coward who answereth no.\n\n\"Wounds are viking's reward, and the pride of the man\n on whose breast or whose forehead they stand;\nLet them bleed on unbound till the close of the day, if\n you wish to be one of our band.\"\n\nThus his law was enrolled,--and his name, every day,\n through all foreign coasts grew renowned;\nFor his like was not seen on the blue-rolling sea, nor the\n valor his champions crowned.\n\nThen he sat by the rudder and sullenly gazed in the\n depths of the blue rocking tide;\n\"Thou art deep; in thy depths thriveth peace, it may\n be, but it thriveth not here where we ride.\n\n\"Is the White God enraged? Let him take up his sword,\n I will fall if it thus is designed;\nBut he sits in the skies, and the thoughts he sends\n down which forever are clouding my mind.\"\n\nWhen the conflict came on, then his spirit arose like an\n eagle refreshed for its flight;\nAnd his brow it was clear, and his voice it rang high,--\n like the thunderer first in the fight.\n\nSo from conquest to conquest unbroken he went, and\n was safe o'er the high, foaming grave;\n\nAnd he saw in the south many islands and rocks, till\n he came to the calm Grecian wave.\n\nWhen he saw the green groves that stand out from the\n waves, and the temple before him uprose,\nWhat he thought Freyja knows, and the poet knows too,\n and the lover, he knows, ah! he knows!\n\n\"Here we ought to have dwelt, here's the island and\n grove, here the fane as my father set forth.\nIt was here, it was here I invited my love, but the cruel\n one staid in the North.\n\n\"Surely peace has its home in those blissful green dales,--\n in the colonnades, memory's words;\nLike the whisper of love are the murmuring founts, and\n a bride-song the voice of the birds.\n\n\"Where is Ingeborg now? Hath forgotten me quite for\n the gray-haired and withered old king?\nI can never forget, but my life I would give, if one sight\n of my love it would bring.\n\n\"Now three years have passed by since the land I beheld\n where heroic achievement prevails;\nTower the honored mounts yet to the heavenly blue? is\n it green in my forefathers' dales?\n\n\"On the grave where my father is laid I once planted\n a tree; can it be it lives now?\nAnd who cares for the weakling? Thou earth give it\n moisture, and dew, kindly heaven, give thou.\n\n\"But why linger I longer on far distant waves, taking\n tribute and striking men down?\nFor my soul but despises the glittering gold, and I've\n gained quite enough of renown.\n\n\"There's a flag on the mast and it points to the North,\n in the North is the land I hold dear;\nI will follow the course of the heavenly winds, and back\n to the Northland I'll steer.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVI.\n\nFRIDTHJOF AND BJORN.\n\n\nBjorn, I am weary of riding the sea,\n Turbulent traps are the billowy fountains;\n Northland's firm earth and her long cherished mountains,\nWondrous attractions, are calling to me.\n Happy is he by his land unrejected,\nNo one denies him his father's green grave;\n Too long, alas, have I wandered dejected,\nOutlawed, afloat on this wilderness wave.\n\nBJORN.\n\nGood is the sea, your complaining you squander,\n Freedom and joy on the sea flourish best;\n He never knoweth effeminate rest,\nWho on the billows delighteth to wander.\n When I am old, to the green growing land\nI too will cling, with the grass for my pillow;\n Now I will drink and will fight with free hand,\nNow I'll enjoy my own sorrow-free billow.\n\nFRIDTHJOF.\n\nNow hath the ice indeed chased us to land,\n Close round our keel are the stiffened waves dozing;\n Let me not waste the long winter reposing\nHere among rocks on this desolate strand.\n Let me once more keep the Yule banquet olden,\nGuest of king Ring and the bride of my choice;\n Let me once more see those waving locks golden,\nHear the sweet tones of that well-beloved voice.\n\nBJORN.\n\nGood! to king Ring it shall be my glad duty,\n Something to teach of a wronged viking's power;\n Fire we the palace at midnight's still hour,\nScorch the old graybeard and bear off the beauty.\n Or, being viking you may think it right\nHonor to grant the old man by a duel:\n Challenge him out on the ice for a fight,--\nWhatever you will, only waiting is cruel.\n\nFRIDTHJOF.\n\nSpeak not of firebrands, to war give no thought,--\n Peace would I bear to the king, and not terror;\n Ring nor his partner committed the error--\nHeavenly vengeance my punishment sought,\n Little of hope is now left worth the telling,\nOnly farewell would I take of my dear,--\n Final farewell. When the green buds are swelling,\nSooner it may be, you'll see Fridthjof here.\n\nBJORN.\n\nFridthjof, 'tis time for your folly's abating;\n Sigh and lament for a false woman's loss!\n Earth is, alas, but too full of such dross;\nOne may be lost, still a thousand are waiting.\n Say but the word, of such goods I will bring\nQuickly a cargo,-- the Southland can spare them,\n Red as the rose, mild as lambs in the Spring;\nThen we'll cast lots, or as brothers we'll share them.\n\nFRIDTHJOF.\n\nBjorn, you're as frank and as joyous as Frey,\n Bold to wage war and with wisdom advising;\n Odin and Thor you ne'er think of despising,--\nFreyja, the heavenly, you dare to gainsay.\n Let us not question her power supernal,\nRather beware lest we waken her ire;\n Once, though now slumbering, the sparkle eternal\nMortals and gods shall enkindle to fire.\n\nBJORN.\n\nGo not alone, lest return be prevented.\n\nFRIDTHJOF.\n\n Singly I go not, my sword goes with me.\n\nBJORN.\n\n Hagbert, remember, was hanged to a tree.\n\nFRIDTHJOF.\n\nWho can be taken, to hang has consented.\n\nBJORN.\n\n Fallest thou then, on thy murderer fell\nCarve I the blood-eagle, vengeance bestowing.\n\nFRIDTHJOF.\n\nNeedless, fond Bjorn, he'll not hear the cock crowing\n Longer than I do. Farewell, fare thee well.\n\n\n\n\nXVII.\n\nFRIDTHJOF COMES TO KING RING.\n\n\nKing Ring in state was seated at Yule-time drinking mead.\nAnd with him sat his consort, so white and rosy red;\nThey seemed like Spring and Autumn. when both together seen,--\nThe king was chilly Autumn, fresh Spring the fair young queen.\n\nA man, unknown, there entered within the spacious hall,\nFrom head to foot enveloped, a bear-skin covering all;\nAnd though by staff supported, and bent with age and care,\nHe stood a head the taller than any champion there.\n\nHe chose for seat to rest him a bench beside the door,--\n'Tis now the poor man's station, as 'twas in days of yore;\nThe courtiers all laughed loudly, with many a gibe and jest,\nAnd with the finger pointed to him in bear-skin dressed.\n\nThe stranger's eyes flashed lightning which made his anger felt,\nAnd quick a young man seizing with one hand, by the belt,\nBoth up and down he turned him; then ceased the gleeful din,\nFor all the rest were silent,--so you and I had been.\n\n\"What causes such an uproar? who dares disturb our peace?\nOld man, come here and answer, and let the tumult cease;\nYour name, your place, your errand; come, answer if you can.\"\nThus spake the angered monarch to the half-concealed\nold man.\n\n\"You ask me many questions, I'll answer every one:\nMy name (I will not give it) belongs to me alone;\nMy birthplace was misfortune, my heritage is want,--\nI hither came but lately from wolf so fierce and gaunt.\n\n\"In youth I rode a dragon upon the waters blue,\nIts wings were stout, and gayly and safely too it flew;\nBut crippled now and frozen, it leaves the land no more,\nAnd I, grown old and weary, burn salt upon the shore.\n\n\"I came to see thy wisdom, renowned so far and wide;\nAnd when they met me rudely (for scorn I'll not abide),\nOne idiot by the girdle I grasped, and turned him round,\nFor that I beg your pardon,--though now he's safe and sound.\"\n\n\"Thy words are wisely chosen,\" said Ring, \"I must agree;\nThe aged should be honored, come sit thee here by me;\nSlip off these false disguises and let thy form appear,--\nDisguise is foe to pleasure, and pleasure ruleth here.\"\n\nThe guest now loosed the bearskin,--it fell from off his head,\nWhere stood old age decrepit, each saw a youth instead,--\nFrom off whose noble forehead, and round whose shoulders brave,\nThe light locks fell and floated in many a golden wave.\n\nIn azure velvet mantle, he then stood forth erect,\nHis belt a silver girdle with forest beasts bedecked,--\nEmbossed by cunning workman, each figure deftly traced,\nAnd round and round the hero they each the other chased.\n\nA massive golden circlet his sinewy arm displayed;\nHis battle-sword hung by him as though the lightning stayed;\nA hero glance about him he cast from time to time,\nAnd stood as Balder beauteous, as Asa-Thor sublime.\n\nSurprised, the queen's cheeks quickly with changing color glow,\nAs northern lights so ruddy paint fields of driven snow;\nAs two twin water lilies, alarmed by tempest's swell,\nStand swinging on the billow, her bosom rose and fell.\n\nThe horn a shrill blast sounded, then silence reigned throughout;\nThe hour for vows was coming, and Frey's boar now they brought;\nHis mouth contained an apple, wreaths on his neck were laid,\nHis four knees bent beneath him upon a silver cade.\n\nKing Ring, his gray locks flowing, arose and straight-way now\nThe boar's head gently touching, he thus declared his vow:\n\"I swear to conquer Fridthjof, the champion in war,\nSo help me Frey and Odin, and. likewise mighty Thor.\"\n\nThen with a smile defiant uprose the stranger tall,\nA look of wrath heroic spread o'er his features all,--\nHe smote with sword the table till through the hall it rang;\nAnd up from oaken benches the steel-clad warriors sprang.\n\n\"And now, sir king, please listen while I my vow shall tell,--\nYoung Fridthjof is my kinsman, and so I know him well;\n'Gainst all the world I'll shield him, I give you here my word,\nSo help me now my norn, and likewise my good sword.\"\n\nThe king then laughed. \"Right daring, methinks, your speech,\" said he,\n\"But in this Northland palace shall all fair words be free;\nMy queen, fill him a bumper of wine, the very best,--\nI hope that through the winter he'll here remain our guest.\"\n\nThe queen then took the goblet, before her it was placed,--\nA rare and costly jewel, which once the ure's head graced;\nIt stood on feet of silver, and on its golden bands\nWere runes of high achievement, engraved by skillful hands.\n\nWith downcast eyes she reached him the goblet, brimming filled,--\nBut with a hand so trembling that wine thereon was spilled:\nAs evening's shades so ruddy upon the lilies glow,\nSo gleamed the drops of ruby on hand as white as snow.\n\nThe guest the horn accepted with reverential bow,--\nNot two men could have drained it, as men are reckoned now,--\nWithout an instant's waiting the strong man, at a draught,\nThe lovely queen to honor, the brimming ruby quaffed.\n\nThe skald at table seated, his waiting harp brought forth,\nAnd sang a heartfelt story of true love in the North,--\nOf Hagbert and of Signe; and at the deep tones' peal\nEach warrior's heart was melted, though clad his breast in steel.\n\nHe sang of Valhal's mansions, of heroes' blest reward,\nOf ancient deeds of valor, on fields of wave and sward;\nThen grasped each hand its sword-hilt, then flashed each eye intent,--\nAnd quickly round the table the foaming mead-horn went.\n\nAnd lively was the drinking within that royal hall,--\nAn honest Yule carousal engaged the champions all;\nThe sleep that followed after no care or anger stained;\nBut Ring, the aged monarch, with Ingeborg remained.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII.\n\nTHE RIDE ON THE ICE.\n\n\nKing Ring to a banquet his queen would take,\nThe ice like a mirror o'erspread the lake.\n\n\"Go not on the ice,\" said the stranger bold,\n\"It may break, and the bath is too deep and cold.\"\n\n\"The king,\" answered Ring, \"is not easily drowned,\nWhoever is fearful let him go round.\"\n\nThe stranger was angered and sullen frowned,--\nThen quickly his skates to his feet he bound.\n\nThe sledge-horse sets out, he is strong and free,--\nHis nostrils are flaming, so glad is he.\n\n\"Strike out,\" cried the monarch, \"my charger good,\nAnd show if you are of the Sleipner blood.\"\n\nAs swift as a storm on the sea his speed;\nThe prayers of the queen does the king not heed.\n\nThe stranger in mail on his skates is not still,\nBut passes them swiftly whenever he will.\n\nHe writes many runes on the ice besides,--\nAnd over her name lovely Ingeborg rides.\n\nThey swiftly speed onward, the lake to span,\nBut under them lurketh the treacherous Ran.\n\nHer silvery roof in a trice she breaks,\nAnd catches the sled in the hole she makes.\n\nThe cheeks of the beautiful queen turn pale;\nThen comes like a whirlwind the skater in mail.\n\nHe buries his skate in the ice, to clasp\nThe steed's flowing mane in his iron grasp.\n\nWith one single effort his arm the swings,\nAnd charger and sled to the firm ice brings.\n\n\"That stroke,\" said Ring, \"was a noble one,--\nNot Fridthjof, the strong, could have better done.\"\n\nSo they all returned to the house of the king,--\nThe stranger remaining until the spring.\n\n\n\n\nXIX.\n\nFRIDTHJOF'S TEMPTATION.\n\n\nSpring is coming, song-birds twitter, woods are leafing, smiles the sun;\nDancing downward, toward the ocean, see the loosened rivers run;\nGlowing like the cheeks of Freyja, from the buds the roses ope,--\nHearts of men to life awaken, full of courage, love and hope.\n\nHo! the chase! the aged monarch with his queen will go to-day;\nNow in crowds the court assembles, waiting in confused array,--\nBows are clanging, quivers rattling, steeds impatient paw the ground;\nHooded falcons, wildly shrieking, make the echoing hills resound.\n\nSee! the queen appears! Poor Fridthjof, do not thither cast your eye;\nSits she on her milk-white palfrey like a star in spring's clear sky,--\nHalf a Freyja, half a Rota,--lovelier far than either one,--\nFrom her dainty hat of purple, plumes are waving in the sun.\n\nLook not on those eyes so heavenly,--of those golden locks beware!\n\nOh! take care! that form is supple, full that bosom, oh! take care!\nLook not where the rose and lily shifting hues alternate fling;\nListen not to those loved accents, sighing like the winds of spring.\n\nNow the hunting troop is ready. Hark, through hills and valleys all\nSounds the horn, the falcon loosened straight ascends to Odin's hall;\nForest denizens in terror haste to seek their cavern-homes;\nBut, with spear outstretched before her, each valkyrie swiftly comes.\n\nAged Ring no longer follows where the eager hunter flies;\nBy his side alone rides Fridthjof, silent, grave, with downcast eyes.\nDarkest thoughts, and full of anguish, stir within his sorrowing breast,\nAnd wherever he may wander, haunting voices banish rest.\n\n\"Oh, the sea! why did I leave it? thus to my own peril blind!\nSorrow thrives not on the billow, scattered 'tis by every wind.\nBroods the viking? danger cometh bidding him the lance prepare;\nVanish then all sad reflections, blinded by the weapon's glare.\n\n\"Here, a longing, past describing, flaps its wings about my brow,\nAnd like one asleep and dreaming, to and fro I wander now;\nBalder's precincts I remember, nor forget the oath she gave.\n'Twas the gods, not she, who broke it,--gods relentless as the grave.\n\n\"For they hate the race of mortals, on their joy with anger look,\nSo to deck cold winter's bosom, they my tender rose-bud took;\nWhat does Winter with my blossom? Can he understand its worth?\nNay, but bud and stem and leaflet, clothes in ice with frosty breath.\"\n\nThus bewailed he. Soon they came into a dark and lonesome dell,\nGloomy, crowded 'twixt two mountains; o'er it densest shadows fell.\nThen the monarch halted, saying: \"See how lovely, fresh and deep!\nI am weary and would rest me, fain would have a moment's sleep.\"\n\"Sleep not here, for hard and chilly is the ground, O king, indeed:\nUp, thy sleep will not refresh thee, let me back the monarch lead.\"\n\n\"Like the other gods, sleep cometh unexpected. Does my guest,\"\nSaid the king with feeble accents, \"grudge his host a moment's rest?\"\nFridthjof then took off his mantle, and outspread it 'neath a tree;\nAnd the king, in trusting friendship, laid his head on Fridthjof's knee;\nSoon he slept as sleeps the hero after battle's rude alarms,\nOn his shield, or as an infant cradled in his mother's arms.\n\nAs he slumbers, hark! there singeth from a branch a coal-black bird;\n\"Hasten, Fridthjof, slay the gray-beard, free your mind by discord stirred;\nTake the queen, she's thine by promise; thee the bridal kiss she gave,\nHuman eyes do not behold thee; deep and silent is the grave.\"\n\nFridthjof listens; hark! there singeth from a branch a snow-white bird:\n\"Though no human eye behold thee, Odin sees and hears each word;\nCoward, wilt thou murder slumber? Slay an old defenceless man?\nWin what else, the crown of heroes is not won by such a plan.\"\n\nSo sang both the birds, but Fridthjof, snatching up his battle-blade,\nFlung it from him with a shudder, far into the gloomy glade.\nBlack-bird flew away to Nastrand, airily the other one,\nSinging, sweetly as a harp-tone, straightway mounted toward the sun.\n\nSuddenly the old man wakens. \"Much that sleep was worth to me;\nGuarded by a brave man's weapon, sleep is sweet beneath a tree.\n\nYet I do not see your weapon; where has fled the lightning's twin?\nWhat has parted you who never in your lives have parted been?\"\n\n\"Little matters it,\" said Fridthjof, \"'tis not hard to find a sword;\nSharp its tongue, O king. and never speaks for peace a single word;\nHaunted 'tis by evil spirit, black, from Niflheim it roams,\nSleep is here in danger from it, seeking silver locks it comes.\"\n\n\"I, O youth, have not been sleeping, but to prove you have I tried;\nMan or sword a wise man testeth, ere in them he will confide.\nYou are Fridthjof; since you entered first my hall I've known you well;\nRing, though old, at once detected what his guest would fain conceal.\n\n\"Wherefore, thus into my dwelling, crept you nameless, in disguise?\nWherefore, but to cheat and rob me, and my bride bear off a prize?\nHonor, Fridthjof, sits not nameless, hospitality's rude guest;\nBright its shield as sun at noonday, on its face all eyes may rest.\n\n\"Fame had told us of a Fridthjof, whom both men and gods revere;\nShields he cleft and temples wasted, bold and brave, without a fear.\nSoon with war-shield, so I reasoned, he will come against my land;\nAnd he came, but clad in tatters, beggar's staff within his hand.\n\n\"Wherefore now cast down your eyelids? Once, like you, I too was young;\nFrom the first is life a struggle, and fresh youth its _Berserk-gang_.\nHardly pressed and tried it must be, that its onset triumph not;\nI have proved you and forgiven. I have pitied and forgot.\n\n\"Now am I grown old and weary, in the grave shall rest me soon,\nTherefore take O youth, my kingdom, take my queen, she is thine own;\nBe my son, till then remaining still my guest as heretofore.\nSwordless champion shall protect me and our feud exist no more.\"\n\n\"As a thief,\" said Fridthjof sadly, \"came I not, O king, to thee;\nHad I wished thy queen to capture, tell me, who had hindered me?\nBut my bride, though lost forever, wished I to behold once more;\nFool was I! anew I kindled flames which were half quenched before.\n\n\"In thy halls too long I've tarried; here I must no longer stay.\nGods unreconciled their anger rest upon me day by day;\nBalder, with the light locks flowing, loveth all mankind but one;\nOnly I am now rejected; see, he hateth me alone}!\n\n\"Yes, l set on fire his temple. Fane-profaner call they me.\nChildren shriek when I am mentioned, joy and gladness from me flee;\nNorthland casteth out the lost one, and in anger cries--depart!\nIn my native land I'm outlawed, I am outlawed in my heart.\n\n\"I will seek for peace no longer on the earth, so green and sweet,\nTrees no more their shade aford me, burns the ground beneath my feet.\nIngeborg I've lost forever; she, my bride, accepted Ring,\nFrom my life the Sun has vanished, night and noonday darkness bring.\n\n\"Therefore hence to ocean's billow! Out, away my dragon good,\nBathe again thy pitch-black bosom in the briny boiling flood;\nWave in clouds thine inky pinions, let the sea a path prepare,\nFly as far as star can guide us, far as conquered billows bear.\n\n\"Let me hear the rolling thunder, let me hear the lightning's voice;\nWhen it thunders all around me, Fridthjof's heart will then rejoice;\n\nClang of shields and rain of arrows! Let the sea the battle fill;\nPurified, I'll then fall gladly, reconciled to heaven's will.\"\n\n\n\nXX.\n\nKING RING'S DEATH.\n\n\n\n Golden mane flowing,\n  Skinfaxe duteous\nDraweth the spring sun more bright than before;\n Morning beams glowing\n  Doubly as beauteous,\nSport in the hall;--there's a knock at the door.\n\n Though his heart grieveth,\n  Enters the stranger;\nPale sits the king, while the queen's gentle breast\n Billow-like heaveth;\n  Singeth the ranger\nA song of departure, with sorrow oppressed.\n\n \"Bathes now the billow\n  Winged steed flying,\nSea-horse is longing to flee from the strand;\n Glad will he follow\n  Him who is hieing\nFar from his home and his well beloved land.\n\n \"The arm-ring I give thee,\n  Ing'borg, receive it.\nHoliest memories with it remain.\n Ne'er let it leave thee:\n  Fridthjof, believe me\nTruly forgives. Thou'lt not see him again.\n\n \"No more beholding\n  The smoke's upward motion\nNorthland I'll see. Truly man is a slave;\n Fate is unyielding;\n  Far on the ocean\nThere is my fatherland, there is my grave.\n\n \"When in your roaming\n  Stars the vault cover,\nGo not with Ingeborg down to the strand;\n Lest in the gloaming\n  You should discover\nFridthjof, the outlawed, cast up on the sand.\"\n\n \"Sad is the hearing,\"\n  Ring said, replying,\n\"When a man moans like a weak maiden's sigh.\n Valhal is nearing,\n  E'en now the sighing\nDeath song I hear. Every mortal must die.\n\n \"No one can frighten,\n  Or by complaining\nChange the allotment the norns have set down;\n Sorrow thou'lt lighten\n  O'er the land reigning,--\nTake thou my queen, for my son guard the crown.\n\n \"True is it spoken,\n  Loved and respected\nPeaceful I've reigned, over mountain and vale;\n Yet have I broken\n  Shields, unprotected,\nLandward and seaward, without turning pale.\n\n \"Now shall the bleeding\n  Geirs-odd relieve me,--\nDying in bed ill befits Northland's kings;\n Not worth my heeding,\n  Death shall receive me,--\nLife's pain is equal to that which death brings.\"\n\n Then carved he rightly\n  Letters all glowing,--\nDeath runes to Odin on arm and on chest;\n Shine now so brightly\n  Blood-drops o'erflowing,\nDyeing the silvery hair on his breast.\n\n \"Bring for my drinking\n  The horn with wine flowing;\nSkoal to thy honor, thou land of my birth!\n Minds deeply thinking,\n  Harvest fields growing,--\nPeaceful exploits have I loved on the earth.\n\n \"Vain amid slaughter\n  Bloody and daring,\nSought I for peace,--she fled in dismay.\n Now the mild daughter\n  Of heaven appearing,\nBeckons me hence to Valhal away.\n\n \"Hail ye immortals!\n  Sons of high heaven!\nEarth disappears; Gjallarhorn to a feast\n Opens the portals;\n  By the gods given,\nBlessedness crowns as a helmet the guest!\"\n\n Speaking intently,\n  Ing'borg's hand loyal,\nAlso his son's, and his friend's, too, he pressed;\n Eyelids close gently,--\n  Spirit so royal\nFlies with a sigh to the Allfather's breast.\n\n\n\n\nXXI.\n\nRING'S DRAPA.\n\nSepultured sits he,\nSovereign descended,\nBattle sword by him,\nBuckler on arm;\nChafes his good charger\nChamping impatient,\nPawing with gold-hoof\nThe gate of the grave.\n\nRing, great in riches,\nRideth o'er Bifrost;\nBends with its burden,\nBridge of the gods.\nWide for his welcome\nValhal it opens,\nHands to the hero\nHeaven extends.\n\nAbsent is Asa-Thor,\nActive in warfare.\nBeckoned by Odin\nThe beaker is brought;\nFrey the king graces\nWith garlands of grain-ears,\nBlossoms the bluest\nBinds Frigg therein.\n\nGraspeth the gold-string,\nGray-bearded Brage,\nStiller now sigheth\nThe song than before;\nFreyja the faithful,\nFondly reclining.\nBends o'er the board and\nBurneth to hear.\n\n\"Sing high the smiting\nOf sword upon helmet,\nBoisterous billows,\nBloody for aye;\nPower, the gift of\nGods ever gracious,\nBitter as berserk\nBiting the shield.\n\n\"Hence was the hero-king,\nHeaven-born dear to us,\nShowing his shield\nA shelter for peace.\nPower's embodiment\nPlainly impersonate,\nSoared like a sacrifice-\nSmoke to the sky.\n\n\"Words full of wisdom\nWise Odin chooseth\nSitting with Saga\nSokvabek's maid.\nSuch, too, the saying\nSpoke by the monarch,\nFair as of Mimer\nFlows the clear fount.\n\n\"Forsete faithful\nAll feuds adjusteth,\nSitting serenely\nBy the side of Urd's spring;\nThus high enthroned\nThou, king beloved,\nPotently pleadest\nFor peace in the land.\n\n\"Niggard in nothing,\nNear and far strewed he\nBeauty and blessing,\nBought with his gold;\nGave he most gladly\nGuerdon unstinted,\nSadness he solaced,\nSuffering relieved.\n\n\"Welcome, thou wisest\nWinner of Valhal!\nLong thou'lt be lauded,\nLoved of the North.\nBrage, the bearded,\nBears thee the mead-horn,\nFavored of fortune,\nFriend from below.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXII.\n\nTHE KING'S ELECTION.\n\n\"To thing! to thing!\" from dale to hill\n The cry arose.\n\"King Ring is dead; his place to fill\n A king we'll choose.\"\n\nFrom off the wall the peasant moves\n His steel sword blue;\nIts edge his practiced finger proves,\n It biteth true.\n\nThe boys admire in pleased surprise\n The gleaming blue:\nTo lift the sword one vainly tries,\n It needeth two.\n\nThe daughter scours the helmet clean,\n Bright shall it be.\nAnd blushes, in its silvery sheen\n Her face to see.\n\nAt last he takes his shield so round.\n A sun in blood;\n\"Hail! iron man, so strong and sound,\n Thou peasant good!\n\nRenown and power which nations wield\n From thee they draw,\nIn war thou art thy country's shield,\n In peace its law.\"\n\nThe assembly met, while sounding high\n Were arms and shields,\nIn open thing, 'neath heaven's sky,\n In fair green fields.\n\nUpon the thing-stone Fridthjof stands,\n And with him there\nA little one with shining bands\n Of golden hair.\n\nThen rose the cry on every hand:\n \"Too small indeed\nThe king's son is to rule our land,\n Our wars to lead.\"\n\nBut Fridthjof on his shield raised up\n The little boy:\n\"Ye Norsemen, here behold your hope,\n Your king, your joy.\n\n\"High Odin's race embodied here\n In image see,\nAs much at home 'mid shield and spear,\nAs fish in sea.\n\n\"I swear my lance and sword to set\n Round land and throne,\nAnd with the father's coronet\nTo crown the son.\n\n\"The oath I make to Balder's son*\n Of high renown,\nAnd if I fail, may he not shun\n To strike me down.\"\n\n*Forsete\n\nThe boy sat on the shield so high\n As 'twere a throne~\nUndaunted as the eaglet's eye\n Looks toward the sun.\n\n\nAt last impatient grew his blood,\n And to the ground,\nThe child leaped down and fearless stood ;--\nA kingly bound!\n\nThen rose the cry from all the thing:\n \"We of the North,\nWe choose but thee, be like king Ring,\n Thou shield-borne youth.\n\n\"And Fridthjof shall a guardian be,\n Thy youth to guide;\nHis mother, earl, we give to thee,\n To be thy bride.\"\n\nBut Fridthjof frowned: \"To-day,\" said he,\n \"Election make,\nBut not a bridal; leave to me\n A bride to take.\n\n\"To Balder's temple I'll repair,\n I go to see\nThe norns who are already there\n Awaiting me.\n\n\"With them a council I have willed,\n The shield-maids true,--\nBeneath the tree of time they build,\n Above it too.\n\n\"Against me Balder's anger sore\n Doth still abide;\nHe took, he only can restore\n My cherished bride.\"\n\nSaluting then the monarch new,\n He kissed his brow.\nAnd o'er the broom-heath passed from view,\n Silent and slow.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII.\n\nFRIDTIMOF AT HIS FATHER'S GRAVE.\n\n\n\"How brightly smiles the sun, so friendly seeming.\n As swift from branch to branch its soft rays glide!\nAllfather's light within the dew-drop gleaming,\n Is clear and pure as in the ocean wide.\nSee! all the mountain tops with red are streaming,--\n From Balder's altar flows the bloody tide;\nIn night will shortly sink the world's commotion,\nAs sinks the golden shield beneath the ocean.\n\n\"Yet let me first behold those well known places,\n My childhood friends that I have loved so well;\nThe same sweet beauty still the valley graces,\n The same birds yet alight in wood and dell;\nThe same blue wave the stable rock embraces,--\n Oh, would I ne'er had tried its treacherous swell!\nIt always speaks of fame and high endeavor,\nBut far from home it bears thee on forever.\n\n\"I know thee, stream, whose waters erst were freighted\n With swimmer bold, who with thy billows fought!\nI know thee, too, thou vale where oft we plighted\n Eternal faith! Alas! earth holds it not!\nYe birchen trees, whose bark I carved delighted\n With many runes, still wedded to the spot\nYour white stems stand, crown-capped with sunshine golden,\nAll save myself unchanged since days now olden.\n\n\"Is all unchanged? Where, then, is Framness' dwelling,\n And Balder's temple on the sacred shore?\nAt thought of childhood's dales my heart is swelling.\n But fire and sword devoured them, they're no more.\nOf human vengeance, of God's wrath their telling\n To wanderers over blackened field and floor;\nThou pious pilgrim, come not here to ponder,\nFor forest beasts in Balder's grove now wander.\n\n\"With Nidhug's curse each human life is teeming,--\n The cruel tempter from the land of shade,\nHe hates the asa-light with glory beaming\n On hero's brow and on his shining blade;\nEach coward deed, each act of wrathful scenting,\n Is his, a tribute unto darkness paid;\nHe wins when temples burn and gods are slighted,\nHe claps his coal-black hands and laughs delighted.\n\n\"Is there no expiation, radiant heaven?\n Thou blue-eyed god, dost thou no penance take?\nMan pardons man who has for pardon striven.\n When men atone the gods their wrath forsake;\nBy thee, the mildest one, I'm unforgiven ;--\n Command, and any sacrifice I'll make;\nNo will had Fridthjof in the temple's burning;\nOh! stainless make his shield, thine anger turning.\n\n\"Thy burden take away, I cannot bear it,\n The dark wood's music in my soul doth cry.\nA moment's fault! cannot a life repair it,--\n An upright life? Then hear my contrite sigh!\nIf Thor's fierce bolt should strike, I still would dare it:\n Nor shrink to meet the look of Hel's pale eye.\nThou pious god, who moonlight glances bendest,\n'Tis thee I fear, and vengeance which thou sendest.\n\n\"My father's grave is here. The hero sleepeth;--\n Alas! whence he has gone none ever roam;\nA starry tent his home, no more he weepeth,\n Where shields rejoice and brimming mead-horns foam;\nThou asa-guest, from heaven look down where keepeth\n His weary watch thy child. O father, come!\nI bring not runes nor charms, but bending lowly\nWould learn to appease pale Balder holy.\n\n\"Still silent is the grave? Ah yes, and cruel.\n A sword roused Angantyr within his grave;\nA sword is naught,--Tirfing a trifling jewel\n Compared with what I ask. A sword the brave\nCan gain on battle field or in a duel,\n Forgiveness from the asas' home I crave;\nBear thou my plea, my sorrowing look to heaven,\nNo rest have noble minds if unforgiven.\n\n\"Thou'rt silent, father! Hear the waves resounding,\n And send thy loving word by their sweet cry;\nNow flies the storm, on its swift pinions bounding.\n O, whisper to me as it flieth by;\nSee golden rings the western sky surrounding,\n Let them the message give which words deny.\nNo sign or answer for thy son forsaken?\nHow poor indeed are those whom death has taken!\"\n\nThe sun is quenched. The evening breeze is stealing\n Upon earth's children with its lullaby,\nAnd sunset tints in myriad circles wheeling\n Around the brim of heaven's rosy sky,\nO'er hill and dale their azure hues revealing,\n A vision now of Valhal passeth by;\nThen unexpected comes with rustling motion,\nAn image, gold and flames from western ocean.\n\nA wondrous Hagring now the heavens covers.\n (The name that Valhal gives hath lovelier sound),\nAnd over Balder's grove it gently hovers.\n A golden chaplet set in emerald ground;\nResplendence everywhere the eye discovers,\n Such lustre mortals ne'er before had found.\nIt stops and sinks to earth, not disappearing,\nBut where the temple stood, a temple rearing.\n\nAn imaged Breidablik its wall upreareth,\n (So burnished silver on the cliff had shone),\nEach pillar cut of deep blue steel appealeth,\n The altar is a single precious stone,\nA power unseen the vaulted roof upbeareth,\n A winter sky with sparkling stars o'erstrewn;\nAnd there with golden crowns and robes befitting,\nOf azure splendor. Valhal's gods are sitting.\n\nWith rune-writ shields, the maids of fateful power,\n The noble norns, within the portal stand,--\nThree rosebuds springing in a single flower,\n A grave and yet a fascinating band;\nWhile Urd is pointing to the ruined tower,--\n The new one Skuld doth greet with welcome hand;\nBut scarce restored is Fridthjof, filled with blended\nDelight and wonder, ere the scene is ended.\n\n\"From you, Time's maidens, comes illumination,--\n Thine, hero-father, is the token good:\nThe wasted shrine I'll build on sure foundation,\n In beauty shall it stand where erst it stood;\nHow excellent to thus make expiation,\n By peaceful deeds to atone for actions rude!\nThe outcast still may hope who sues in meekness,--\nThe White God softens, and forgives his weakness.\n\n\"All hail, ye myriad stars in splendor beaming!\n With joy I watch you silent tread the skies;\nAnd welcome, Northern-lights. above me streaming,--\n No more a flaming temple to mine eyes:\nGrow green, O grave! and from the wave bright gleaming,\n Thou wondrous melody again arise.\n\nI'll sleep upon my shield, and dream how heaven\nForgets the faults its mercy hath forgiven.\n\n\n\n\nXXIV.\n\nTHE RECONCILIATION.\n\n\nCompleted now was Balder's temple. Not enclosed\nAs heretofore with fence of wood; of hammered steel,\nWith golden knobs upon each bar, was built the fence\nRound Balder's ground. Like steel-clad champions ranged for war,\nWith halberds and with golden helms, there stood it now\nOn guard around the sanctuary of the god.\nOf giant stones alone the massive wall was built,\nAnd joined with active skill, a noble giant work\nFor all eternity (as is Upsala's shrine,)\nWhere Norseland saw its Valhal in an earthly mold.\nIt stood there in its grandeur on the mountain cliff,\nAnd mirrored in the ocean wave its lofty brow,\nWhile round about it, like a zone of beauteous flowers,\nFar stretched the dale of Balder with its sighing groves.\nIts song of birds, a home where peace might reign supreme.\nHigh rose the copper-bolted portal, and within\nTwo colonnades supported on strong omoplates\nThe vaulted canopy, and beautiful it hung\nAbove the temple, like a concave shield of gold.\nAt farthest end stood Balder's altar. It was hewn\nFrom one huge block of northern granite: round it coiled\nA graven serpent, covered o'er with written runes, -\nProfoundest thoughts from Vala and from Ha'vama'l;\nBut in the wall above was left an open space,--\nA dark blue ground all filled with golden stars; and there\nA silver image sat--the pious god--as calm\nAnd mild as sits the silver moon in heaven's blue.\nThus seemed the finished shrine. In couples entered now\nTwelve temple virgins, clad in robes of silver gauze,\nWith roses glowing on their cheeks, and roses in\nTheir guileless hearts. Before the image of the god,\nAround the altar newly consecrate they danced,\nAs light spring winds above the flowing fountains flit,\nAs dance the forest elves amid the waving grass.\nWhile yet the morning dew. like pearls, lies glittering there.\nAnd while they danced they joyful sang a sacred song\nOf pious Balder, and how dearly he was loved\nBy every being; how he fell 'neath Hoder's dart,\nAnd earth and sea and heaven wept. Yet sounded not\nThe song as though 'twere uttered by a human voice,\nBut as a tone from Breidablik, from Balder's home;\nOr like the thought of lover to a lonely maid\nWhen pipes the quail his deep notes in the hush of night,\nAnd over northern birches falls the moonlight soft.\nEnraptured Fridthjof stood; he leaned upon his sword,\nAnd gazed upon the dance. Sweet childhood's memories thronged\nHis vision by,--an innocent and pleasant folk,\nWith smiling eyes reflecting heaven's blue, with heads\nSurrounded hy a halo of bright locks, they waved\nA kindly salutation to their childhood's friend.\nThen sank the bloody shadow of his viking life,\nWith all its conflicts, all its perilous exploits,\nDown into night, and in his fancy stood he forth\nA flower-crowned monument above their grave.\nAnd ever, as the song increased, his spirit soared\nFrom earthly dales below to Valaskjalf above;\nThen melted human hate and human vengeance, too,\nAs melts the icy coat of mail from off the cliff,\nWhen shines the sun in spring. A sea of quiet peace.\nOf silent ecstasy, possessed his hero-soul;\nIt was as if he felt the heart of nature beat\nAgainst his own; as if, deep moved, he fain would fold\nCreation in his brotherly embrace, and be at peace\nWith every living creature seen of God.\nThen came into the temple Balder's priest most high,\nNot young and beauteous as the god, but tall in form,\nWith heavenly mildness beaming in his noble face,\nWhile down about his girdle flowed his silver beard.\nAn unused reverence possessed proud Fridthjof's heart;\nThe eagle wings upon his helmet meekly drooped\nBefore the aged man, who thus spoke words of peace:\n\"Son Fridthjof, welcome hither I've expected thee;\nThe strong man gladly roves around the earth and sea,\nA berserk-like, who pallid bites the shield's hard edge,\nBut weary grown, and thoughtful, wanders home at last.\nThe powerful Thor went many times to Jotunheim,--\nBut spite his belt divine and gloves of finest steel,\nStill sits the Utgard-Loke on his lofty throne;\nFor evil is itself a power, and will not yield,---\nAnd piety not joined with power is children's play:\n'Tis like the sunbeams on the breast of AEger thrown,--\nAn image faint, which falls and rises with the wave,\nFoundationless and insecure, devoid of trust.\nBut power not joined with virtue eats itself away,\nAs rust the buried sword. 'Tis life's unchecked carouse;\nThe heron of oblivion hovers o'er the cup,\nAnd when the drinker wakes, he blushes for his deed.\nAll power is from the earth of Ymer's body formed;\nWild waves and flowing waters are the veins therein,\nFrom various metals are its tough strong sinews forged,\nAnd yet 'tis empty, desolate, unfruitful, till\nThe sun its light and warmth, heaven's piety, sends down.\nThen spring the grass and flowers a web of many hues;\nThe tree lifts up its crown and knits its golden fruit,--\nAnd man and beast are nourished at the mother's breast.\n'Tis thus with every child of Ask. Opposing weights\nHas Odin laid within the scales of human life,--\nAnd when they balance true, then even stands the beam;\nAnd heavenly piety and earthly power they're called.\nThe power of Thor is great whene'er about his loins,\nImmovable, he girds the belt of strength and strikes.\nIndeed is Odin wise, when Urd's clear silver fount\nHe looketh down, and birds swift flying come to bring\nThe Asas' father tidings from the world's extreme:\nYet both turned pale, the radiance of their starry crowns\nWas half extinguished when the pious Balder fell,--\nThe band was he of all the diadems of heaven.\nThen withered on the tree of time its splendid crown,\nAnd Nidhug gnawed upon its root; then were loosed\nThe powers of aged night. The Midgard serpent flung\nToward heaven its poison-swollen tail, and Fenris howled,\nAnd Surt's swift fire-sword flashing gleamed from Muspelheim.\nSince then wherever thou mayest look the strife goes on,\nA war throughout creation. In Valhal crows\nThe cock with goldcn comb. Upon and 'neath the earth\nThe blood-red cock to battle calls. There once was peace\nNot only where gods dwell, but also on the earth;\nIn man's as in the high gods' thoughts was peace.\nWhate'er has happened here below has also chanced\nIn greater measure there; humanity is but\nAn image frail of heaven; it is as Valhal's light\nReflected in the shield of Saga writ with runes.\nIts Balder hath each heart. Remember'st thou the time\nWhen dwelt within thy breast sweet peace a guest, and life\nAs joyful seemed, as heavenly calm, as song bird's dream\nWhen summer night-winds to and fro so gently wave\nEach fragrant blossom sleeping in its bed of green?\nThen holy Balder still abode in thy pure soul,\nThou asa-son, thou wandering image of high heaven.\nFor childhood Balder is not dead, and Hela gives\nAgain her prey us often as a child is born.\nWith Balder also groweth up in every soul\nHis brother Hoder, blind, the child of night; for blind\nAt birth is evil always, like the young of bears, and night\nIts mantle, but the good of earth rejoice in light.\nThe tempter, busy Loke, always ready stands\nTo guide the blind one's murderous hand. The missile oft\nTo Valhal's love is sent, to Balder's tender breast.\nThen Hate awakes and Violence upon its prey\nSprings forth; the hungry sword-wolf prowls o'er hill and dale.\nAnd fiercest dragons wild swim o'er the bloody waves.\nFor this meek Piety a powerless shadow sits\nOne dead among the dead, and with him pallid Hel,\nAnd in its ashes Baldur's sanctuary lies.\nSo too the asa's life on high prefigures that\nMere human life below, and both are but the thoughts,\nThe silent thoughts of Odin which can never change.\nWhat hath been, what shall be, that the song profound\nOf Vala knows,--Time's lullaby, its drapa too.\nCreation's annals have a melody the sam.\nAnd man may hear his own life's history therein.\nDost comprehend or not? 'Tis Vala asketh thee.\nThou seek'st atonement; know'st thou what atonement is?\nOh, Fridthjof, look me in the eye and turn not pale!\nRound earth a mediator goes, his name is Death.\nA spark translucent, from eternity, is time:\nAll earthly life is but the refuse from Allfather's throne;\nAtonement is to there return all purified.\nThe lofty asas fall themselves, and Ragnarok\nThe day of their atonement is, a bloody day\nOn Vigrid's hundred miles of plain; there will they fall,\nBut fall not unavenged, for there the evil die\nForever, but the fallen good arise again,\nRefined, from out the flaming pyre to higher life.\n'Tis true the star-crown, pale and withered, falleth down\nFrom heaven's temple; earth too, sinks beneath the sea,\nBut brighter is it born again, and joyous lifts\nIts flower crowned head from out the seething waves,--\nAnd new created stars pursue with god-like glance\nTheir silent pathway round about the new-born earth.\nBut on the green hill-slopes will Balder govern then\nThe new-born asas, and a human race renewed.\nThe golden tablets filled with runes, lost long ago,\nIn Time's fresh morning, then are found amid the grass\nOn Ida's plain, by Valhal's children reconciled.\nThe fallen good in death are only tried by fire;\nIt is atonement made, a birth to higher life,\nWhich, purified, flies back to him from whom it came,\nAnd plays a guileless child upon its father's knee.\nAlas! that all the best is found beyond the grave,--\nThat gate of green which Gimle opens; vile is all,\nContaminated all that dwells beneath the stars.\nAnd yet there is atonement found in life itself,--\nA humble prelude to the peace of heaven above.\n'Tis like the broken chords the minstrel strikes upon\nThe harp, when he with skillful fingers wakes the song;\nThe tone attuning with a gentle hand, before\nWith firmer touch he grasps the golden strings,--\nGrand memories of old alluring from their grave,\nWhile Valhal's splendor streameth on enraptured eyes.\nFor earth, indeed, is only heaven's shadow, life\nThe grounds in front of Balder's temple in the sky.\nThe people sacrifice unto the gods; the steed\nBedecked with gold and purple is an offering made.\nA token this with meaning most profound,--for blood\nTints red the morning light of each atonement day.\nBut signs are not the substitute, they can not atone,\nThine own transgressions no one can amend for thee.\nIn Odin's breast divine the dead are reconciled;\nAtonement for the living lies in their own hearts.\nOne offering, I know, unto the gods more dear\nThan smoke of victims. 'Tis the sacrifice of thine\nOwn vengeance, and thy heart's untamed and bitter hate.\nCanst thou not silence them, and canst thou not forgive,\nO youth? What wilt thou then in Balder's sacred house?\nWith what intent hast thou this holy temple reared?\nWith stones is Balder not appeased. Atonement dwells\nBelow, as up above, alone where dwelleth peace.\nWith all thy foes and with thyself be reconciled.\nThe light-haired god will then be reconciled with thee.\nThey have a Balder in the south--the virgin's son,\nWho by the Allfather wise was sent to explain the runes\nUpon the norns' black shield rand,--unexplained before.\nHis battle-cry was peace, his conquering sword was love;\nAnd blameless sat the dove upon his silver helm.\nHe holy lived and taught, he died and he forgave,--\nAnd under distant palms his grave in sunlight lies.\nFrom dale to dale his followers wander, it is said.\nAnd melting hardened hearts, and laying hand in hand\nEstablish peace upon the reconciled earth.\nI do not know the doctrine well, but dimly have I\nIn my better moments guessed what it may mean,--\nAnd every human heart at times divines as well.\nI know the time will come when it will lightly wave\nIts white dove-pinions over all our northern hills;\nBut that day come, the North will be no more to us;\nThe oaks will sigh above our long-forgotten graves.\nOh, fortunate and blessed race! Ye who shall drink\nThe sparkling beaker of that light, I bid you hail!\nIt will be well if it can drive away the cloud\nWhose humid covering hitherto has veiled life's sun.\nBut scorn not us, who, in sincerity, have sought\nWith unaverted gaze to find the light divine.\nThe Allfather is but one, though many herald him.\n\n\"Thou hatest Bele's sons. And wherefore hatest thou?\nBecause to thee, a yeoman's son, they did not choose\nTo give their sister, who belongs to Seming's race.--\nThe noble son of all-wise Odin. Their descent extends\nTo Valhal's throne,--and pride of birth is theirs.\nThou sayest that birth on fortune, not on worth, depends.\nOf merit all his own, O youth, is no one proud,--\nBut only of his fortune; for the best of things\nAre only God's good gifts to man. Art thou not proud\nOf thy heroic deeds, of thy superior strength?\nWho gave thee thy great strength? Did Asa-Thor not knit\nThy sinewy arms as firm and close as oaken boughs?\nAnd is it not God's spirit high which joyous beats\nWithin the citadel of thine arched breast? Is not\nThe lightning God's which flashes in thy fiery eyes?\nBeside thine infant cradle sang the haughty norns\nThe prince-song of thy life; for that thy merit is\nNo whit the greater than the king's son's for his birth.\nLest thy pride be condemned another's censure not.\nKing Helge now is fallen.\"\n                        Here broke Fridthjof in:\n\"King Helge fallen? When and where?\"\n\n                              \"Thou canst but know\nThat while thou here wert building, he was on the march\nAmong the Finnish mountains. On a lonely crag\nThere stood an ancient shrine. To Jumala 'twas built\nAbandoned long ago,--the door was now fast closed;\nBut just above the portal still there stood a strange\nOld image of the god, now tottering to its fall.\nBut no one dare approach, for there a saying rife\nAmong the people went from age to age, that he\nWho first the temple sought should Jumala behold.\nThis Helge heard, and, blinded by his furious wrath,\nWent up the ruined steps against the hated god,--\nIntent to cast the temple down. When there arrived\nThe gate was closed,-- the key fast rusted in the lock.\nThen grasping both the door-posts, hard and fierce he shook\nThe rotten pillars. All at once, with horrid crash,\nDown fell the ponderous image, crushing in its fall\nThe Valhal-son. And thus he Jumala beheld.\nA messenger last night arrived the tidings bore.\nNow Halfdan sits alone on Bele's throne. To him\nThy hand extend, to heaven thy vengeance sacrifice.\nThat offering Balder asks, and I, his priest, require\nIn token that the peaceful god thou mockest not.\nIf thou refuse, this temple then is built in vain,\nAnd vainly have I spoken.\"\n\n                        Then stepped Halfdan in,\nAcross the copper threshold, and with doubtful look\nHe stood aloof from him he feared and silence kept.\nThen Fridthjof loosed the breastplate-hater from his side,\nAgainst the altar placed his shield's bright golden orb,\nAnd weaponless approached his silent waiting foe.\n\"In such a strife,\" said Fridthjof, in a kindly voice,\n\"The noblest he who offers first his hand for peace.\"\nKing Halfdan blushed, then off he drew his glove of steel,\nAnd hands long separated met in friendly clasp,--\nA hearty hand-shake, steadfast as the mountain's base.\nAnd then the aged priest revoked the ban which on\nThe outlawed temple-violater long had lain.\n'Twas scarce dissolved ere entered [Ingeborg, attired\nIn bridal robes and ermine mantle, with her maids,--\nSo glides the moon, whom stars attend, in heaven's vault;\nWith tear-drops in her lovely eyes, she fell upon\nHer brother's neck; but he, with deep emotion, laid\nHis sister, grown more dear, on Fridthjof's faithful breast;\nAnd o'er the altar of the god she gave her hand\nTo him, her childhood's early friend, her heart's beloved.\n\n\n\n\nGLOSSARY.\n\n\n\nFor such explanations as are not found in the original notes we are chiefly\nindebted to Prof. R. B. Anderson, of the University of Wisconsin, and to his\nvaluable work, NORSE MYTHOLOGY. We are also under obligations to Mrs. E.\nHasselqvist, of the Augustana College of Rock Island, Illinois.\n\nAEGER. The god of the stormy sea.\nAEGER'S BOSOM. The sea.\nALFHEIM (elf-home). Frig's dwelling.\nANGANTYR. A champion who was slain in a duel hy Hjalmar the vigilant, and was\nburied with his sword Tirfing. His daughter Hervar called upon her dead father\nfor the sword, and, according to the story, was answered. See Canto XXIII.\nANGERVADIL (grief-wader). Fridthjof's sword.\nASA. God. It is used as a prefix, as Asa-Thor, Asa-Loke. etc.\nASA-SONS. A people who came from Asia and. settled the North, and who claimed\ndescent from the gods.\nASGARD. Home of the gods.\nASK. The first man.\nASTHILD. Cupid.\nBALDER (the best). The mildest, the wisest and the most eloquent of the gods.\nHe is the god of innocence, the White God.\n \"Balder dies in nature when the woods are stripped of their foliage, when the\nflowers fade and the storms of winter howl. Balder dies in the spiritual world\nwhen the good are led away from the paths of virtue, when the soul becomes\ndark and gloomy, forgetting its heavenly origin. Balder returns in nature when\nthe gentle winds of spring stir the air, when the nightingale's high note is\nheard in the heavens, and the flowers are unlocked to paint the laughing soil,\nwhen light takes the place of gloom and darkness. Balder returns in the\nspiritual world when the lost soul finds itself again, throws off tho mantle\nof darkness, and like the shining spirit soars on wings of light to heaven, to\nGod who mgve it.\" See NORSE MYTHOLOGY, p. 294.\nBAUTA-STONE. A rough stone set up at warriors' graves, and having no\ninscription.\nBERSERK (bear-coat). The old Northern athletes or champions wore the skins of\nbears, wolves or reindeer, and went into battle with loud cries, wearing no\narmor.\nBERSERK-GANG. The onset of the berserks.\nBIFROST (the trembling way). The rainbow, the bridge of the gods.\nBJORN (a bear). Notice the play upon this word in Canto X, p. 94:\n \"Bjorn attend the rudder,\n Grip it with a bear's paw.\"\nBLOOD-EAGLE. When a foe deserved especial cruelty, he was put to death by\ncarving the picture of an eagle on his back. see Canto XVI, p. 150.\nBRAGE. God of poesy: a son of Odin.\nBRAN. Fridthjof's dog.\nBREIDABLIK (broad-gleaming). Balder's abode.\nBURN SALT. A common expression for making salt.\nDELLING (day-spring). Dawn.\nDELLING'S SON. Day.\nDISARSAL. The temple of the goddesses.\nDRAGON. A war vessel. See description of Ellide, Canto III, p. 3O.\nDRAPA. A funeral hymn, reciting the virtues of the deceased.\nEFJE-SOUND. A sound in the Orkney Islands.\nFAFNER. A son of Hreidmar and brother of Regin and Otter. Fafner and Regin\ndemanded of their father a share of the gold obtained of Odin as Otter's\nransom. Hreidmar refused, and Fafner slew his father, and, taking all the\ngold. assumed the form of a dragon and fled. He concealed tho gold on Gnita\nheath, where he was found by Sigurd, who, at the instigation of Regin, slew\nFafner. He accomplished this by digging a pit in  Fafner's path and concealing\nhimself therein until the dragon passed over him, when he thrust his sword\nthrough Fafner's heart. See NORSE MYTHOLOGY, p. 377; also the story of the\nVolsungs and Niblungs, translated by Magnusson and Morris. Sweden, 1870.\nFAFNER'S BANE. The slayer of Fafner; Sigurd.\nFENRIS. A wolf, and one of Loke's children. Chained by the gods until\nRagnarok, he gets loose and conquers Odin, but is himself slain hy Vidar.\nFOLKVANG (the folk-field). Freyja's dwelling.\nFORSETE (the presider). Son of Balder and Nanna. The god of justice.\nFOSTER-BROTHER. It was customary in the North, when two persons entered into\nfriendship for life and death, or, as it was called, foster-brothership, that\neach wounded himself and allowed his blood to mingle with the other's. See,\nconcerning Fridthjof and Bjorn, Canto III, p. 34.\nFREY (a lord). The god of harvests: the dispenser of wealth.\nFREYJA. Frey's soster, and goddess of love.\nFRIGG. The wife of Odin and mother of Balder.\nFUTHORC. The runes taken collectively are properly called the futhorc, the\nword being made up of the names of the first of the runes. Compare \"alphabet\".\nGEFJUN. The goddess of maids.\nGEIRS-ODD (spear-death). Death by the spear, self-inflicted. See Valhal.\nGERD. Frey's wife, and very beautiful.\nGIMLE. The heaven of heavens, where dwell the righteous after Ragnarok.\nGJALLARHORN. The horn of Heimdal, the Saint Peter of the old mythology. It was\nheard all over the world.\nGLITNER (the glittering). Forsete's golden dwelling.\nGRONING-SOUND. A sound between the Danish Islands.\nGUDBRAND'S DALE. Canto XIV, p. 138. in the diocese of Aggerhus, celebrated\nafterward (1612) for a battle in which the Norwegians slaughtered the forces\nof Col. St. Clair, the Scotch ally of Christian IV, of Denmark.\nHAGBART. the sea-king, who became secretly betrothed to Signe, of Princess,\nthereby gaining the enmity of her father, who captured and hung him. Signe,\nunwilling to survive her betrothed, set fire to her dwelling and was burned to\ndeath.--See Cantos XVI and XVII.\nHAGRING. Fata morgana.\nHA'VAMA'L. The high song of Odin, containing many wise precepts for the\ngovernment of men.\nHEL. The goddess of death.\nHILDER. The goddess of war.\nHODER. The blind god; brother of Balder. Tempted by Loke, he slew Balder with\nthe mistletoe.\nIDA'S PLAIN. Where the gods assemble after Ragnarok.\nIDUN. Wife of Brage.  She is the rejuvenating goddess, the \"ever-renovating\nspring,\" and hence she is dressed in green. --See Canto I, p. 5.  She keeps\nthe apples of immortality.\nJOTUNHEIM. The abode of the Giants.\nLOKE. The evil one.  \"He is the sly treacherous father of lies. In appearance\nhe is beautiful and fair, but in his mind he is evil, and in his inclinations\nhe is inconstant. Notwithstanding his being ranked among the gods, he is the\nslanderer of the gods, the grand contriver of deceit and fraud, the reproach\nof gods and men. Nobody renders him divine honors. He surpasses all mortals in\nthe arts of perfidy and craft.\"  -See NORSE MYTHOLOGY, page 373.\nMIDGARD. The earth; the abode of man.\nMIDGARD-SERPENT. A child of Loke. It was cast into the sea by Odin, and it\ngrew till it reached around the whole world.\nMIMER. The wise giant keeper of the holy well of wisdom.\nMORVEN'S HILLS. Hills in the north of Scotland.\nMUSPELHEIM. The abode of fire.\nMUSPEL'S SONS. Flames.\nNANNA. Balder's wife; goddess of flowers. She died heartbroken at Balder's\ndeath.\nNASTRAND (the shore of corpses). Where the wicked are punished after Ragnarok.\nNIDHUG. The dragon which lives in the fountain Hvergelmar and gnaws the root\nof Ygdrasil.\nNIFLHEIM. The world of mists; the lower world; the place of punishment.\nNORNS. The Fates. They are three: Urd, the past; Verdande, the present, and\nSkuld, the future.  They control the destinies of gods and men.\nODER. Freyja's husband.\nODIN. The chief of the gods.  He is the all-pervading spirit of the world, the\ngovernor of the universe, the author of war and the inventor of runes and of\npoetry.  In appearance he is old, tall, one-eyed and long-bearded. He wears a\nbroad-brimmed hat and a many-colored coat, and carries a spear called Gungner.\nODIN'S BIRDS. Odin has two ravens, Hugin and Munin (reflection and memory),\nwhich every day fly around the world and return to him with intelligence of\nall that happens.\nPEASANT. The piece of lowest rank in chess; a pawn.\nRAGNAROK (the twilight of the gods). The day of the destruction of the world,\nand of the regeneration of gods and men. See Canto XXIV.\nRAN (the robber).  Goddess of the sea; wife of AEger.\nROTA. One of Valhal's maidens; a valkyrie.\nRUNES. The letters of the ancient Scandinavian alphabet were called runes\n(secrets). The runes were sixteen in number, and previous to the introduction\nof Christianity they were supposed to have been invented by Odin himself.  A\nknowledge of them was for a long time confined to a few, who use them for the\npurposes of sorcery.\nRUNE-STONE. A stone inscribed with runes, and set up at graves or elsewhere as\na monument.\nSAGA. Goddess of history; hence a history.\nSEMING. A son of Odin.  The early kings of Norway traced their lineage\ndirectly to Seming.\nSIGNE. See Hagbart\nSKINFAXE (shining mane). The horse of Day.\nSKOAL. A health.\nSKULD. The future.  See Norns.\nSLEIPNER (the slipper). Odin's course with eight feet.\nSOKVABEK. Dwelling of Saga.\nSURT. God of fire.\nTHING (pronounced ting).  A deliberative assemblage of Norsemen, composed of\nall who were capable of bearing arms.  It was held in the open air.  The\nthingsmen expressed approval of any measure by striking the shield with the\nsword.\nTHOR. The second of the gods; the thunderer; the subduer of the frost giants.\nHe has a red beard; his weapon is a short-handled hammer called Mjolner.  He\nis girt with a belt of strength, and wears iron gloves. His sons are Magne and\nMode, strength and courage.\nURD. The past.  See Norns.\nURD'S FOUNT. The fountain from which the norns sprinkled the tree Ygdrasil.\nUTGARD-LOKE. The Loke of the Giants,--called Utgard, because he dwelt in the\nuttermost parts of the world, Jotunheim.\nVALA. A prophetess.\nVALASKJALF. Odin's dwelling.\nVALHAL (the hall of the slain).  Only those who fell by wounds received in\nbattle, or self-inflicted, were entitled to the joys of Valhal, where they\nwere feasted by Odin and attended by the valkyries.\nVALKYRIES (choosers of the slain).  Goddesses who serve in Valhal and go on\nOdin's errands.\nVAR. The goddess who presides over marriages.\nVEGTAM. A name assumed by Odin when he went to consult the vala concerning the\nfate of Balder.--See NORSE MYTHOLOGY, page 281.\nVIDAR (forest).  The silent god; a son of Odin. He slays the Fenris-wolf at\nRagnarok.\nVINGOLF (floor of friends). Freyja's dwelling.\nVOLUND. A renowned smith corresponding to Vulcan.\nYGDRASIL. An ash tree; the tree of the world.  The norns sprinkled the top\nwith water from Urd's fountain and thus kept it alive, although Nidhug gnawed\nits roots.\nYMER. An enormous giant slain by the gods, and of whose body they created the\nworld.","title":"Fridthjof's Saga; a Norse romance","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":28125}