Fridthjof's Saga

But spring breathes soft in you heav’n of blue,
And earth’s green verdure again is new;
His host then Fridthjof thanketh; in motion
Once more out over the plains of ocean,
On sun-bright pathway his coal-black swan
Her silv’ry furrow with joy ploughs on,
For western breezes, spring’s music bringing,
Like nightingales in the sails are singing;
And Æger’s daughters, in blue veils dight,
The Helm leap round, and urge on its flight.
Ah! pleasant ‘tis, when, from far-off sailing,
Thy prow thou turn’st to they homeland! — hailing
The coast where smoke from thy own hearths curl’d,
And mem’ry guards her fair childhood world.
The fresh-stream’d fountain thy play-place washes,
While harrows green hold thy father’s ashes;
And, full of longing, thy faithful maid
With seaward gaze on the cliff is staid.
Days six he sails; on the seventh’s dawning
A dark-blue stripe he discerns, which morning
At heav’n’s far border shows slowly rise
Till rocks, isles, “land,” quick salute his eyes.
His land it is form the deep that springeth,
Its shades they are which the green wood flingeth,
Its foaming torrents he hears war there,
As breast of marble the rock lays bare.
He hails the headland, the strait he haileth,
And close to Balder’s retreat he saileth,
Wherein, last summer, so many a night
With Ing’borg seated he dream’d delight.
“Why comes she not? Has she no fond presage
How near I swing on the dark-blue sea-surge?
But haply, abandoning Balder’s walls,
She sorrowful sits in her regal halls,
Her harp soft striking, or bright gold weaveth.”
The temple’s pinnacles sudden leaveth
His falcon then, and from heav’n hath sped
To Fridthjof’s shoulder, as oft he’d fled;
His white wing ceaseless he flaps above him,
And, faithful, thence no allurements move him,
With fire-bright talon he ceaseless scrapes,
Nor rest he gives nor repose he takes.
To Fridthjof’s ear then his crook’d bill wended,
As though some message to give ‘twas bended,
Perhaps from Ing’borg, his dear-lov’d bride, —
But broken sounds — what can they betide?
        
        Ellide, rustling, the cape now passes,
Glad, bounding hind-like o’er verdant grasses;
For well-known waves ‘gainst the keel have gone;
But Fridthjof, joyful, her prow upon;
His eyes oft rubs, and his hand upholdeth
Above his brow, and the shore beholdeth.
But rub he or look as he may, no more
His Framness home shall he e’er explore.
The nak’d chimney is grimly tow’ring.
Like champion-skel’ton in grave-mound low’ring;
Where court -halls stood is a fire-clear’d and.
And ashes whirl round the ravag’d strand.
Then Fridthjof quick form the ship advances,
O’er burnt demesnes casting angry glances,
His father’s grounds and his childhood’s walks; —
But rough-hair’d Bran up to meet him stalks,
His faithful dog that for him bold wrestled
Full oft with bears in the forest nestled;
How glad his gambols, how glad his leaps,
How high to his master he springing keeps!
His milk-white courser (with mane gold-blended,
And hind-like legs and a neck swan-bended),
Which Fridthjof once had so often rode,
With lofty bounds from the dale, too, trode,
And turns his neck, neighing glad, and lingers,
And bread will have form his masters fingers.
Poor Fridthjof, poorer by far than they,
Has naught for his fav’rites, howe’er they pray.

        As sad and houseless he stands, round-viewing
For land he’d heir’d, the burnt woodland ruin,
See! aged Hilding advances there,
His foster-father, with silver hair.
“At this black show can I scarcely wonder, —
When th’ eagle’s flown they his dwelling plunder,
A kingly exploit for peace I see;
Oath Helge took right well keepeth he, —
The gods to worship, mankind abhoring.
His ‘Progress’ (1) call we an arson warring, —
Not grief, but anger it works, I swear.
But Ing’borg’s — tell me, I pray thee — where?”
“Dark words I bring,” said this yeoman hoary;
“Not glad, I ween, wilt thou find my story.
Thou scarce hadst sail’d when king Ring drew nigh
Shields five ‘against one could I well descry.
At dises’-dale, by the stream they battled,
And blood-red foaming its waters rattled.
King Halfdan jested and laugh’d away,
Nathless he struck like a man that day;
The kingly stripling my target shielded,
His skill’s first trial such pleasure yielded.
But short enough did their war sport last,
For — Helge fled, and then all was past!
But the asa-kingsman in all haste lighted
Thy halls so fair, as he ‘scap’d affrighted.
Now two hard terms for the brothers stand;
To Ring they yield shall their sister’s hand
(For atonement could but by her be tender’d),
Or — land and crown must be both surrender’d:
And peaceful heralds right frequent ride, —
But now king Ring hath ta’en home his bride!”