Fridthjof's Saga

The Parting.

Ingeborg.

It dawns already; and still is Fridthjof absent!
Yet yester-sun beheld the thing proclaim’d
On Bele’s cairn; that spot was chosen well,
For there his daughter’s fate should be determin’d!
How many fond entreaties hath is cost me,
How many tears (by Freyja all up-reckon’d!)
Hate’s icy wall to melt round Fridthjof’s heart,
And tempt the promise from that proud one’s mouth,
Again to stretch his hand in reconcilement!
Severe, alas, is man! and for his glory
(For so he calls his pride) but little recketh
If, rudely stepping, he should trample down
A faithful heart or two, all bruis’d and broken, —
Yes! clinging to his breast, weak, fragile woman,
Some moss-plant likens, whose pale tints creep o’er
The hard, bare rock, and there unseen, unmark’d,
Her painful hold scarce keeps of granite cliff,
Nurtur’d — sad food! by nights slow falling tears!
        My fate, then yesterday was fixed for ever,
And o’er it ev’ning’s sun hath set already.
But Fridthjof comes not! All those pale stars yonder
Are one by one expiring, and are gone;
And, with each single star that morning quenches,
A hope my breast had nurtur’d dies away.
But , ah! why hope I longer? Valhal’s gods
Love me not now, for I have anger’d them.
The lofty Balder, in whose shade I shelter,
Is injur’d, — for a passion earthly , human,
Can ne’er be pure enough for gods to look on!
No! never dare this world’s vain joys intrude
Beneath those arches, where the reverend
And high superior pow’rs have fix’d their dwelling.
And yet my fault is — what? In virgin love!
What is’t that tender, gentle god displeases!
As Urd’s clear crystal wave is’t not all pure,
And innocent as Gefiun’s morning-dreamings?
Through heav’n advancing, yonder high-born sun
Here pure eye turns not from two loving hearts;
And day’s sad widow, starry night, with joy
Listen’s ‘mid all her mourning, to their oaths;
Ah! how can innocence beneath heav’n’s vault
Be construed crime beneath these temple arches?
‘Tis true I Fridthjof love! Yes! long as mem’ry
Can stretch her records have I lov’d but him;
The twin of my existence is this feeling, —
I know not its commencement, nor can once
Conceive th’ idea that it hath not been so.
The rip’ning fruit about its kernel sitteth,
And round its substance grows its bowl of gold,
Maturing slowly in the summer’s sun;
I so have grown around that kernal-feeling
While rip’ning up to woman, and my life
Is only th’ outward shell of my affection.
Forgive me, Balder! — with a faithful heart
Thy halls I enter’d and when thence I go
Still faithful is it! Yes, it follows me
When Bifost’s bridge I traverse, boldly treading
With all my love before the gods of Valhal.
Bright shields his mirrors, shall be there stand forth
An asa-son as they, and with dove-wings
Unfetter’d take his course to whence he came.
The blue eternal space Allfather’s bosom
For ever shelters. Nay, why frownest thou?
Why darkens Balder’s brow ‘mid morn’s fresh dawning?
In these my veins, as in thine own, red rushes
Old Odin’s blood’ what wilt thou then, my kinsman?
My love I cannot, will not, sacrifice, —
For know, god! that thy lofty heav’n ‘tis worthy;
But all my being’s bliss I well can offer,
I that can cast far from me, as a queen
Her royal robes throws by and doffs her state, —
Nathless a queen as ever! Yes, ‘tis done!
Never, O lofty Valhal, need’st thou blush
To own thy cousin. I go to meet my fate
As to meet his the hero. There comes Fridthjof!
How wild, how pale he looks! ‘Tis past, ‘tis o’er.
My wrathful norn there comes as his attendant.
Be strong, my soul! . . . . . . Tho’ late, yet welcome, Fridthjof!
Our fate is fix’d; upon thy brow ‘tis written,
And all my read it.