Viking Tales of the North
Fridthjof's Saga
Page 4
Not long he loves whom he esteems no more.
What! hast thou not one friendly look to give
Thy childhood’s friend? Hast thou no hand to stretch
Toward her, unfortunate, who once was loved?
Think’st thou I rest on roses here, and motion
My whole life’s bliss away, and coldly smile?
From this torn bosom can I rend a hope
Grown with my very being, and feel no pang?
Ah! wast not thou my heart’s first morning-dream?
Whatever joy I knew, I called it Fridthjof;
And all that life holds great, or good, or noble,
Put on thy features to my youthful eye.
Dim not this glowing image, nor repay
Thus sternly woman’s weakness, when she offers
Whatever on this earth was dearest to her, —
Whate’er in Valhal’s halls will dearest prove.
Enough, O Fridthjof, has that off’ring cost me,
And well deserves one word of tender comfort.
I know thou lov’st me: I have known it long,
E’en since first ‘gan to dawn my young existence;
And, year on year, where’er afar thou rovest,
Thy Ing’borg’s memory must, will, follow thee!
But loud-clash’d arms still ease the pangs of sorrow, —
Yes! far, far ocean’s wild fierce tumult drives her;
Nor dares she, timid, sit on champion’s bench
‘Mong wine, and healths, and songs of victory.
But yet at times, whene’er in deadest night,
Thou must rest in their order days long fled, —
One pallid form will slow glide in among them;
Thou know’st it well, saluting thee from regions
Far off, but dear: ‘tis that pale virgin’s image
Whom holy Balder in his temple guards.
Thou mayst not, dearest! must not, turn away
From that sad phantom’s features. No! low whisper
Some friendly word in greeting! Night’s faint winds
On faithful wings that word will carry me;
One comfort left, my last, mine only one!
My loss, alas! naught here can dissipate;
All, all around me is its guardian!
These high-arch’d temple-vaults speak thee alone,
And, bright with moonlight rays, the god’s own image.
Thy features takes, instead of threat’ning gloom.
Should yonder sea attract, — there swam thy keel,
Its path swift cutting to the longing Ing’brog;
Should yonder grove, — there many a tree uprises
Whose tender bark with Ing’borg’s name was carv’d, —
That name, alas! the growing bark slow covers,
And this, tradition saith, betok’neth death!
Where last he saw thee, bright-eyed day, I ask, —
Where last, the night; but both are silent; nay,
The very sea, which carries thee, replies
With naught but sighs half-utter’d to the shore.
With ev’ning’s blush I’ll greet thee, when ‘tis quench’d
In those thy billows; and heav’n’s swiftest vessel,
The long-stretch’d cloud, shall never flit above me —
But freighted with the poor forsaken’s grief!
Thus, seated in my maiden-bow’r I’ll hold me
The black-clad widow of my life’s broider,
Till spring his cloth shall weave, embroiding
Its woof with fairer lilies on — my grave.
But touch I my sweet harp in songs lamenting
My grief in all its deep-ton’d bitterness,
Fast-flowing tears will then, as now —
Tou conqu’rest, Bele’s daughter; weep no more!
Frogive mine anger; ‘twas my sorrow only
Disguis’d one moment in the dress of wrath,
A dress it cannot wear beyond a moment.
My own good norn thou art, my Ing’borg; yes!
What noble is, a noble mind best teaches;
The wisdom of necessity can have
No advocate more eloquent than thou,
My beautious vala, with thy rosy lips!
Yes! I will yield to dire necessity, —
Will part from thee, but never from my hope,
I take that with me o’er the western waters;
I take that with me to the gates of death!
Next spring, I trust, again shall see me here;
King Helge yet again shall meet his foe.
My promise then performed, his claim fulfill’d,
And that great crime aton’d I’m charg’d withal;
I’ll ask thy hand, –- nay, boldly will demand it
In open council ‘mid the glitt’ring steel,
And not from Helge, but the North’s free people,
For they, king’s daughter, can dispose of thee —
Let him deny who dares, and hears my reason.
Till then, farewell! Forget me never; and,
In sweet remembrance of our youthful love,
This arm-ring take, a fair Volunder-work,
With all heav’n’s wonders carv’d i’ th’ shining gold.
Ah! the best wonder is a faitthful heart. . . . . . .
How prettily bcomes it thy white arm —
A glow-worm twining round a lily-stem . . . . . .
Farewell, my bride! my best belov’d, farewell!
A few short months, and — Oh! how diff’rent then! [Goes.]
How glad, how daring-all, how full of hope!
His good sword pointing to the norn’s fair bosom,
“Thou shalt,” saith he, “thou shalt give way.” Alas!
The stern norn, my poor Fridthjof, yields to no one;
Right on she goes and laughs at Angervadil!
My bloomy brother, ah! how little know’st thou!
Never can thy frank hero-spirit fathom
His dark soul’s depths, and all that envious hatred
Which burns and smoulders in his remorseless breast.
His sister’s and he’ll never give thee. Sooner
He’d give his crown, his life, to wild destruction,
And offer me t’ old Odin, or t’ old Ring.
That hoary chief whom now he battles sore.
* * * * * * * * * *
Where’er I look, no hope remains for me,
Yet glad I see thy heart still keep the stranger;
Myself alone shall know my grief, my danger;
But oh! may all good gods attend on thee!
On this, thine arm-ring, may I yet count over
Each sep’rate month of tedious, fretting pain;
One, two, four, six — then perhaps returns the rover,
But — ne’er to find his Ingeborg again!
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