Viking Tales of the North
Fridthjof's Saga
Fridthjof’s Courtship.
I.
Right well peals
the song in the chieftain’s hall,
And Skalds the high deeds of his sires recall;
But that song cheereth
Not Fridthjof; he heeds not the skald nor heareth.
And th’ earth is once more clad in waving green,
O’er the seas dragons swimming again are seen;
But War’s son wanders
Thro’ deep woods, and sad on the pale moon ponders.
Yet late was he happy — so happy, so glad —
For cheerful king Halfdan as guest he had,
And Helge glooming,
And with them their sister brought they, the blooming.
He sat by her side, gently pressing her hand —
A pressure at times felt he back, warm and bland;
And still, enchanted,
Saw features so dear, so noble, so vaunted!
Of Those joyous days spoke they long with delight,
When morning’s fresh dews still on life glitter’d bright;
Ere childhood closes
On scenes, in high souls, still fresh like group’d roses,
She playful salutes him from dale and from park,
From the names which grew on the birch-tree’s bark,
And thence where flourish
(On the green hill planted) th’ oaks heroes nourish.
“Over-pleasant the palace now scarce could appear,
For Halfdan was childish and Helge severe;
Those two kingly heirs,
They listen to nothing but praises and pray’rs.
“And friend found she none (here she blush’d like a rose),
With whom her sad heart could its plaints repose;
The king’s halls compare
To Hilding’s free valleys, – how stifling they were!
“And the doves they had tam’d and fed day by day
Had fled, frighten’d off by the hawk, far away; —
All are bereft me,
But one pair alone; — take one of those left me.
“Home, doubtless, again the sweet bird will fly, —
Sure longs she, like others, her friend to be nigh;
Runes kindly tender
Bind fast ‘neath her wing; none marketh the sender.”
So sat they, close whisp’ring the whole day through,
Still whisp’ring as close when toward ev’ning it grew;
When spring’s day dieth —
So, whisper’d ‘mong green lines, its soft breath sighteth.
But now is she absent, and Fridthjof’s light heart
Is absent with her; his young blood, at the smart,
Mounts quick to his cheeks,
And he burns, and sighs alway, and never speaks.
His sorrow, his grievings, he wrote by the dove,
And glad sped she off with the letter of love;
Alas! she never
Came back. From her mate she would not sever.
But Bjorn was not pleas’d with such trifling as this.
“What is there,” cried he, “our young eagle, amiss?
So silent, so tamed;
Has its breast been pierc’d through, or its strong wing lamed?
“What wilt thou?” For have we not more than we need
Of rich, yellow bacon, and brown-foaming mead?
And bards, too –many
Drawl rhymes night and day — if thou lackest any?
“ ‘Tis true thy good courser paws fierce in his stall;
And for prey, for his prey, screams the falcon’s wild call.
But Fridthjof getteth
Up cloudward to hunt, and sad-pining fretteth.
“Ellide, to, now has no sport on the sea;
Now ceaseless her cable she jerks to get free, —
Ellide! still thee;
Fridthjof, the peaceful, no war-sport will thee!
“Who dies in his bed also dies; ere ‘tis past,
My good spear, like Odin’s, shall carve me at last, —
That cannot fail us;
Hel, then, the blue-white, will welcome and hail us!”
Then Fridthjof his dragon’s tight moorings set free,
And the sails filled fast, — loud snorted the sea;
Right over the bay
To the king’s sons steer’d he his course through the spray.
On Bele’s cairn sitting the kings he saw;
Their people they heard and judg’d after law;
But Firdthjof speaks out
With voice that is heard hills and dales round about:
“Fair Ing’borg, ye kings, right dear is to me!
I ask her now from you, my own bride to be;
For doubtless Bele
Our long-foreseen union had sanction’d freely.
“He let us grow calmly in Hilding’s grove,
Like young trees up-shooting together above;
And love’s Freyja bound
Their tops with gold twine rich-encircling them around.
“No king was my sire, not a jarl ev’n, ‘tis true;
Yet skald-songs his mem’ry and exploits renew.
The rune-stones will tell
On high-vaulted cairn what my race hath done well.
“With ease could I win me both empire and land, —
But rather I stay on my forefathers’ strand,
While arms I can wield;
Both poverty’s hut and king’s palace I’ll shield.
“On Bele’s round barrow we stand, each word
In the dark deeps beneath us he hears, and has heard;
With Fridthjof pleadeth
The old chief in his cairn; think! your answer thought needeth!”
Then Helge rose up, and right scornful begun:
“Our sister is not for a peasant’s son;
Proud Northland chiefs shall
Dispute, but not thou, for the daughter of Valhal.
“Boast on, that the Northmen their hero thee style, —
With hand-strength win men, with words women beguile;
But blood Odin-sprung
I never can give to an arrogant tongue!
My kingdom requires not thy service, I can
Protect it myself. Wouldst thou yet be my man,
A place I proffer
‘Mong those of my household, — such can I offer!”
“I’ll scarcely be thy man,” Fridthjof’s reply;
“Like my father, a man for myself am I
From thy silver slide
Fly, Angervadil! not a breath mayst thou bide!”
The falchion’s blue steel in the sun bright glanc’d,
And redly the runes on that flame-blade danc’d.
“Thou, Angervadil,
Thou, at least,” said Fridthjof, “art high-born and noble.
“And, but for the peace this barrow should crown,
On the spot I’d hew thee, swarthy-king, down!
But dear ‘twill cost thee,
Hereafter, too near my good sward to trust thee!”
This said, at one blow clove his battle-brand keen
Grim Helgi’s gold war-shield, as ‘t hung on the green;
It’s halves straight follow,
Clashing the cairn; that crash downward sounds hollow.
“Well struck, my good blade! Lie thou there now, and dream
Of exploits more noble — till then hide the gleam
Of rune-marked slaughter:
Now homeward we’ll sail o’er the dark-blue water.”
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