Viking Tales of the North
Fridthjof's Saga
Canto
V
King Ring.
I.
King Ring, he push’d back his gold chair from the board,
And his champions rise,
And Skalds, and would hear from the North’s fam’d lord
His kingly word; —
Gentle was he as Balder,
as Mimer wise.
II.
Like the gods’ own groves, heard his land no alarm,
Peace-shadow’d reposes;
Profan’d by no arms its green-wood so calm,
And hedg’d from harm
Fresh flourish’d the grass, their sweets shed the roses.
All alone Justice sat, at once mild and severe,
On his seat of dooming;
And peace paid willing its dept ev’ry year;
And far and near,
Bright-wav’d in the sunshine, gold corn-crops were blooming.
The snails, too, came swimming, with breasts of black,
And wings stretch’d whitely,
From a hundred coasts, and from each far track
Wealth brought they back
Various and wondrous, as wealth summons lightly.
And peace in his domains, and liberty, dwell
United and glad,
And all lov’d their country’s father well,
Though each would tell
At the diet, unfetter’d, what thoughts he had.
Thus peaceful and blest he his Northern throne fills
For winters thrice ten;
And none ever angry went home to his hills, —
And nightly thrills
Odin’s hall with his people’s benison.
And king Ring, he push’d back his gold chair from the board,
And glad uptread
All his chiefs, and would hear from the North’s fam’d lord
His kingly word: —
But deeply he sigh’d, and then spoke and said:
“In Folkvang’s bow’rs sits my queen, I know,
On purple cov’ring;
But here o’er her dust verdant grasses grow,
And, by the flow
Of the stream round her grave-mound, flow’r-sweets are hov’ring.
“No queen shall I find so god and so fair,
My kingdom’s glory;
Valhal’s rewards ‘mong the gods she will share;
But my county’s pray’r
And by babes for a mother implore me.
“King Bele right oft came up to my hall
With summer’s breezes;
On the daughter he’s left my choice doth fall, —
That lily tall
And slender, whose cheek still with morn’s blush pleases.
“Tis true that she’s young; and girlhood, I know,
Sweet flow’rs most weareth;
While I’m in my sear-leaf, and winters strow
E’en now their snow
On the thin scatter’d locks the king beareth.
“But can she an upright, true man love,
Nor his white hairs reckon?
And to those dear infants a mother prove
Whose own’s above,
To his throne autumn then the spring will beckon.
“Take gold from the vault-rooms, take gems for the bride,
From you strong oak-presses;
And follow, ye minstrels, with harpings of pride, —
For festive tide,
And wooing-hour, Brage still blesses!”
Then out went the youths with glad tumult away,
With gold and with prey’rs,
And next came the harpers, in long array,
With chantings gay,
And stood before Bele’s royal heirs.
XV.
Days two, ay! days three, were in wassail spent,
The fourth not endeth
Ere to Helge they call, on quick answer bent;
Rose up and went —
For each longing glances now homeward sendeth.
Both falchion and horse offers Helge the king
I’ the grove leaf-laden —
Vala and pale priest questioning
What best night bring
Happy fates to his sister, that fair young maiden.
But the lungs, and the priest, and the vala show
That it may not be;
Then, scar’d by the sign, Helge bade them go,
With changeless no!
For man must obey when the gods decree.
But waggish king Halfdan, he said with a smile,
“Farewell to the feast;
King Greybeard himself should have ridden a mile;
Myself, the while,
Would the good old man gladly have holp on his beast.”
Then wroth go th’ envoys with Helge’s reply,
Nor forget the story
Of Halfdan’s insult. Ring answers them, dry,
“We soon shall try
King Greybeard’s revenge for his glory.”
His war-shield he struck, as it hung o’er his head
On the high-stained lind;
Then swift o’er the billows dragons tread,
With combs blood red,
And helmets fierce nod in the rushing wind.
And the message of war to king Helge flew,
Who mutter’d grimly,
“Hard fight shall we have, for Ring’s men are not few;
But shelter due
My sister shall find where Balder stands dimly.”
All pale sits the loving-one there, full of woe,
On the blest dais stilly;
She broiders in silk and in gold also,
And tears o’erflow
Her white-heav’d bosom, — dews so drench the lily!
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