Fridthjof's Saga
Page 3
Slim columns circle with their green embrace.
But round these ruins, in unsown harvest-crops,
Gives th' untouch'd earth all man can want or wish;
While fresh leaves glow with clust'ring golden apples,
And bending boughs full purple grapes weigh down,
All tempting, rich and juicy as—thy lips!
There, Ing'borg, mid that sea's bright waves we'll 'stablish
A little North, more beautiful than this;
Those slender temple-arches will we fill
With faithful love, and entertain again
Forgotten gods with human happiness.
Should loose-sail'd bark float slowly past our isle
(For storms have there no home-land) in the blush
Of eve's soft light, while some glad mariner
Looks out from rose-dyed billows to the shore,
He then shall view, within the temple's threshold,
That other Freyja (in their speech methinks
She's Aphrodite hight), and, wond'ring, see
Her golden locks light-flutt'ring in the zephyr,
And eyes more bright than brightest southern skies!
As years roll by shall slow shoot up around her
A little temple-race of fairy creatures,
With cheeks where, 'mong the North's snow-drifts, the South
Would seem t' have planted ev'ry freshest rose!
Ah! Ing'borg, ah! how fair, how near, how tempting
Stands all earth's joy to two fond faithful hearts!
Yes! have they courage close to grasp her to them
She willing follows and a Vingolf builds us
Already here, beneath the fleeting clouds.
Come, dearest, haste thee! Ev'ry word we utter
Is one more moment stolen from our bliss.
Come, all's prepar'd. Ellide spreads, impatient,
Dark eagle-wings for flight; and fresh'ning breezes
Point out the path, forever, from a strand
Where gloomy fears hold awful sway around But why delay?
I cannot follow thee.
follow? Not—
Ah, Fridthjof, 'thou art happy!
Thou follow'st none, but art thyself the foremost,
Like thy good dragon-ship's high-lifted stem;
While at the rudder stands thy will, and steers
Thy course with steady hand o'er angry waves.
How otherwise, alas! it is with Ing'borg!
In other's hands my fate, reposes, and
Their prey they slip not, bleed it as it will!
Self-sacrifice, and tears, and languishing,
And wasting grief— such the king's daughter's freedom!
What hinders, then, thy freedom? Bele sits Within his cairn!
father's Helge, now;
He holds my father's place, and his consent
Decides my hand. No! Bele's daughter steals not
Her happiness, however near it be.
Ah! what were woman, should she burst those bonds
With which Allfather fastens to the strong
Her weak existence? Some pale water-lily
She likens, as on ev'ry light-moved wave
It rises, trembles, falls; and o'er its head
The seaman's keel its reckless way pursueth,
Nor marks that it cuts through her stalk so slender.
Such is that lily's destiny; but still,
Long as the sands beneath her deep root grasps,
The plant her value hath, and borrows dyes
From pale relation-stars above, itself
star soft-floating on the billowy blue.
should she struggle loose, away she drives,
wither'd leaf around the desert waters.
night just gone — that night how fearful was it!
waited thee expectant, and thou cam'st not;
night's dark children—gloomy, black-hair'd thoughts,
long procession pass'd before mine eye,
watchful; burning, and without a tear;
Balder's self, the bloodless god, beheld me
looks of threat'ning and an angry mien:
night just gone, my fate I've well consider'd,
firm resolv'd t' abide it. I remain
duteous off'ring at my brother's altar.
yet 'twas well I heard not, then, thy story
islands fabled in the gorgeous clouds,
evening's blush is spread unceasing over
quiet flower-world, full of peace and love.
knows his own heart's weakness? Childhood's dreamings,
long all silent, now once more rise up,
Low-whisp'ring in mine ear, with voice familiar
'twere a sister's, and as soft and tender
some fond lover's when he courts his maid
hear you not; I cannot, will not hear you,
tempting. voices, once so dearly lov'd.
would the South with me, the Northland's daughter?
Too pale am I for all its rose-retreats;
Its burning sun would parch a soul as mine —
Too cold and hueless for its glowing rays.
Yes! full of longing would mine eye turn often
To yonder pole-star, ever steadfast standing.
A heavenly sentinel o'er our fathers' graves.
My noble Fridthjof, born his land's defender,
Shall never flee inglorious from its shores;
His dear-bought fame shall . never cast behind him
For aught so worthless as a young girl's love!
A life whose golden-threaded days the sun
Spins year from year the same, is beautiful;
But this eternal oneness woman's soul
Alone can please; to man, and most to thee,
Life's changeless calm is changeless weariness.
Then joys thy proud soul, when the tumbling tempest
On foaming courser sweeps o'er ocean's deeps,
That so, for life or death, on thin plank riding,
Thou mayst contend with danger for thine honor.
The beauteous wilderness thou paintest, would,
Too, many an unborn exploit slow entomb;
And, with thy shield, thy glad, free, dauntless spirit
Dark rust would gnaw. . But it shall not be so!
Not I, at least, my Fridthjof's name will steal
From bard-harp'd songs; not I at least, will quench
My hero's glory in its first red dawn.
Be wise, dear Fridthjof; heav'n's dread lofty norns
Command; let us give way; at least our honor
May still be sav'd from out our fortunes' shipwreck
For ah! our life's chief bliss is gone forever!
We must, must part!
Nay! wherefore must we? Is't
For that a sleepless night untunes thy spirit?
'Tis that my worth and thine must both be rescued!
On man's firm love rests woman's dearest value!
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