Fridthjof's Saga

        “Oh, woman, woman!” cried Fridthjof, madly,
“When thought with Loki first shelter’d gladly,
A lie it was! and he sent it then
In woman’s shape to the world of men!
Yes! a blue-eyed lie, who with false tears ruleth,
Enchanteth always, and alway fooleth;
A rose-cheek’d lie, with rich-swelling breast,
And in spring-ice virtue and wind-faith drest.
With guileful heart she, deceitful, glances,
And perjury still on her fresh lips dances!
And yet how dear to my soul was she —
How dear was then, ah! yet is, to me!
In all my sports, far as mem’ry reaches,
My mate was Ing’borg! remembrance teaches
That of each high exploit my proud youth dream’d,
Herself as prize still most precious seem’d.
Like two fair trees, by one root united,
Has Thor one stem with his lightnings blighted,
Straight withers the other; is one all green,
With verdure crown’s is its spouse-trunk seen;
So our grief and gladness were thus one only!
Not us’d is Fridthjof to think him lonely;
Now is he lonely. Thou lofty Var!
Where pencil-bearing thou journeyest far,
And oaths on tablets of gold inscribest,
Let be those fool’ries! Thou dreams describest,
Thy tablets marking all full of lies;
On faithful gold, what a pity ‘tis
Of Balder’s Nanna some tale fame telleth!
On human brown now no truth more dwelleth,
In human bosom all faith is spent,
Since Ing’borg’s voice has to guile been lent;
That voice like zephyr o’er flow’r-meads creeping,
Like Brage’s music his harp-strings sweeping!
Ah! ne’er mine ear shall those harp-tones drink;
Of that false bride ne’er again I’ll think.
The dancing storm-wave shall be my pillow,
Thou blood shalt drink, thou wide ocean billow!
Where sword-blades scatter the barrows’ seed,
O’er hill, o’er dale shall my footsteps speed!
All crown’d, perchance, I may meet a stranger,
I’d know if then I shall spare my danger!
Some youth, perchance, I may meet, all calm,
And full of love ‘mid the shields’ alarm, —
Some fool on honor and truth depending, —
From pity I’ll hew! — his poor life quick-ending:
I’ll save from shame; he shall glorious die —
Not guil’d, betray’d, nor despis’d — as I!”

        “How still boils over,” now Hilding pleaded,
“Youth’s hot fierce blood; and yet, son, how needed
To cool its fervors are years of snow.
That noble maiden not wrong thou so!
My foster-daughter impeach not! Better
The norns impeach then; for who can fetter
Their angry fates, which on this our world
Heav’n’s thunder-land hither down hath hurl’d?
Her sorrows nobly to none proclaiming,
E’en legend- Vidar in silence shaming,
Her grief was still, — as in south-wood side
Some turtle-dove’s, when her mate hath died.
Her heart, nathless, she to me disclosed,
and endless pangs in its depths reposed.
The water-bird, when death-pierced her breast,
To th’ bottom dives, with on comfort blest —
That burning day will not see her bruises,
Lies so below, and her life-blood loses.
Thus shrank her pain to the realms of night,
None knew but I all her griefs aright!
‘For Bele’s realm they’ve an off’ring bound me,
And winter’s verdure is hung around me,
While fragrant snow-flow’rs bloom round my hair;
I’m a peace-maid now; — sure the victim’s fair!
Ah! death were easy! but death pain stilleth;
Atonement only scorn’d Balder willeth,
A lingering death, no repose it meets,
Its heart still flutters, its pulse still beats!
But the weak one’s struggles reveal thou never,
None pity shall, though I grieve for ever;
King Bele’s daughter her woes will bide.
Yet Fridthjof hail form his once hop’d bride!’
The wedding day came at last (its token
I’d willing see from my rune-staff broken).
To the temple glided a long-drawn train
Of white-rob’d virgins and sword-clad men;
A gloomy minstrel before them wended.
O’er black-hued palfrey the pale bride bended,
Like that pale spirit which sits up o’er
The dusky cloud when the thunders roar!
My lily tall, from her saddle bearing,
I led then forth through the temple, faring
To th’ altar-circle where, priests among,
Lofn’s vows she took with unfalt’ring tongue.
To th’ White God, too, she long pray’rs presented;
And all, save only the bride, lamented.
Then first the ring oh her tap’ring arm
Grim Helge mark’d, and straight snatch’d the charm;
Now Balder weareth the glittering trifle
My rage I then could no longer stifle,
My good sword quick from its scabbard forth
I drew — then little was Helge worth;
But Ing’borg whispered, “Let be! a brother
Could this have spar’d — I had borne all other;
Yet much we suffer before we die —
Allfather ‘tween us will doom on high!”

“Allfather dooms!” mutter’d Fridthjof, glooming;
“But I, too, may for awhile be dooming.
“Tis Balder’s midsummer holy feast,
And crown’d i’ th’ temple will stand his priest;
That arson-king, who his sister blooming
Has sold. I’ll, too, for awhile be dooming!”