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Viking Tales of the North


Fridthjof's Saga


Canto XIV.

Page 1


Fridthjof Goeth Into Banishment.


        His ship’s deck slight
I’ th’ summer-night,
Bore th’ hero grieving.
Like waves high heaving,
Now rage, now woe,
Thro’ his bosom flow.
Smoke still ascended,
The fire not ended.

        “Thou temple smoke
Fly up! invoke
From Valhal’s tower
God Balder’s power;
Send th’ white god’s wrath
To blight my path!
Fly up! and chatter.
Say, temple-round
Burnt thus to th’ ground;
Thus down fell sudden
Thine image wooden,
Like all wood lay
And burn’d away!
The grove, too, mention, —
Secure since falchion
Had thigh-girt been,
Now waste; not e’en
Was the honor gotten
To sink, time-rotten.
This — more thereto
Which all may view
To Balder carry;
Nor fail nor tarry,
Mist-courier! High
To th’ mist-god fly!

        “Each skald, sure, raises
Mild Helge’s praises
Who thus has bann’d
From yond’ my land;
From him bans never!
Well! naught can sever
From that blue realm
Where billows whelm.
Thou mayst not rest thee,
Thou still must haste thee,
Ellide out
Th’ wide world about.
Yes! rock on! roaming
Mid froth salt-foaming,
My dragon good!
Nor drop of blood
Will hurt, thou knowest,
Where’er thou goest.
When storms hoarse cry,
My house thou’rt by;
For Balder’s brother,
He burn’d mine other.
Yes! thou’rt my North,
My foster-earth!
From that down yonder
I now must wander.
Yes! thou’rt my bride!
Black weeds thy pride;
For ah! how dare one
Trust her, that fair one?

        “Thou free board sea!
Unknown to thee
Are despot’s glances
And tyrant’s fancies.
Where freemen swing
Is he thy king.
Who never shivers
Howe’er high quivers,
With rage, oppress’d,
Thy froth-white breast!
Thy plains, blue-spreading,
Glad chiefs are treading;
Like ploughs thereon
their keels drive on;
And blood-rain patters
In shade th’ oak scatters,
But steel-bright there
The corn-seeds glare!
Those plains so hoary
Bear crops of glory,
Rich crops of gold!
Thou billow bold,
Befriend me! Never
I’ll from thee sever!
My father’s mound
Dull stands, fast-bound,
And self-same surges
Chant changeless dirges;
But blue shall mine
Through foam-flow’rs shine,
‘Mid temptests swimming,
And storms thick dimming,
And draw yet mo (1)
Down, down, below.
My life-home given,
Thou shalt, far driven,
My barrow be —
Thou free, board sea!”

        “Thus fierce he grieveth,
And sorrowing leaveth
His prow so true
The reeds it knew,
All gently gliding
‘Mong rocks still biding,
To watch i’ th’ North
The shallow firth.
But vengeance wakens!
With twice five dragons
Swam Helge round
And closed the sound.
Then each loud crieth:
“Now Helge dieth
This one fight o’er —
Then thrives no more,
The bright moon under,
That Valhal’s wonder;
Above he’ll rise
T’ his home, the skies;
That blood immortal,
Seeks Odin’s portal.”

        The sword scarce said,
With unseen tread
Some pow’r fast clingeth
T’ each keel that swingeth;
And see! they slow
Are drawn below
To Ran’s host dying;
E’en Helge trying
From half-drown’d prore
Scarce swims ashore.


        

ENDNOTES:
1. Mo — more. Back



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