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Viking Tales of the North

Fridthjof's Saga

Canto XIX.

Page 3

XXI.

“Why those down-cast glances? I, too, have been young;
        I’ve felt that truth —
Life is but a life-long contest, and its berserk’s-course is
        youth;
Youth, ‘mid shields round-pressing fierce, shall strive till
        passions’s rage expire;
I have prov’d and pardon’d, — I have pitied and forgot
        mine ire.

XXII.

“Listen! Old I wax, and feeble, soon shall in my cairn
        recline;
Then my kingdom take, young warrior; take my queen
        too, she is thine!
Be till then my son, and share my hall’s free welcome
        as before!
Swordless champion shall protect me; so our ancient feud
        is o’er.”

XXIII.

“Thief-like,” answered Fridthjof grimly, “came I not
        within thy hall;
Had I wish’d to seize thy queen, say, who could stand
        me, — who appall?
Ah! I fain would see my bride once more, but once
        her charms would view;
And, weak madman-like, my love’s half-slumbering flame
        I wak’d anew!

XXIV.

“Ring, I go! Its guest thy court too long already shel-
        ter’d hath;
Gods implacable upon my head devote pour all their
        wrath.
Balder with the bright-hued tresses, he whose love each
        mortal shares,
Me alone fierce hates — of all mankind rejects alone my
        pray’rs!

XXV.

“Yes, his fane I laid in ashes! Varg i Véum (1) am I hight!
Sounds my name, loud shrieks the child, and festive
        boards joy flies affright.
Yes, her long-lost son my country has rejected and
        opprest.
Outlaw’d in my home-land am I; — outlaw’d, peaceless in
        my breast!

XXVI.

“On fresh green earth no longer, peace vain-seeking,
        will I live;
‘Neath my foot the ground burns hotly, and the tree no
        shade will give.
Ingeborg, my own, I’ve lost; his spoil the white-hair’d
        king retains;
Set, extinguish’d is my life’s bright sun, and round me
        darkness reigns.

XXVII.

“Hence, then, to my ocean will I, Out my dragon-ship!
        Hurrah!
Glad one, bathe again thy pitch-black bosom in the salt
        waves afar;
Flap thy wings in storm-clouds bravely; hissing, cut the
        high-dash’d foam;
Fly where’er a guide-star kindles, far as conquer’d billows
        roam.

XXVIII.

Frithjof’s soul is then most calm when most the crashing
        din is near.
Hark, old chief! — shields clang — darts hiss — out on mid-
        ocean roars the fray;
Joyful shall I fall — to hear the gods, appeas’d, my pardon
        say!”

ENDNOTES:

1. See Vocabulary. Back

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