Viking Tales of the North
Fridthjof's Saga
King Ring’s Death.
I.
Mane-gold-fire, raises
Spring’s sun from ocean, more fair than before;
Morn’s ray, bright beaming,
Twice lovely blazes,
And plays in the hall. Hark! who taps on the door?
Fridthjof advanceth.
Pale sits the king; fair Ingeborg’s breast
Heaves like the billow.
Faint-trembling, chanteth
The stranger “farewell” to the halls of his rest.
Waves bathe so gay, now;
My sea-horse is longing to dash from the strand;
Far must he wander,
Th’ guest must away now, —
Away from the friend that he loves, and his land.
Ring I restore thee;
Mem’ries all sacred within it remain;
Give not the token.
Pardons I o’er thee
Speak — for on earth thou ne’er seest me again.
Fire light-curl’d daughters
See I from th’ north rise. Man is a slave;
Norns three they reign; the
Wild waste of waters,
There is my fatherland, there is my grave!
Ring, with thy consort,
Least when pale stars gleam bright o’er the bay;
For ‘mid the sand, O
Chief, may be uptoss’d
Th’ outlaw’d young viking’s bones, bleach’d in the spray.”
List’ning to livelong
Plainings from men, as from girls when they cry.
Loud in mine ear is
Long since my death-song
Echoing. What then? Who are born — they must die.
Tears ne’er atone; no
Strugglings avail, from the norns; firm decree.
Ring is the giver;
Ing’borg’s thy own; so
My son’s firm defense in my realm shalt thou be.
Seated in halls here;
Well have I lov’d golden peace all around.
Yet have I broken
Shields in the valley,
Shields on the sea, — nor grew pale at the sound.
Quick will I carve me;
North-kings it fits not to die in their bed.
Little this final
Exploit will cost me;
Living, we’re scarce more at ease than the dead.”
Carves he fair runics, —
Death-runes cut deep on his arm and his breast.
Sparkling the contrast!
See! how those streams mix, —
Silver hairs purpling on bosom at rest!
Hail to thy mem’ry!
Hail to thy glory, thou North blooming bright!
Harvests’ deep yellow,
Minds thinking clearly,
The achievements of peace, were on earth my delight!
Peace where, ‘mid slaughter,
Wild chieftains dwelt; but she’d flown far away.
Now stands the bloodless
Tomb’s gently daughter,
Fav’rite of heav’n, and awaits me to-day.
Valhal’s great sons a’!
Earth disappears; to the asas; high feast
Gjallarhorn bids me;
Bless’dness, like a
Gold helmet, circles their up-coming guest.”
Ing’borg, his dear one;
The other to his son and the viking he bends;
So, closing gently
His eyes to the clear sun,
Sighing, the king’s soul to Allfather ascends.
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