Those who have laid the harp aside
And turn'd to idler things,
From very restlessness have tried
The loose and dusty strings;
And, catching back some favourite strain,
Run with it o'er the chords again.

But Memory is not a Muse,
O Wordsworth!—though 'tis said
They all descend from her, and use
To haunt her fountain-head:
That other men should work for me
In the rich mines of Poesie,

Pleases me better than the toil,
Of smoothing under hardened hand,
With attic emery and oil,
The shining point for Wisdom's wand;

King Bele's sons may warriors seek
From hill to vale, from boor to lord;
For them my voice shall never speak,
My hand shall never draw the sword,
Why should I for a monarch die?
My battle field is Balder's grove;
All cares and woes I there defy,
United with the maid I love.

And while the sun's refulgent hue
Loves on each blushing flower to rest,
E'en like the rosy veil I view
On Ingeborga's fairer breast,
Still shall I wander on the shore,
And, as I linger in my pace,
The name of her whom I adore,
My sword upon the sand shall trace.

Now, pushing back his chair, king Ring doth rise!
And scalds and warriors all
Stand up to hear his speech; they highly prize
Each word his lips let fall:
As Balder he was good, and eke as Mimer wise.

So fair his realm, the gods therein might dwell;
For ne'er the din of arms
Affrights the forest, glade, or grassy dell;
And all her blooming charms
There Industry displays, nor fears the spoiler fell.

See Justice, with her brow so stern yet fair,
Firmly the balance hold!
And grateful Peace brings annual tribute there;
And crops of wheaten gold,

The songs resound in Frithiof's hall,
The minstrels celebrate their lord;
Those songs now unregarded fall,
He smiles not at the banquet board.

The earth resumes her robe of green,
The vessels on the ocean fly;
Those charms by him are all unseen;
The moon alone attracts his eye.

The pensive youth is happy now,
For they, the brothers, Helge dark,
And Halfdan, with his smiling brow,
Invite him to the royal park.

He sits by Ingeborg the while;
Her hand he takes—his own all burning;
Why does he with such transport smile?

There grew, in Hilding's garden fair,
Two plants beneath his fostering care;
Such plants the North had never seen,
How gloriously they deck the green!

One like the oak-tree soars on high,
Whose trunk all proudly greets the sky;
While bending still, by winds caress'd
Its branches wave like warrior's crest.

The other blossoms like the rose,
Ere yet the vernal suns disclose
The charms that in the chalice dawn,
Though winter hath its breath withdrawn.

But storms arise and shake the earth;
The oak must struggle from its birth;

O! could my sweet plaint lull to rest,
Soften one sigh—as thou dreamst,
I'd sit the whole night on thy tree,
And sing,——sing,——
With the thorn at my breast.

“At your house, at the end of your roof,
the rain pours, and I have stood, getting drenched.
Open the door of your room!”
“There's neither clamp nor lock
on that door. Why should I lock it?
Open it and come in. Am I someone's wife?”

Hope, wreathed with roses,
Led sand-blind Despair
To a clear babbling wellspring
And laved his eyes there—
Dark with long brooding
In dungeon-like keep—
Hope laved his eyes,
And he fell fast asleep.

He fell fast asleep
By the willows green-grey,
While the child on his pipes
Piped twilight away.
So that when he awoke
The skies were outspread
With a powder of stars
Strewn in myriads o'erhead.

And Despair lifted up
His gaunt cavernous face;
He said, “I see Suns
Like wild beacons, in space;
I cannot endure

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles,
The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song?
Then steer straight on through the watery miles,
Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong.
Nay not to the left, nay not to the right,
But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight,
The old Greek Isles where yellow birds sing
And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles they are not so far,
They lie within reach of the lowliest door;
You can see them gleam by the twilight star;
You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore—

Although your red lips speak alluring words
And from your lowered eyes the same beguilement issueth,
Although your wisdom runneth far and wide
Gathering fragrance to your eloquence,
Wistful I look on you—
Those charms fall powerless;
Though by the selfsame sorceries conjured
That erst be-spelled,
I am no longer yours.
For sake of one whose lightest breath is flame,
Whose glance is azure ether
And whose voice more cruel than strange
Magics or old pleasure,
Myself I lost beneath the shadowing Eros
High ascending,
No longer am I yours;