'Twas Jul; and in his chair of state king Ring sat drinking mead:
And near him sat queen Ingeborg, with cheek so white and red.
Autumn and Spring together join'd; in them each guest could see;
She was the fresh and blooming Spring, the Autumn pale was he.

An old man now knock'd at the door, and enter'd in the hall,
From head to foot in bearskin clad, and quite unknown to all:
With staff in hand, and bent with age, he tottering seem'd to go,
Yet was his stature taller far than all the rest, I trow.

He sat him down upon the bench the nearest to the door,

Now he roved far and wide like the falcon in pride, on the foaming billows he rode;
But he traced rules and laws for the warriors on board: listen now to the Viking's code!

No tent o'er the deck, for the seaman no roof, since the enemy ever is nigh:
On his buckler as bed must the Viking repose, sword in hand, and his ceiling the sky.

The hammer of Thor the victorious is short; Frey's sword has in length but an ell;
'Tis enough; art thou brave, then close on thy foe, and each stroke of thy falchion will tell.

On his vessel, wrapt in grief,
Sits at summer evè the chief,
While, like billows thro' his soul
Thoughts of wrath or sadness roll,
As still beneath his troubled eye
The temple's smoking ruins lie.

“Up to Valhall speed, thou smoke!
Up to Valhall, quickly speed!
Loudly Balder's ire invoke!
Urge him to avenge the deed!
Go tell him of his temple burned!
Go tell him of his image spurned!
First spurned from where it stood,
Then humbly deigning to consume
Like any other wood!

“Next of his bower announce the doom,

The midnight sun on the mountain rests,
Its disk of a bloody hue;
It is not day, it is not night,
But something between the two.

Now, type of the sun, fair Balder's pyre
In his shrine doth brightly gleam;
The red steel smokes with victim blood;
Hœder reigns o'er earth supreme.

And watching the sacred fire, around
See the priestly circle stands!
Those wan old men, with their silver beards,
And knives in their bloody hands.

Helge is there; and with pomp he fain
Would share in the sacred rite

The heavens are blue; the spring resumes her reign,
And blooming flow'rets deck the verdant plain.
In warmest accent Frithiof thanks his friend,
And homeward now prepares his course to bend.
In pride and beauty gliding o'er the main,
His black swan tracks her well-known path again.
The western breezes, ever fresh in spring,
Like nightingales through all the canvass sing
In azure garments Agir's daughters now,
Dance gaily round the gallant vessel's prow.
Ah! happy he, who, from a distant strand
As breezes waft him to his native land,

Now will I other scenes recall,
And tell how jarl Angantyr rests
Carousing in his banquet hall,
And drains the mead horn with his guests:
His face was jocund, blithe and bold;
He gazed upon the liquid plain,
Where he beheld, like swan of gold,
The sun slow sinking on the main.

There at the window Halvar stood,
His old and faithful sentinel;
But e'en in his most watchful mood
He ne'er forgot the hydromel.
One custom had this veteran stout;—
The cup no sooner did he drain,
He spoke not, but his arm stretch'd out,

The autumn wind blows fresh and high,
The angry billows roar,
The tempest rends the gloomy sky,—
Yet still I tread the shore.

My eager sight I ever strain
A distant sail to see;
Oh happy sail! that on the main,
My Frithiof, follows thee.

Oh, ye blue waves! roll not so high,
And speed not thus, I pray!
Too swift he flies; thou starry sky,
Shine brightly on his way!

When spring returns at nature's call,
He too will come again;
But in the valley and the hall
He'll seek for me in vain.

For calmly then beneath the grass

AH , happy-hearted bird,
Full-throated minstrel, shaking all the air
With golden ripples of thy passions pleading;
I tell thee true, my lady is not heeding;
She lies asleep, within her window there;
Good sooth—thou art not heard.
Thou living memory of her kindly care,
The small white hand, which once had gifts to share,
Will never hold forth morsels for thy feeding
In sad hereafter days;
Nor pluck the roses by her lattice creeping.
So slow the curtain sways,
Not strange, it seemeth now, she should be sleeping;
So soft the sweet air strays,

The flawless sovereign law!
Barbed grappling hook from Heaven's foundations sent;
Dangling in Hell's own maw,
To aid a man's ascent
Therefrom; sure pardon shall a man repent.

This hook the masterkey
To open that dear wound, the very door
Of Heaven presently;
The Father's promise; nor
Shall any find another key there for.

Give me repentance, Lord;
Lest otherwise I have no hope to win
Thy life, thy sweet award;
For Lord, I find not in
Thy word repentance promised when I sin.

See, how the couple revolve in undulatory motion
Gliding, the wingèd foot scarcely oppresses the earth.
Are these phantoms of air that I see, released from the body?
Or are they moonlight elves winding in merry array?
Light as the smoke which wreathes through space at the touch of the Zephyr,
Light as the dancing skiff borne on the silvery tide,
Capers the disciplined foot to the tune's melodious measure;
And the murmuring strings buoy up the body in air.
Now, as though they would burst by force through the ranks of the dancers,