English

Superior Bards, the Pride of ancient Days,
Tuneful have honour'd with immortal Lays
The lowing Grazer, and the fleecy Flock;
The Goat, that brouzes on the shrubby Rock,
And generous Steed, that flying leaves behind
The panting Storm, and mocks the lagging Wind,
With Ears erect springs ardent to the War,
Or, proud in Triumph, draws the Hero's Car;
The feather'd Clans, that soar amidst the Clouds
Sublime, or perching sing in shady Woods;
And all the swift-finn'd Nations of the Floods:

While Gallia 's Canton'd Troops inglorious rest,
With frequent Flight, and fruitless Toil opprest;
O Britain! thy great Chief his Ease denies,
Patient of Labour and inclement Skies,
He with new Ardour to new Conquest flies.
Here fresh Materials for the Loom prepare,
And weave a cold, white Winter-Piece of War:
Ev'n then a Bloom of spreading Glory show,
And verdant Laurels forc'd from Beds of Snow.

Confed'rate Pow'rs of Flandria, Gallia, Spain ,

Have all thy Bards, Britannia , spent their Vein,
Not one rich Genius left, that can sustain
Th' expensive Task of Marlbro 's last Campaign?
Ruin'd by Conquests, do they pray for Peace,
That the hard Taxes on the Muse may cease?
Thou, Artist, who dost Nature's Face express
In Silk and Gold, and Scenes of Action dress;
Dost figur'd Arras animated leave,
Spin a bright Story, or a Passion weave,
By mingling Threads, canst mingle Shades and Light,
Delineate Triumphs, or describe a Fight;
Do thou relate the Hero's Toil, record

Oh, let the Conqueror stop his swift Career,
A while the Foe, a while the Poet spare:
What Muse can follow with an equal Pace
Thro' the bright Stages of his rapid Race?
He, like the Orbs of Light that roll above,
Does in his glorious Course so swiftly move,
His Conquests are so suddain, so compleat,
And the fierce Foe his Arms so oft defeat,
The Muse exhausted pants and hangs the Wing,
Nor has more Strength to rise, nor Breath to sing.
He Danger seeks, he asks unequal Fight,
And conquers faster than our Bards can write;

Skinfax with fiery mane
The vernal Sun again
Draws from the waves more glorious than before:
The morning rays divine
With two-fold splendor shine
On Ring's proud roof: a knocking shakes the door!

'Tis Frithiof; care and woe
Sit on his haggard brow:
The king turns pale; the palpitating breast
Of Ingeborg reveals
The inward strife she feels:
While thus the chief the royal pair address'd:

" My sea-horse burns to lave
His limbs in ocean's wave;

FRITHIOF .

Oh Biorn, I am weary of wave and of wind,
For restless and faithless companions are they
To the hills of the north ever wanders my mind,
Ah! could I once more those dear regions survey!
Thrice happy is he, who his home ne'er hath left,
And daily the tombs of his forefathers sees
Alas! of each pleasure and comfort bereft,
I rove a sad exile on wide rolling seas.

BIORN .

Nay! blame not the sea! 'tis a life full of motion,

In furious mood,
King Helge stood
On the shore, and pray'd
To the fiends for aid.
How black and how low'ring the once azure sky!
And loud bursts the thunder-peal rolling on high!
How roughly and fiercely the wild ocean raves!
Why rises he thus, with his white foaming waves?

The lightning's keen dart, with its bright flashing glare,
For a moment illumines the dark lurid air!
Hark! the scream that announces the sea bird's affright, —
As he hastens to shore — and how rapid his flight!

INGEBORG .

The morning breaks, and Frithiof comes not yet;
'Twas yestermorn the royal council met
By Bele's sepulchre, well chosen spot!
For there, I ween, was seal'd his daughter's lot.
Ah! I have shed full many bitter tears,
And offer'd up to Freya earnest prayers,
To melt the hate that burns in Frithiof's breast,
And from him a reluctant promise wrest,
To give his hand to Helge once again,
In sign of peace; but man is proud and vain; —
And for his honor (thus he calls his pride)

Frithiof and Biorn, in silence now,
Are sitting by a chess-board rare,
Each square, alternate in it's row,
Was shining gold or silver fair.

Lo! Hilding enters — " Take that seat,
The chair of state, my honor'd sire:
The mead-cup fill! I but entreat
This game to close, ere we retire. "

Then Hilding spoke — " Ah! now too late
King Bele's sons their error own,
And pray thee to avert their fate
Thou art thy country's hope alone. "

Then Frithiof thus to Biorn — " My friend,

King Bele and his vassal true, now breathe, alas! no more,
And in their tombs they both were placed beside the sea-beat shore:
According to their own request, each rite was strict fulfill'd,
And, at the heroes' funeral dirge, all eyes with tears were fill'd.
Helge and Halfdan share the throne, for all the nation's voice
Had sanctified with loud acclaim their dying monarch's choice.
But Thorsten's treasures now belong to Frithiof alone;
An only son, with none he shares, and all is now his own.