Classic Poem

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
Will Ingeborga lie,—
The cold, pale victim then, alas!
Of cruel destiny.

He left, in haste to plough the main,
His falcon on the strand
Oh, noble bird! with me remain!
I'll feed thee from my hand.

With threads of gold thy form I trac'd,
On Frithiof's hand upborne;
That image now is all defac'd,—
Thy beak and talons torn.

Freya a falcon's wings approv'd,
To trace the earth around,
And seek her OEder, her belov'd,—
But him she never found.

And shouldst thou lend thy pinions light,
They would not serve me now;
Death may alone, to aid my flight,
His murky wings bestow!

Rest on my shoulder, falcon dear,
And gaze upon the sea!
We gaze in vain; no barks appear
He comes not back to me!

Again he'll tread his father's hall,
When in my grave I sleep.
Bid him our childhood's days recall,
And Frithiof then will weep!