Classic Poem

Spring returns, the sun shines bright; the woods are green, the birds again
Tune their song; the streams unfrozen rush rejoicing to the main:
Like the cheeks of Freya glowing, roses now their chalice ope;
And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope.

Now the king a chase proposes; Ingeborg the train must join,
All the court assembled round them in their hunting garments shine.
Bows are twanging, quivers rattling, steeds impatient paw the ground;
While the hood-wink'd falcon rises towards the sky with eager bound.

Lo! the queen herself approaches; Frithiof, shun the dangerous sight!
Like a star in spring she seemeth, mounted on her courser white;
Now like Freya, now like Rota, fairer far than both the two;
While from her light hat of purple graceful falls the feather blue.

Look not on her eye of azure, on her locks of golden hue!
Have a care! her shape is lovely, and her breast 'tis heaven to view
Look not on the rose and lily on her blooming cheek combin'd!
Listen not to those soft accents, gentler far than vernal wind!

Now sets off the gallant squadron huzza! over hill and dale!
Horns are sounding; falcons mounting, fain would Odin's realm assail:
E'en the furious boar affrighted seeks for shelter in his lair,
While, Valkyrie-like, the huntress, lance in hand, pursues him there.

But the king, by age enfeebled, cannot follow close the queen;
Frithiof only rides beside him, silent, and with mournful mien;
Thoughts alas! of gloomiest import in his grief-worn breast arose,
And in vain he look'd for comfort, and in vain he sought repose.

“Why have I the seas abandon'd, reckless, and to peril blind?
Sorrow dwells not on the ocean; anguish flies before the wind:
When dark thoughts assail the Viking, danger calls; he joins the dance;
And the gloomiest visions vanish fore the glimmering of his lance.

“But they here again assail me; sadness dire o'erspreads my brow
With her murky wings; a maniac must I seem, where'er I go:
Grove of Balder! oath, she pledg'd me, glorying in a mutual flame!
Yet I blame not Ingeborga, 'tis the gods alone I blame.

“For they hate us wretched mortals, glory in our wail and woe;
Have they not my lovely rose-bud pluck'd, and set 'midst winter's snow?
What should winter do with roses? how can he their value prize?
Oh! my tender plant will perish from the blasts of snow and ice.”

Thus he griev'd his course pursuing, Ring a vale before him sees,
Closely press'd by rugged mountains, thickly clad with lofty trees.
“Let us here alight, and rest us yonder in that shady bower;
(Quoth the monarch) sleep assails me: fain would I repose an hour.”

“Here thou may'st not sleep,” said Frithiof; cold's the air, and damp the earth.
Sleep is dangerous; let us quickly join again thy friendly hearth.”
“Sleep comes on us unexpected, like the other gods,” saith Ring
“Guest, why should'st thou grudge a slumber to thy host the grey-hair'd king?

Frithiof now his mantle doffing, on the ground its length doth spread;
And upon his knees reposing, Ring reclines his reverend head
There he slept, as heroes slumber, when the din of arms hath ceas'd,
On their shields; or like the infant nestling at his mother's breast.

While he slumbers, from the forest sings a bird, of sable hue:
“Frithiof! rise, and slay the dotard! end thy strife and rival too!
Now's the time! take back the fair one, whom as bride thou once didst greet.
Strike! no mortal eye beholds thee, and thou know'st the grave's discreet.”

Frithiof listens lo! another bird now sings, of color white:
“Hold! whatever else thou winnest, lost will be thy honor bright
Would'st thou murder sleep, O Nidding? a defenceless old man kill?
Though no mortal eye can see thee, Odin's eye beholds thee still.”

Thus the birds: but Frithiof, looking all around in wild dismay,
Takes his sword, and hurls it from him to the forest far away.
Down the swart bird flies to Nastrand; but the white towards Heaven ascends,
With a tone of soft vibration like to that the either lends.

Sudden wakes the king. “This slumber hath refreshed me much,” he said:
“By the brave man's sword protected, sweet is sleep beneath the shade:
But where is thy sword, oh stranger? lightning's brother, where is he?
Who has thus disjoin'd ye? always found together ye should be.”

“That may be, oh King! yet I can swords enough in Norway find;
For the sword's sharp tongue is treach'rous, never much to peace inclin'd.
In its blade the fiends hold dwelling, spirits foul from Niffelhem;
Silver locks excite their fury; sleep is never safe for them.”

“Youth! I have not slept. I only feign'd to sleep, thy soul to prove;
For untried, the wise man trusts not either sword, or proffer'd love.
Thou art Frithiof; yes; I knew it, from the hour thou cam'st to me:
Long old Ring hath guess'd the secret, thou didst hide so carefully.

“Wherefore cam'st thou to my dwelling, thus disguis'd in tatters base?
Wherefore? but the bride to ravish from her husband's fond embrace:
Honor, Frithiof, sits not nameless in the hospitable hall;
Open is its aspect; patent as the sun its bearings all.

“Fame had loudly talked of Frithiof, bitter foe to Gods and men,
Buckler-cleaving, temple-burning, terror of the liquid plain:
Frithiof doubtless with an army will, methought, invade my land;
But he comes in skins envelopp'd, with a beggar's staff in hand.

“Why so downcast? I, like Frithiof, once was young and wild, forsooth;
Life's a combat from the cradle, and its Berserk fight is youth
Press'd 'tween bucklers must its struggle, till its fury wild be spent:
I have tried thee, good I've found thee; now I pity, and relent.

“Old am I become and feeble; soon the tomb will Ring receive;
Then to thee, thy merit prizing, queen and kingdom both I'll leave:
But till then, my son I'll call thee, and be thou as erst my guest;
Swordless champion shall protect me, and our ancient feud's at rest.”

“Thief-like I did not come to thee,” Frithiof answer'd gloomily:
“Wish'd I of thy queen to rob thee, say, what could have hinder'd me?
But I sought my bosom's darling Ingeborg once more to view:
Madman that I was, my passion, half extinguished, flames anew.

“Here, oh king, too long I've tarried; here will I remain no more:
Wrath of Asas unrelenting o'er my forehead still doth lower.
Balder threatens me with vengeance, he who loveth all mankind,
Me alone with hate pursuing, to my sufferings deaf and blind.

“Yes! 'tis true, I burn'd his temple: true I'm term'd the Varg i Vehm:
At that name men start with terror, women faint, and children scream.
From her bosom Earth with horror, me, her son accursed, spurns:
And my heart with constant anguish, void of hope or comfort, burns.

“On the verdant earth no longer will I now my dwelling chuse:
On dry land my feet are burning, and the trees their shade refuse.
Ingeborg I've lost for ever; out is burn'd my sun of life;
All is night and gloom around me; all is horror guilt and strife.

“Now to arms! once more I greet thee, noble bark which Agir gave!
Bathe again thy pitch-clad bosom joyous in the briny wave!
With thy keel the ocean furrow! with thy pinions cleave the air!
Fly as far as stars shall guide thee, or the subject billows bear!

“Dear to me are tempests howling, lightning's glare, and thunder's noise:
When all nature rages round me, then my soul repose enjoys:
Clang of shields, old man, darts raining, battles fierce by land and sea;
And when I shall fall, the Asas reconciled, perhaps, will be.