Classic Poem

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,
To get it quickly fill'd again.

But now he throws the cup in haste
Upon the floor, and eager cries,
“A bark rides on the boundless waste!
She nears! no friendly color flies!
And many men behold I there
Half fainting, shivering on the strand,
Whom two gigantic warriors bear
Upon their shoulders broad to land.”

The jarl a moment silent stood,
And then exclaim'd: “Ellida's sail!
Who can mistake that vessel good?
And Frithiof there I also hail.
In all the north there is but one
Of that proud height, and martial tread,
And, Thorsten, 'tis thy son alone
Upon his brow his name we read.”

In haste the Viking Atle rose,
And from the festive table sprang,
A Berserk he; his black beard flows
Half down his waist; his accents rang
Throughout the hall: “I now will try
If truly speaks the voice of fame,
That Frithiof may all swords defy,
And quarter never deigns to claim.”

Soon as those thundering words they hear,
His twelve companions too arise:
Each bears a heavy club and spear,
And loud their wild and fearful cries:
Now to the beach they bend their way;
The gallant Frithiof there they found,
While all around him sleeping lay
His weary crew upon the ground.

“My arm could strike thee down in truth,”
Said Atle, with an hideous cry:
“I give thee now the choice, bold youth,
To combat with me or to fly.
But quarter now from me demand,
And humbly for compassion call!
I'll then extend a friendly hand,
And lead thee to Angantyr's hall.”

“I'm wearied by our watery fray,”
Said Frithiof, with a bitter smile;
“But, Berserk, ere these words I say,
We'll try our weapon's strength a while.”
And, as he spoke, the hero drew
His glorious sword, and waved it high:
The mystic runes shone bright to view,
E'en like his own keen, flashing eye,

And swiftly now their blows descend,
Like the fierce storm of summer hail:
Their shields they soon in fragments rend;
But neither combatant turns pale,
Nor once relaxes in the fight:
But Angurvadal, blade so true,
At length, with more than mortal might,
Hath cloven Atle's sword in two.

“I cannot use this falchion bright
Against thee now,” stern Frithiof cried,
“If 'tis thy humour still to fight,
Let us our weapons cast aside.”
Now fierce as autumn's billows swell,
They headlong on each other rush,
And on their naked bosoms fell
Blows that might even giants crush.

And as the bear shakes off the snow,
Thus turn they from each blow away;
And they entwine each other now,
As serpents coil around their prey.
The firmest rock would shiver'd be,
Could man such deadly blows apply:
The oak, the noblest forest tree,
By half such shocks would prostrate lie.

The sweat-drops from their brows descend,
Their panting bosoms glow with heat:
Earth, stones and shrubs, in concert blend,
And fly in sparks beneath their feet:
They struggle hard: at length both fall,
And roll together on the ground.
This combat can each child recall,
And in our annals still 'tis found.

And Frithiof gains the victory.
Who would not for the youth rejoice?
On Atle's breast is plac'd his knee,
While he exclaims with angry voice,
“Oh, had I now my trusty sword,
Berserk, with beard of sable hue!
Thy boldness should its just reward
Encounter from my weapon true.”

“Nay, let not that thine arm arrest!”
The Berserk proudly made reply;
“Go fetch thy sword! here is my breast!
Fear not! I shall not basely fly.
And must we not, bold youth, one day
Both mount to Valhall's realms above?
'Tis my turn now; to-morrow may
Death on thy heart his arrow prove.”

Nor vain the threat; for Frithiof now
Rushes to end this fearful fight.
With flashing eye and knitted brow,
He summons Angurvadel's might.
Unmov'd and calm there Atle lay:
This touch'd the noble victor's mind
His falchion straight he threw away,
And gave his hand the truce to bind.

Impatient now was Halvar's cry,
As high he rais'd his truncheon white:
“Champions! this combat cease! Oh, why
Continue this wild, useless fight?
On silver trencher smokes the deer;
The goblets on the table stand;
The viands cool while we stay here;
I thirst,—and empty is mine hand.”

The foemen late, now friends most true,
Of the same food and wine partake
And much shone there on Frithiof's view,
His youthful wonder to awake.
No ill-joined boards and rafters bare,
Or form'd the ceiling, roof or wall;
But precious woods, and gilding rare,
And flowers the laughing spring recall.

No flames were rudely kindled there,
In centre of the festive hall;
But in a marble chimney fair,
They brightly blazed against the wall.
The smoke no loop-hole strives to pass;
No boar's flesh hangs exposed to view:
The window panes were all of glass;
The well-clos'd doors on hinges flew.

A silver chandelier on high
Full many tapers bright contain'd,
No pine-branch flared upon the eye,
Whose dazzling gleam the vision pain'd,
The roasted deer smoked full in sight,—
With bacon were his haunches bound;
His gilded feet were raised for flight,
His antlers were with garlands crown'd.

A maiden stands behind the guests,
So fair, the lily might be proud
To claim her hue: a star thus rests
Upon the low'ring midnight cloud.
Each chesnut ringlet ever seeks
Her snowy shoulders to conceal;
Her eyes are blue; her lovely cheeks
The rose's glowing tinge reveal.

In regal state, on argent throne,
There sat the jarl, that chieftain bold
His silver helmet dazzling shone;
His sceptre was inlaid with gold;
His ample mantle hung around,
With richest stars embroidered bright;
Of purple velvet was the ground,
The lining was of ermine white.

Lo! from his throne he now descends;
Three steps he takes; and gives his hand,
As courteously his body bends,
To his young guest. “In this good land
I greet thee kindly; noble youth!
Old Thorsten Vikingson, of yore,
Was famed for valour, worth and truth;
His son is welcome to our shore.”

He offer'd then a goblet bright,
Fill'd with Sicilia's richest wine;
Like flame it sparkled to the sight,
And foamed like ocean's wave of brine.
“Thrice welcome here!” the chieftain cried,
“True friendship nought can ever fade—
Not death itself;—with joyful pride
We greet thy honor'd father's shade.”

A scald from Morven's heath-clad hills,
Then to his harp a measure leads:
In Gælic tone the hall he fills
With mournful loves, and warlike deeds:
Next, in the lofty vaulted hall,
Norwegian songs more loud arise,
Brave Thorsten's actions to recall;
These won, and well deserv'd the prize.

Angantyr of his friends enquir'd,
In the far north, beyond the wave;
And much the noble chief admir'd
The answers that young Frithiof gave:
For none who heard his prudent speech,
Could have disprov'd the facts he told;
Not Saga's self could better teach
A man his bosom to unfold.

And when he now relates the story
Of all he suffer'd on the main,
Of Helge, and the demons gory,
Who strove to conquer him in vain:
By wonder struck, the warriors pause;
He smiled—their much respected lord,—
And a loud burst of warm applause
Then thunder'd from the festive board.

But when he spoke, with gentler tone,
Of Ingeborg, that maiden bright,
Whom he so proudly call'd his own,
And all her virtues brought to light:
Each damsel blush'd, and deeply sigh'd,
And gazed upon the noble youth,
And fancied with what joy and pride
She would reward such love and truth.

Next Frithiof's accents brief explain'd
The object that he came to seek;
And silent Angantyr remain'd,
Until the hero ceased to speak.
“No debts have I: this land is mine;
Like me, my people all are free:
We pledge king Bele's name in wine,—
But he could nothing claim from me.

“His sons I do not know, forsooth;
Would they my tribute now receive,
Bid them demand it of me, youth,
With sword in hand; the billows heave,
And soon will waft them to this strand.
Thy father was my friend most tried.”
Now with a sign he gave command
To his young daughter by his side.

The maiden rose at his behest:
Her slender waist and graceful air,
Her beaming eye and snowy breast
May well her noble birth declare.
And, as the butterfly is seen,
Perch'd on the blushing rose in May,
Thus, on the dimple of her chin,
Sits Astrild,—little urchin gay.

She disappears, that damsel fair,
And straight brings back a purse of green,
That had been wrought with greatest care;
And trees and antler'd stags were seen;
And the moon lent her chasten'd light;
The white sails o'er the billows roll'd;
The clasp was one large ruby bright;
The tassels were of purest gold.

In her sire's hand she placed it now,
And gently smiled in playful mood.
Until the coins of gold o'erflow,
He fills it with his treasures good.
“Of my esteem this trifling gage,
Well pleased, dear youth, I give to thee;
But tempt not yet the ocean's rage,
And pass the winter months with me.

“Valor can all things overcome,
I know; but winter's storms are nigh:
Fell Ham and Heid again may roam,
Those demons that in ocean lie:
And e'en Ellida's self may fail
To guide thee through such perils dire;
Another still more monstrous whale
May yet against thy life conspire.”

Thus pass'd the long and cheerful night,
Until the sun shone full in view;
The sparkling wine-cup yields delight,
But no debauch did thence ensue.
And ere they parted, cup in hand
The name of Angantyr they bless'd;
And in this hospitable land
Will Frithiof all the winter rest.