Classic Poem

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,
Where unsheath'd falchion never gleamed,
Where peace enthroned for ever beamed!
No more its lofty stems arise;
A black and reeking heap it lies;
Its haughty privilege heeded not,
Untouch'd to flourish, so to rot.
All this announce, and all the rest,
All thou hast seen, or heard, 'twere best
Thou should'st proclaim it loud and clear
Into angry Balder's ear.
Fly vapour fly! fit herald be
Unto a vaporous deity!

“Doubtless the Scalds will proudly sing
The mercy of their generous king;
His mercy! whose relentless hand
Now spurns me from my native land.
Well! well! a refuge we will find
In the realm of wave and wind;
Henceforth my Ellida knows
No single moment of repose:
Where winds waft us, there we'll roam,
And deftly, my good bark must thou,
Yet poise thee on the wild waves' foam;
Nor, if I read thee right, I trow,
Will it much thy pride distress
To bear the not unhonor'd stain,
If on thy deck there chance to rain
Some drops of blood, or more or less.
When storms are fiercest thou shalt be
A second home, good bark, to me:
My other home!—th' accursed brand,
It fell from Balder's kinsman's hand!
Henceforth 'tis thou must be my North,
The spot, the country of my birth;
Since from the other doom'd am I
An outlawed homeless man to fly.
And thou, my pitch-black bark! with pride
Henceforth I hail thee as my bride,
Since it would seem I ne'er shall own,
As once I hop'd, that fairer one.

“And thou, thou broad unfettered sea!
What are those other kings to thee,
Who with their lordly airs would awe
And make their despot glances law?
Thy only sovereign is he,
The most undaunted of the free,
Who sees thee in thy wrath, nor quails;
Unmoved, when thy worst mood prevails,
And stirr'd up by the tempest's spell
Thy yeasty billows strain and swell.
Thy boundless plains, so blue, so bright,
Are rapture to the hero's sight,
When, plough-like, he beholds with pride
His pinnace through the waters glide.

“Or on her oaken deck amain,
When red and fast the blood drops rain,
And the steel sows upon her,
And the billows uphold
A harvest of honor,
A harvest of gold:
Be ever kind, wild wave, to me!
Henceforth I know no guide but thee.

“My father's tomb! no clamor rude
Disturbs its sacred solitude;
And, by the green mound where he sleeps,
The wave with dirge-like music sweeps.
But mine, but mine shall be of blue,
With the white sea-foam to deck it;
For ever 't will course the ocean through,
Nor tempest nor mist will check it;
Its only pleasure and pastime this
To lure others down to the same abyss.
Proud sea, my delight is in thee alone,
And here do I claim thee of right mine own.”

Thus spake the hardy chief with pride;
And firmly heaves he now
The anchor to the vessel's side,
And lashes to the bow.
One bitter look he cast behind,
As slow he glided forth
Between the rocky reefs, that bind
The bay towards the north.
But vengeance sleeps not; for behold
Ten vessels under weigh!
King Helge comes; his purpose bo
'Tis to blockade the bay.
And then a stunning shout arose:—
“The king is doom'd to die!
For see! he rashly seeks his foes,
The fate of war to try.
Ah! little 'twill avail to thee,
As thou wilt know full soon,
Valhalla's haughty son, to be
Related to the moon.
To Odin's dome, thou fain wouldst fly
To join thy kinsmen of the sky.”

Scarce had they spoken out, when now
Some power yon mortal ken
A hole has bored in every bow
Of Helge's vessels ten:
And one by one they quickly sink,
Each vessel and each man;
No power can save; in vain they shrink,
From the embrace of Ran.
The king from off his found'ring ship
Himself can scarcely save,
But just contrives with toil to slip
From the pursuing wave.

Then merry Biorn laugh'd lustily,
Exclaiming whence he stood:
“Blood of the Asas! come agree,
The stratagem was good
During the night I gently stole,
While all were fast asleep,
And bored in every keel a hole,
The trick, confess, was deep.
And now to guess I venture can,
For 'tis her custom old,
That what she once hath finger'd, Ran
Will take good care to hold.
One thing annoys me much; I own,
I greatly am distrest,
To think the king should not have gone,
To the bottom with the rest.”

Upon a rock king Helge stood;
Safe yet he scarce could feel:
But at those words, with boiling blood
He bent his bow of steel.
And little was himself aware
How strong his arrow sprang,
Till sharp upon his startled ear,
He heard his steel bow twang.
Then brandishing his lance on high
Frithiof exclaimed. “Behold!
If once unloos'd I bid it fly,
This death-bird that I hold,
Its red wing soon would blast, methinks,
That Nidding of a king:
But no—my good lance never drinks
The blood of such a thing.
Too noble to be thus disgraced;
Reserved for high intents,
I choose its high deeds should be traced
On runes on monuments;
And not upon that scaffold base
With infamy install'd,
Where thy vile name—what fitter place!—
Hereafter shall be scrawl'd.
Thy only proof of manhood,—see!
The wave is washing o'er!
Nor of more value would it be,
As I suspect, on shore,
Rust wears the steel, not thou, as nigh,
Aye, twice as nigh I'd stand,
And all the puny strength defy
Of thy effeminate hand.
Now, Helge, thou shalt see how mine
Far, paltry king, surpasses thine!”

A sapling then he takes ('twas wrought
For a tiller) in his hand.
A mighty sapling, lately brought
From the valley of Gudbrand:
He takes its fellow; through the wave
How swiftly doth he row!
Not easier could he wield his glaive,
Not easier bend his bow.

But now the jocund sun up goes,
With speed his rays advance:
And see! the land breeze as it blows
Bids every billow dance,
Right blithely in the matin ray;
Fast on Ellida springs,
And as she bounds, a parting lay
Her mournful chieftain sings.

“Thou mighty North! how swift I pass
From thee, thou front of Heimkringlas!
Though ne'er again I may possess
The right thy sacred soil to press;
Yet justly proud I'll ever be
A mother to behold in thee:
Now, nurse of heroes! fare thee well!
Farewell! farewell!

“And farewell! thou, midsummer's sun,
Eye of Night, Valhalla's throne!
Thou sky, farewell! this moment seen
As a hero's soul serene;
And thou, starry ocean, too,
Farewell! farewell!

“Farewell! ye fields, ye honored meads,
Spectators of illustrious deeds;
Your fame shall last for ever, for
Ye saw the mighty deeds of Thor.
And ye lovely lakes so blue,
That I knew so well,
And ye rocks and islets too,
Farewell! Farewell!

“Farewell! ye gentle bowers, where
Once my lovely Freya play'd;
Ah! why was it denied the maid
To root and flourish there?
And ye dreams of boyhood, ill
Though ye kept your promise fair,
Yet—for, ah! I love ye still,
Farewell! farewell!

“My love has been disdained;
My home the flame has riven:
My honor foully stained;
Myself to exile driven.
Right willing then I well may be
To give the land up for the sea,
But to life's joy, and pleasure's spell,
Farewell! farewell!”