Classic Poem

The songs resound in Frithiof's hall,
The minstrels celebrate their lord;
Those songs now unregarded fall,
He smiles not at the banquet board.

The earth resumes her robe of green,
The vessels on the ocean fly;
Those charms by him are all unseen;
The moon alone attracts his eye.

The pensive youth is happy now,
For they, the brothers, Helge dark,
And Halfdan, with his smiling brow,
Invite him to the royal park.

He sits by Ingeborg the while;
Her hand he takes—his own all burning;
Why does he with such transport smile?
That pressure she is now returning.

On her is ever fix'd his sight:
Well may the youth with rapture view
Her slender form, and tresses bright,
And beaming eyes of azure hue.

And, smiling now, their lips repeat
The vanish'd scenes of early youth;
For still the thoughts are ever sweet
Of childhood's joys, and childhood's truth.

And of the vale she whispers now,
Where oft to meet his step she came
He speaks of the steep mountain's brow,
And lofty trees that bear her name.

She is less happy now she owns,
But must, alas! her grief repress;
Halfdan is weak, and Helge's frowns
Too oft his sterner thoughts express.

But why those blushes and those sighs?
She longs, but almost fears to tell
The thoughts that in her bosom rise,
Oh might she still with Hilding dwell!

The doves they fed with fondest care,
Scar'd by a hawk, had left her now
There still remains one faithful pair;
On Frithiof why that bird bestow?

“This dove will surely hither fly;
Will he not wish his mate to see?
Beneath his wing then gently tie,
Unseen by all, a rune for me.”

Thus held they converse during day;
The evening came, but still they cling
To these fond thoughts, as breezes play
Around the lime trees in the spring.

But Ingeborg must leave him now,
And as she slowly turns to part,
His glowing cheek and throbbing brow,
Betray the feelings of his heart.

He ties the rune-line to his dove.
How swift he plies his snowy wings!
But ah! he stays beside his love;
No answer he to Frithiof brings.

This life displeas'd his comrade Biorn.
“Why doth our eaglet idly rest?
Are his proud wings and talons torn?
What wounds now rankle in his breast?

“Say, what canst thou, my friend, desire?
Hast thou not viands—mead at will?
And scalds enow, who never tire
Thy praise to sing with accents shrill?

“Thy eager courser neighs in vain,
Thy falcons now impatient rise.
Will Frithiof never hunt again?
What mean those stifled, deep-drawn sighs?

“Ellida sleeps not on the wave;
She heaves incessant on her side
Oh noble bark! why vainly rave?
Quench'd is the gallant Frithiof's pride!

“On straw I will not basely die;
To Odin I my blood can drain,—
And thus avoid stern Hela's eye,
Her pale, blue cheek, and icy reign.”

The anchor raise! the sail spread wide!
Rejoice, Ellida, thou art free!
Across the bay now swiftly glide!
Thy lord king Bele's sons would see.

He finds them on the council ground.
By Bele's tomb, that honor'd spot.
The people stand in groups around;
Not one the summons had forgot.

The hero speaks; all men attend
His manly voice was full and sweet,
And well her aid may echo lend
His noble accents to repeat.

“Oh kings! fair Ingeborg I love,
And would obtain her for my bride;
This union I can clearly prove
Your father Bele did decide.

“By his desire, on Hilding's ground,
Together, like young plants we grew;
And Freya on our temples bound
Her holy band of golden hue.

“Nor king nor jarl was he my sire,
But the scalds often sing his fame;
And many rock-carved runes aspire
To spread the glories of his name.

“And I could win both crown and land,—
But I prefer my native soil,
No man, while I have sword in hand,
Shall ever hut or palace spoil.

“And now by Bele's tomb we stand;
He listens to each word we say
Oh! he approves my just demand,
And with my lips his accents pray.”

Proud Helge sternly rose to speak.
“Thy bride, our sister shall not be:
Monarchs alone her hand may seek;
From Odin springs her ancestry.

“To other shores thy weapons bear,
Where thou mayst power by force obtain,
Or maids beguile with accents fair: I
Valhalla's child thou shalt not gain.

“Thy aid I need not; I am lord.
But if thou still wouldst here remain,
I will, bold youth, to thee award
A vassal's place amongst my train.”

“This pride, oh monarch! thou mayst rue
A free man I; no slave my sire.
Fly, Angurvadel, weapon true,
Out of thy sheath, with blade of fire!”

How flash'd the steel! each warrior there
The mystic runes could clearly trace
“Of Angurvadel, king, beware!
The sword's at least of noble race.

“And thou shouldst now my anger feel,
Base king, but for this hallow'd spot.
I warn thee to avoid my steel;
Nor shall this lesson be forgot.”

He cleft in twain, with one fierce blow,
King Helge's shield of burnish'd gold;
From a high tree it fell below,
And on the ground it's fragments roll'd.

“'Tis well, good sword! repose thee now!
Thy dreams of future glory be:
Thy blade need not at present glow;
Now let us bound across the sea.”