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Page 20
Scorn not my love, my blossom cherished,
Which more to heaven than earth belongs,
In heaven itself that love was nourished,
And for that glorious home it longs.
Oh! that my weary soul releasing,
The gods would take me up above;
Triumphantly, with joy unceasing,
I'd go, embraced by my dear love.
When bugle-notes the champions rally,
From out the silver gates they ride;
But I alone join not the sally,
I linger gladly by thy side.
When Valhal's maidens pass me, smiling,
The mead-horn with its rim of gold;
Thee, only thee, my love beguiling,
My tender, loving arms enfold.
A leafy cottage near the meadow
I'd build us by the dark-blue sea,
And there we'd rest us 'neath the shadow
Of many a golden-fruited tree;
And when bright Valhal's sun each morning,
With his clear torch in splendor rose,--
We'd hasten to the gods returning,
Yet longing for our home's repose.
Thy golden locks, with sunshine flushing,
Wreathed with a starry crown should be;
So my pale lily, rosy blushing,
In Vingolf-hall should dance with me.
Then, by my love from danger guarded,
I'd with thee to our home repair,--
Where singeth Brage, silver-bearded,
Our wedding song each evening fair.
How sweet the evening song-bird's vesper!
It cometh forth from Valhal's shore;
How soft the moon-beams' gentle whisper,
From where the dead live evermore!
They tell of light and love unbroken,
In homes devoid of care and pain;
Where joyous words alone are spoken,
There thou my love shalt ever reign.
Oh, weep not, love, those tears regretful,
While through my heart the life-blood streams;
But sweetly sleep,--of grief forgetful
May love and Fridthjof fill thy dreams.
Oh! when thine arms thou foldest round me,
When thy dear eyes but look on me,
How quickly breaks the spell that bound me,
How turn my thoughts from heaven to thee!
"List to the lark's melodious numbers."
Nay, 'tis a dove his love-song sings,
The lark on yonder hillock slumbers,
Beside his mate with folded wings.
How happy they, always together,
As free their life as wings that bear
Through cheerless storm or sunny weather,
Above the clouds, that happy pair.
"See, daybreak comes." Nay, but ascended
From some far beacon is the light;
Our happy talk is not yet ended,
Nor yet so soon the lovely night.
Bright morning stat sleep till to-morrow,
And when night cometh, slumber still,
Your waking brings to Fridthjof sorrow,--
So sleep till doomsday, if you will.
Vain hope! No longer earth reposes,
The morning breeze new pleasure seeks;
Already bud the eastern roses,
As fresh as those on Ing'borg's checks.
I hear the winged songsters twitter,
A thoughtless throng in the opening sky;
All life's astir, the wavelets glitter,
And lover must with shadows fly.
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