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Page 21
Ah! there he comes, in glory beaming;
Forgive, O golden sun, my prayer.
How beautiful, in splendor gleaming!
I feel--I know a god is near.
Oh! who could, in thy path advancing,
With equal grace and power tread,
All hearts with light and joy entrancing,
A life like thine victorious lead!
Here, 'neath thy watchful eye I leave her--
My peerless beauty of the North!
Let not the rough world's troubles grieve her,
Thy likeness on the green-clad earth.
Her soul is pure as rays of morning,
Her eyes as blue as thine own sky,
The same rich tints thy crown adorning
Among her golden tresses lie.
Farewell, my love, be not forgetful,
Some longer night again we'll meet;
I, lingering, kiss thy brow, regretful,
One kiss I give thy lips so sweet.
Sleep now, beloved; in thy slumber,
May dreams of me thy bosom swell,
At mid-day wake, and with me number
Each absent hour: farewell, farewell.
VIII.
The Parting.
Ingeborg.
The day breaks clear, and Fridthjof cometh not,
Though yesterday the council was proclaimed
At Bele's grave. The place was rightly chosen,
His daughter's fate should be determined there.
How many supplications hath it cost me,
How many tears by Freyja counted o'er,
To melt the ice of hate around Fridthjof's heart.
And gain a promise from his haughty lips
To give his hand in reconciliation.
Alas! how hard is man! And for his honor,
So calleth he his pride, he counts it not,
Or lightly counts it, if he rudely break,
Of true and faithful hearts one more or less.
But wretched woman, leaning on his breast,
Is like the moss-growth blooming on the cliff,--
With faded tints, it difficultly holds
Itself unnoticed fast unto the rock,
Is only nourished by the dews of night.
But yesterday, indeed, my fate was fixed,
And now the evening sun hath set upon it,
Still Fridthjof cometh not. The pallid stars
Die one by one, and sadly disappear,
And with each one of them a hope is quenched
And goes from out my heart unto its grave.
Ah! wherefore still to hope? Valhal's gods
No longer love me; I've offended them.
And Balder, 'neath whose shelter I reside,
Is wroth with me, because a human love
Is too unholy for the sight of gods,
And earthly joy must never risk itself
Beneath the temple-arch in which the grave,
The haughty powers have fixed their dwelling-place.
And yet what fault is mine? and wherefore frowns
The pious god upon a maiden's love?
Is it not pure as Urd's bright sparkling fount,
And innocent as Gefjon's morning dream?
The shining sun doth never turn away
From loving ones, its pure and watchful eyes.
And daylight's widow, starry night, doth hear
With gladness, in her sorrow, all their vows.
That which is worthy under heaven's vault,
Can that be guilty 'neath the temple's dome?
I love my Fridthjof. Oh! through all the past,
As far as memory runs, I loved him well,--
A holy feeling twin-born with my soul,
I know not whence it came, nor comprehend
The dismal thought that it was ever gone.
As fruit is timely set about the stone
And groweth up, and round about it all
In summer sunshine wraps its cloth of gold,
So, too, indeed, have I maturing grown
About this stone, and my existence is
Of my affection but the outer shell.
Forgive me, Balder! With a faithful heart
Thy hall I sought, and with a faithful one
Will I go hence; I'll take it with me now
Out over Bifrost-bridge, and place myself
With all my love before great Valhal's gods.
And there my love, like them an Asa-child,
Shall see itself reflected in the shields,
And fly with loosened dove-wings through the blue
Unending space unto the Allfather's bosom,
From whence it came. Oh! wherefore is the frown,
In morning's twilight, on thy brow so fair?
There floweth in my veins, as flows in thine,
Old Odin's blood. What wilt thou, kinsman dear?
My ardent love I cannot offer thee,
Nor would I offer it, worth all thy joys;
But I can offer thee my life's delight,--
Can cast it from me as the stately queen
Her mantle flings aside, and still remains
Her queenly self. But my resolve is taken,
And Valhal high shall never be ashamed
To own me kindred. I will meet my fate
As meets the hero his. Ah! here he comes!
How wild he seems, how pale! 'Tis done, 'tis done!
My angry norn she comes beside him now:
Be strong, my soul! At last I welcome thee.
Our fate is fixed; 'tis plain to read it where
Upon thy brow it stands.
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