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Page 23
Ingeborg.
And your decision?
Fridthjof.
Have I aught to choose?
Is not mine honor bound by his decree?
And that will I redeem though Angantyr
His paltry gold doth hide in Nastrand's flood.
To-day will I depart.
Ingeborg.
And Ing'borg leave?
Fridthjof.
Nay, nay, I leave thee not, thou goest too.
Ingeborg.
Impossible!
Fridthjof.
O! hear me, ere thou answerest.
Thy crafty brother seemeth to forget,
That Angantyr was my dear father's friend,
As well as Bele's. Perhaps he'll give
Without constraint what I demand; if not
A worthy advocate, a sharp one too,
Have I. 'Tis always ready at my side.
The gold he covets I'll to Helge send,
And thus will I from sacrificial knife
Of this crowned hypocrite redeem us both.
But we, my beauteous Ingeborg, will spread
O'er seas unknown Ellide's willing sail,
She'll kindly bear us to a friendlier strand
Where exiled love may safe asylum find.
What is the North to me? And what a race,
Which pales at every word of priest or king,
Whose shameless hands would pluck the living rose
From out the sanctuary of my heart?
So, Freyja help, it shall not prosper them!
The wretched slave is bound unto the turf
Where he was born, hut I will still be free,
Free as the mountain winds. A little earth
From Bele's grave and from my father's taken,
Can find a place ,upon our ship, and that
Is all of fatherland that we can need.
My loved one, there another sun is found
Than that which pales above these hills of snow,
And there another sky, more bright than this;
And milder stars with god-like glance adorned,
Look down therefrom in balmy summer nights
On lovers wandering in the laurel groves.
My father, Thorstein, Viking's son, in wars
Had journeyed far, and oft I've heard him tell,
By fireside light in winter evenings long,
About the Grecian sea with islands filled,--
Fresh groves of green in brightly shining waves.
A powerful race once had its dwelling there,--
And holy gods the marble temples graced.
But now they stand deserted; grasses thrive
In paths left desolate, and flowers grow
From out the runes that tell of ancient lore;
The slender columns stand like budding trees
Entwined by graceful stems of southern vines.
Throughout the year the earth spontaneous yields,
In unsown harvests, all that men require.
There golden apples glow between the leaves,
And blushing grapes from every bough hang down
And, ripening, swell luxurious as thy lips.
There, Ing'borg, there we'll build us near the wave
A little North, more beautiful than this;
And with our ever faithful love we'll fill
The radiant temple vaults, and thus delight
With human fondness the forgotten gods.
And when, with loosened sheets (no storms are there)
The sailor idly floats along our isle
In twilight's glow, and turns his joyous glance
From rosy-colored ripples to the strand,--
Upon the temple's threshold shall he see
A second Freyja, Aphrodite called
In southern tongue, and he shall wonder at
The golden locks, seen flowing in the breeze,
And eyes which brighter gleam than southern skies.
And one by one around her groweth up
A little temple-dwelling race of fairies,
With cheeks where yon might see the south had set,
In Northern snowdrifts, freshly blooming roses.
Ah! Ingeborg, how beautiful, how near.
Stands earthly happiness to faithful hearts;
If they are brave enough to seize it when disposed,
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