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Page 25
Fridthjof.
And wherefore must?
Because a sleepless night disturbed thy mind?
Ingeborg.
Because my honor must be saved, and thine.
Fridthjof.
A woman's honor rests on manly love.
Ingeborg.
Not long loves he whom he cannot respect.
Fridthjof.
Respect is not by fickle fancy gained.
Ingeborg.
A sense of justice is a noble fancy.
Fridthjof.
Our love strove not with justice yesterday.
Ingeborg.
Nor love to day, but all the more our flight.
Fridthjof.
Necessity commands our flight,--Oh, come!
Ingeborg.
What's right and noble, that's necessity.
Fridthjof.
High rides the sun and time is fleeting by.
Ingeborg.
Ah, me, it has gone by, gone by forever!
Fridthjof.
Consider well. Is that thy last resolve?
Ingeborg.
I have considered well; it is my last.
Frydthjof.
Farewell then, fare thee well, king Helge's sister.
Ingeborg.
Oh, Fridthjof! Fridthjof! must we separate thus?
Hast thou indeed no friendly glance to give
Thy childhood's friend; no kindly hand to reach
To the unfortunate, once so beloved?
Think'st thou I stand on roses here, and turn
Away with smiles my happiness for life?
And that I pangless tear from out my breast
A hope that hath with my affections grown?
Oh! wert thou not my heart's own morning dream?
Each joy that I have known was Fridthjof named,
And all of life that great or noble seemed,
Did Fridthjof's likeness take before mine eyes.
Bedim the image not: oh, do not meet
With cruelty the weak one offering up
The dearest thing upon the face of earth.
The dearest thing that Valhal's gods can give!
That offering, Fridthjof, is severe enough.
And words of consolation well deserves.
I know thou lovest me--that I have known
E'er since my being first began to dawn;
And Ing'borg's thoughts will surely follow thee
For years to come wherever thou may'st go.
The clang of warlike weapons deadens grief.
'Tis blown away upon the wild, wild waves,
Nor ventures to return when champions all
Their victory celebrate with drinking horn.
Yet sometimes, then, when in the peace of night,
Thy thoughts review again forgotten days,
There will among them glide an image pale,
Thou knowest well; it fondly greeteth thee
From regions dear; it is the image of
That virgin pale in Balder's holy grove.
Thou must not drive it thence away, although
It looketh sorrowful, but whisper kind
Into its ear a friendly word; the winds
Of night on faithful wings will bear it me;
One comfort yet, I have none else beside.
For me there's naught to dissipate my grief;
In all surrounding me it hath a tongue;
The holy temple vaults speak but of thee:
The temple's God, which should all threatening seem,
Thy likeness takes when shines the streaming moon.
Behold the sea--there swam thy keel through foam
To her who on the strand awaited thee;
Behold the woods--there stand so many stems
With Ing'borg's runes engraven in the bark;
Now grows the bark and wears away my name,
And that betokens death, the sagas say.
I ask the day when last it saw thy form,
I ask the night, but both are silent still:
And e'en the sea which bears thee, gives reply
But with a solemn sigh along the shore.
With evening's ruddy glow I'll send to thee
A greeting, when it sinks into thy waves.
And heaven's long ship, the fleeting cloud, shall take
On board the wail of the abandoned one.
So shall I sit within my virgin bower,
In mourning clad, of all life's joy bereft,
And broken lilies sew into the cloth,
Until the Spring its cloth doth weave, and sew
It full of better lilies on my grave.
And when I sadly take the harp to sing
Unending sorrow in profoundest tones,
Then burst the burning tears as now--
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