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Page 26
Fridthjof.
Thou conquerest, Bele's daughter, weep no more!
Forgive my wrath, it was alone my sorrow
Which for a moment took a wrathful dress, -
A wrathful dress it cannot long endure.
Thou art my kindest norn, my Ingeborg.
A noble mind best teaches what is noble.
Necessity's real wisdom cannot have
A fairer, better advocate than thou,
Thou beauteous vala with the rosy lips!
I yield indeed unto necessity;
I part with thee but part not with my hope;
I'll take it with me over western waves,
I'll take it with me to the gates of death.
The nearest spring-day sees me here again:
King Helge, so I hope, shall see me too.
Then from my promise freed, his bidding done,
The calumny against me, too, atoned,
Then I'll request thee,--nay but I'll demand
In open council and with naked swords,
And not of Helge but of Northland's sons.
Who only can dispose a princess' hand;
I have a word for him who dare refuse.
Farewell till then; be true, forget me not,
And take in memory of our childhood's love,
My arm-ring here, a beauteous Volund-work,
With heaven's wonders graven in the gold;
The best of wonders is a faithful heart.
How well it suits thine arm so snowy-white--
A glow-worm coiled around the lily's stem!
Farewell, my bride, my loved one, fare thee well.
Ere many moons our mournful lot will change.
[He goes.]
Ingeborg.
How glad, how trusting, and of hope how full!
He sets the glittering point of his good sword
Against the norns, and says: "Ye must retreat!"
Thou wretched Fridthjof, the norns will ne'er retreat;
They go their way and laugh at Angervadil.
How little knowest thou my gloomy brother.
Thy brave, heroic temper fathoms not
The awful depths of his, nor understands
The hate that in his envious bosom burns.
His sister's hand he'll never give to thee;
He'd sooner give his crown, pour out his life,
Of me an offering make to Odin old,
Or to old Ring, whom now he fights against.
Wherever I may look, no hope is found,--
Yet am I glad hope lives within thy breast.
In secret will I keep my poor heart's wound,
And pray that all the good gods follow thee.
Here on thine arm-ring can I reckon up
Each separate month of all this lonesome sorrow.
In two, four, six,--then can'st thou come again,
But can'st not find again thine Ingeborg.
IX.
INGEBORG'S LAMENT.
Autumn has come;
Storming now heaveth the deep sea with foam,
Yet would I gratefully lie there,
Willingly die there.
Long gleamed his sail,
Flying to westward before the fierce gale;
Fortunate, Fridthjof to follow
O'er the wild billow.
Swell not so high,
Billows of blue with your deafening cry!
Stars lend assistance, a shining
Pathway defining.
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