Classic Poem

The heavens are blue; the spring resumes her reign,
And blooming flow'rets deck the verdant plain.
In warmest accent Frithiof thanks his friend,
And homeward now prepares his course to bend.
In pride and beauty gliding o'er the main,
His black swan tracks her well-known path again.
The western breezes, ever fresh in spring,
Like nightingales through all the canvass sing
In azure garments Agir's daughters now,
Dance gaily round the gallant vessel's prow.
Ah! happy he, who, from a distant strand
As breezes waft him to his native land,
Watches the smoke that from his hearth ascends,
While memory to the scene her brightest halo lends!
There the cool fountain, as it gently plays,
Brings to his thought long vanish'd childhood's days
And there he sees the fav'rite sunny bower,
Where once so gaily pass'd each rapid hour,
When his fond parents view'd his infant game,
And, smiling, prophecied his future fame.
And does his maiden strain her anxious eye
From yonder rock, and breathe a tender sigh?
For six days Frithiof wander'd on the main,
The seventh day came: is that the land again?
On the horizon a blue ridge appears:
Yes! there are islands, mountains, and a strand!
It is—it is his own dear native land!
Her forests green now wave upon his sight;
He hears her torrents, foaming, swift and bright,
He views the rock with its broad marble breast:
He hails the bay,—Ellida there may rest.
And now he welcomes Balder's well-known grove,
That spot is hallow'd too by earthly love:
Oh there, beneath the moon's transparent light,
With Ingeborg he bless'd the happy night.
Why comes she not? ah, surely she must know
That he, her lover, is approaching now!
The maid perchance has left those sacred bowers,
And in the palace, to beguile the hours,
Sings to her magic lute, or 'broiders golden flowers.

Lo! from the temple's roof his falcon bends
His rapid flight, and on the ship descends.
He takes his place, as wont, on Frithiof's arm,
And flaps his wings as if he felt alarm:
What mutters he in the young chieftain's ear?
Say, does he wish thus to reveal his fear,
Or from the maid a tender message bear?
Frithiof in vain his meaning strives to guess
Those broken accents nothing can express.

The rocky point the vessel doubles now,
And bounds like chamois on the mountain's brow:
Ellida surely must with transport feel
The well-known billows that now lave her keel
On the deck Frithiof stands: he rubs his eyes;
Why does not Framnæs on that height arise?
Ha! is that dark and murky pile his home,
That stands like skeleton in warrior's tomb?
There once the garden bloom'd, but now he finds
A heap of ashes, that the wanton winds
Still waft in all direction o'er the plain:
He strains his sight; alas; it is in vain!
He quits the vessel: Frithiof, why this haste?
Thy fertile dales are now a dreary waste:
Hoist all thy sails, fly quickly from the place!
Seek not the ruins of thy hall to trace!

Bran hears his step, and flies to meet him now,
That faithful dog may well the master know,
With whom so oft he plung'd into a lair,
To combat fiercely with the shaggy bear;
One bound he makes, and leaps on Frithiof's breast.
His horse comes next, milk-white, with golden crest;
Swan-like his neck, and stag-like was his speed;
Much Frithiof lov'd to mount this noble steed;
He gallops towards his lord in playful mood,
And seeks, as whilom, in his hand for food
Alas! still poorer than his courser now,
Nought has the wretched Frithiof to bestow.
He stays his footstep,—gazes all around:
Nor wall, nor roof in his domain are found!

Is that old Hilding slowly moving there,
His foster-father with his silver hair?
“I marvel not, my sire,” did Frithiof say,
“At the vast ruin that I now survey.
'Tis when the eagle's absent from the soil,
That coward ruffians dare his nest to spoil.
This deed is worthy of the king, I trow,
Who to protect his subjects made a vow
Well has he kept his royal promise now!
But first resolve me, quickly too, I pray!
Where is my Ingeborg, oh Hilding, say!”

“My son, the tale that thou alas must hear,
Will yield no solace to thine anxious ear.
Scarce had thy footsteps left thy native land,
When Ring, with all his forces, reach'd our strand:
To one of ours their bucklers number'd five:
But still for honor we were bound to strive.
At Disarsala was the battle fought,
Beside the stream, whose waters all were fraught
With blood-stain'd carcases, which floated fast
To the cold ocean's bed,—their home—the last.
Halfdan, as wont, was playful even then,
But still he fought as suiteth valiant men:
With joy his youthful courage I beheld,
And o'er the prince my shield I ever held.
A combat so unequal could not last.
King Helge fled; but as he Framnæs past,
The Asas' worthy kinsman fir'd thy hall:
Well may that deed thy startled sight appall!
One choice remains: the brothers must decide
To give king Ring fair Ingeborg as bride,
Or yield their crown and kingdom to the foe
The messengers arriv'd—departed too,—
The proffer'd terms the king accepted straight;
Across the sea Ring bore his royal mate.”

“Oh woman! woman! have I been deceiv'd!”
Thus Frithiof cried. “A lie first Lok conceiv'd,
And this, so cunning was devis'd the plan,
He cloth'd in woman's shape, and sent to man.
In woman's shape its subtle form it rears;
A blue-eyed lie, that with deceitful tears
To frenzy fires, or lulls him to repose
A snowy-bosom'd lie, with cheeks of rose.
With virtue, stable as a frost in May,
And constancy, such as the winds display.
With vanity her thoughts for ever swell,
And on her lips deceit and falsehood dwell.
Yet I adored her; yes—and love her still:
Her image ever must my bosom fill.
Nor can I now recall the distant day
When first I lov'd her: in our childish play
She was my bride: I struggled in no cause,
But with the hope of winning her applause.
When two young trees, united at their root,
Cling fast together as their branches shoot,—
If Thor one tree with his fierce lightning sears,
The other droops: but if one green appears,
The other too puts forth its verdant pride:—
Thus did we also grief and joy divide.
I cannot bear the thought that she is gone
I cannot bear to feel that I'm alone.
And, puissant Var! who journey'st here below,
To note and register each human vow
On thy bright, golden tablet; oh, give o'er
The hopeless task! thy graver use no more!
What canst thou now upon that page retrace,
But acts that would its purity disgrace?

“I've heard the poets sing of Nanna's love,—
But when did mortals ever constant prove?
If Ingeborg has play'd a treacherous part,
Truth dwells no longer in the human heart.
What, could her voice, her gentle voice deceive?
Its tone was like the sighs that zephyrs heave,
When blooming roses all their charms disclose;
Or like the sound from Braga's harp that flows.
Yet will I now no more that music hear;
No more on the false bride bestow a tear—
Or e'en a thought: henceforward will I go,
Where most the billows foam, and tempests blow
And, ocean! oft shalt thou with gore discolor'd flow.
Wherever slaughter rages most, in vale
Or mountain, shall my presence never fail;
Woe to the scepter'd tyrant, who in fight
Dares to encounter Frithiof's deadly might!
Woe to each youth I meet, whose bosom heaves
A tender sigh,—or woman's faith believes!
Deaf to each prayer, I'll cleave the stripling's head,
And, in compassion, join him to the dead;
I'll spare the wretch the pain one day to be
Despised, forsaken, and betray'd like me.”

“In youthful veins how hot does ever flow
The tide of blood! and nought but age's snow
Can cool the flame:” thus Hilding calmly said.
“Wrong not, I pray, that noble-minded maid!
The Nornas blame! her efforts were in vain:
None heard the princess of her fate complain:
Silent she was, like Vidar in the tale;
Yet as the ring dove does her mate bewail,
Thus wept she still: to me she told her grief,
And from my counsels only sought relief.
As when the water bird receives a wound,
He plunges straight in ocean's caves profound,
That the fierce ardor of the summer days
May not inflame the sore; and there he stays,
And bleeds, and dies,—his torments all unknown:
Thus Ingeborg—in deepest shades—alone—
Conceal'd from others, but to me exprest
The poignant, bitter grief that prey'd upon her breast.
‘I am victim whom the Gods demand,’
'Twas thus she said, ‘to save King Bele's land.
I fain would die; but Balder in his ire,
Does a more painful sacrifice require:
Still death must come, although his step be slow,
For her whose veins such strong pulsation know.
I ask not pity for my breaking heart;
King Bele's child must nobly play her part.
Salute my Frithiof—for alas! no more
Shall I behold the hero I adore!’

“The marriage day arrived: oh, could I tear
The records which that day's occurrence bear!
Warriors with swords, and virgins rob'd in white—
A long procession—now appear in sight.
Their course they slowly to the temple bend,
By scalds preceded, who their harpings lend.
On a black courser rode the mournful bride;
No smile betray'd a royal consort's pride;
Pale was her cheek, and deadly white her brow,
E'en as we see the lightning's vivid glow
Cast a pale glimmer o'er a midnight cloud,
While echoes through the sky the thunder's accent loud.
I aided my sweet lily to descend,
And to the altar, where the priests attend,
I led her through the temple's massive door.
Her vow to Lofn she calm repeated o'er;
And to great Balder when she kneels in prayer,
All present weep and in her sorrow share.
But Helge saw that on her arm she wore.
Thy bracelet: pale with anger, off he tore
That jewel, which is deem'd a magic charm,
And plac'd it on the Asa's outstretch'd arm.
At this base act my blood was boiling too;
From out the scabbard half my sword I drew,
And Helge, he whom all regard with dread,
Had by my hand been number'd with the dead,
But Ingeborga murmur'd in mine ear;
“Be calm, my friend! this hallow'd spot revere!
The cup of bitterness I'm doom'd to drain:
A brother might have spar'd his sister pain,—
But Alfader will judge between us twain.”

“Yes, Alfader shall judge! and Frithiof too
Shall make that royal priest his action rue!
This is the feast of Midsummer; to night
Is held of Balder the mysterious rite:
He will be there, no doubt—the wretch who sold
His sister's happiness for sordid gold.
No more! this night his judge shall Helge see;
And fell and bloody shall that judgment be!”