[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.
With the spring doves
Fridthjof will come, but the maiden he loves
Cannot in hall or dell meet him,
Lovingly greet him.
Buried she sleeps,
Dead for her love's sake, or bleeding she weeps,
Heart-broken, given by her brother
Unto another.