The cheeks of the beautiful queen turn pale;
Then comes like a whirlwind the skater in mail.
He buries his skate in the ice, to clasp
The steed's flowing mane in his iron grasp.
With one single effort his arm the swings,
And charger and sled to the firm ice brings.
"That stroke," said Ring, "was a noble one,—
Not Fridthjof, the strong, could have better done."
So they all returned to the house of the king,—
The stranger remaining until the spring.
XIX.
FRIDTHJOF'S TEMPTATION.
Spring is coming, song-birds twitter, woods are leafing, smiles the sun;
Dancing downward, toward the ocean, see the loosened rivers run;
Glowing like the cheeks of Freyja, from the buds the roses ope,—
Hearts of men to life awaken, full of courage, love and hope.
Ho! the chase! the aged monarch with his queen will go to-day;
Now in crowds the court assembles, waiting in confused array,—
Bows are clanging, quivers rattling, steeds impatient paw the ground;
Hooded falcons, wildly shrieking, make the echoing hills resound.
See! the queen appears! Poor Fridthjof, do not thither cast your eye;
Sits she on her milk-white palfrey like a star in spring's clear sky,—
Half a Freyja, half a Rota,—lovelier far than either one,—
From her dainty hat of purple, plumes are waving in the sun.