The one a sturdy oak tree grew,
With lance-like stem so straight and true,
Its crown in northern tempests shaking
Like helmet plume in battle quaking.
The other like a rose sprang forth
When tardy winter leaves the north,
And spring, which in the buds lies dreaming,
Still waits with gems to set them gleaming.
Around the earth the storm-king raves,
The wrestling oak its anger braves;
The sun dissolves frost's mantle hoary,
The buds reveal their hidden glory.
So they grew up in joy and glee,
And Fridthjof was the young oak tree;
Unfolding in the vale serenely,
The rose was Ingeborg the queenly.
Saw you those two by light of day
You seem in Freyja's house to stay,
Where bride-pairs, golden-haired, were swinging,
Their way on rosy pinions winging.
But seeing them by moonlight pale
Round dancing in the leafy vale,
You'd think: The elf-king now advances,
And leads his queen in fairy dances.
How joyful 'twas, how lovely too,
When firs[ he learned his futhorc through;
No kings had e'er such honor brought them
As when to Ingeborg he taught them.
How joyously his boat would glide
With those two o'er the dark blue tide:
While he the driving sail was veering,
Her small white hands gave hearty cheering.
No bird's nest found so high a spot,
That he for her could find it not;
The eagle's nest from clouds he sundered,
And eggs and young he deftly plundered.
However swift, there ran no brook,
But o'er it Ingeborg he took;
How sweet when roaring torrents frighten,
To feel her soft arms round him tighten.