From the hill he Birting stretch’d,
Plac’d the hilt within his grasp:
“Strong of hand and valiant stand,
That thy foes before thee gasp.”
From the hill he Birting stretch’d,
Plac’d the hilt within his hold:
“Save good fate on thee await,
I shall never be consol’d.”
INGEBORG’S LAMENTATION.
From the Swedish of Tegner.
(An extract from Frithiof’s Saga.)
Autumn winds howl;
Ocean is swelling so stormy.—My soul,
Would with the sighs which I utter
Forth thou wouldst flutter!
Long did I view
Far in the West the sail which flew—
Happy my Frithiof to follow
O’er the wave hollow!
Blue billow run
O not so high, for it still sails on!
Stars, for my mariner sparkle,
As the nights darkle!
Spring will appear.
He will come home, but unmet by his dear
Or in the hall, or the dingle,
Or on the shingle.
She’ll lie in mould,
All for her love’s sake, pallid and cold,
Or she will bleed, by no other
Slain than her brother.
Hawk, left behind!
Thou shalt be mine and I’ll prove ever kind:
Ever, wing’d hunter, I’ll scatter
Food on thy platter.