BLANKA. [Draws near.] Forgive me, father! I merely followed for a space the swan, That sailed on snowy wings across the sea.
RODERIK. And if I had not stopped you in your flight, My young and pretty little swan! who knows How far you might have flown away from me,— Perchance to Thule?
BLANKA. And indeed why not? To Thule flies the swan in early spring, If only to return again each fall.
[Seats herself at his feet.]
BLANKA. Yet I—I am no swan,—no, call me rather A captured falcon, sitting tame and true, A golden ring about his foot.
RODERIK. Well,—and the ring?
BLANKA. The ring? That is my love for you, dear father! With that you have your youthful falcon bound, I cannot fly,—not even though I wished to.
[Rises.]
BLANKA. But when I see the swan sail o'er the wave, Light as a cloud before the summer wind, Then I remember all that you have told Of the heroic life in distant Thule; Then, as it seems, the bird is like a bark With dragon head and wings of burnished gold; I see the youthful hero in the prow, A copper helmet on his yellow locks, With eyes of blue, a manly, heaving breast, His sword held firmly in his mighty hand. I follow him upon his rapid course, And all my dreams run riot round his bark, And frolic sportively like merry dolphins In fancy's deep and cooling sea!
RODERIK. O you,— You are an ardent dreamer, my good child,— I almost fear your thoughts too often dwell Upon the people in the rugged North.