The ocean billows fret and foam no more,
But softly rush towards the pebbled shore,
On which the lindens stand, in many a group,
With leafy boughs that o’er the waters droop.
There floats one single cloudlet in the blue,
Close where the pale moon shows her face anew:
It is Minona dying there that flies,—
She sinks not!—no—she mounts unto the skies.
FRIDLEIF AND HELGA.
FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLÆGER.
The woods were in leaf, and they cast a sweet shade;
Among them walk’d Helga, the beautiful maid.
The water is dashing o’er yon little stones;
She sat down beside it, and rested her bones.
She sat down, and soon, from a bush that was near,
Sir Fridleif approach’d her with sword and with spear:
“Ah, pity me, Helga, and fly me not now,
I live, only live, on the smile of thy brow:
“In thy father’s whole garden is found not a rose,
Which bright as thyself, and as beautiful grows.”
“Sir Fridleif, thy words are but meant to deceive,
Yet tell me what brings thee so late here at eve.”
“I cannot find rest, and I cannot find ease,
Though sweet sing the linnets among the wild trees;
“If thou wilt but promise, one day to be mine,
No more shall I sorrow, no more shall I pine.”