And th' eternal sun of midnight bathed them in its fitful glow—
She a maid of eighteen summers, fresh and fair as Norway's spring;
Tall and dark-browed he, like pine-woods in whose gloom the Hulders[1] sing,
When in silence,
Deep-toned silence,
Night lets droop her dusky wing.
It was now that he must leave her, and the waves and tempest breast:
Heavy-hearted sat they, gazing on the Yokul's flaming crest;
And she spoke: "O Ragnas, never, while yon airy peak shall gleam
O'er our home, shall I forget thee or our childhood's blissful dream,