Fridthjof's Saga, by Esaias Tegnér

 Golden mane flowing,

  Skinfaxe duteous

Draweth the spring sun more bright than before;

 Morning beams glowing

  Doubly as beauteous,

Sport in the hall; — there’s a knock at the door.

 Though his heart grieveth,

  Enters the stranger;

Pale sits the king, while the queen’s gentle breast

 Billow-like heaveth;

  Singeth the ranger

A song of departure, with sorrow oppressed.

 “Bathes now the billow

  Winged steed flying,

Sea-horse is longing to flee from the strand;

 Glad will he follow

  Him who is hieing

Far from his home and his well beloved land.

 “The arm-ring I give thee,

  Ing’borg, receive it.

Holiest memories with it remain.

 Ne’er let it leave thee:

  Fridthjof, believe me

Truly forgives. Thou’lt not see him again.

 “No more beholding

  The smoke’s upward motion

Northland I’ll see. Truly man is a slave;

 Fate is unyielding;

  Far on the ocean

There is my fatherland, there is my grave.

 “When in your roaming

  Stars the vault cover,

Go not with Ingeborg down to the strand;

 Lest in the gloaming

  You should discover

Fridthjof, the outlawed, cast up on the sand.”

 “Sad is the hearing,”

  Ring said, replying,

“When a man moans like a weak maiden’s sigh.

 Valhal is nearing,

  E’en now the sighing

Death song I hear. Every mortal must die.

 “No one can frighten,

  Or by complaining

Change the allotment the norns have set down;

 Sorrow thou’lt lighten

  O’er the land reigning, —

Take thou my queen, for my son guard the crown.

 “True is it spoken,

  Loved and respected

Peaceful I’ve reigned, over mountain and vale;

 Yet have I broken

  Shields, unprotected,

Landward and seaward, without turning pale.

 “Now shall the bleeding

  Geirs-odd relieve me, —

Dying in bed ill befits Northland’s kings;

 Not worth my heeding,

  Death shall receive me, —

Life’s pain is equal to that which death brings.”

 Then carved he rightly

  Letters all glowing, —

Death runes to Odin on arm and on chest;

 Shine now so brightly

  Blood-drops o’erflowing,

Dyeing the silvery hair on his breast.

 “Bring for my drinking

  The horn with wine flowing;

Skoal to thy honor, thou land of my birth!

 Minds deeply thinking,

  Harvest fields growing, —

Peaceful exploits have I loved on the earth.

 “Vain amid slaughter

  Bloody and daring,

Sought I for peace, — she fled in dismay.

 Now the mild daughter

  Of heaven appearing,

Beckons me hence to Valhal away.

 “Hail ye immortals!

  Sons of high heaven!

Earth disappears; Gjallarhorn to a feast

 Opens the portals;

  By the gods given,

Blessedness crowns as a helmet the guest!”

 Speaking intently,

  Ing’borg’s hand loyal,

Also his son’s, and his friend’s, too, he pressed;

 Eyelids close gently, —

  Spirit so royal

Flies with a sigh to the Allfather’s breast.