C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Frithiof and Ingeborg
By Esaias Tegnér (1782–1846)
T
Grew up beneath his fostering care;
Their match the North had never seen,
So nobly towered they in the green!
Its trunk a battle lance unbroke;
But helmet-like the top ascends,
As heaven’s soft breeze its arched round bends.
That other fresh young plant y-shone;
From out this rose spring yet scarce gleameth,
Within the bud it lies and dreameth.
That oak then wrestles with his foe;
Her heavenly path spring’s sun shall tread,—
Then opes that rose her lips so red!
And Frithiof was that oak the young;
The rose so brightly blooming there,
She hight was Ingeborg the fair.
To Freja’s courts thy thoughts would stray;
Where, bright-haired and with rosy pinions,
Swings many a bride pair, Love’s own minions.
Dance round beneath the leafy green,
Thou’dst say, In yon sweet garland grove
The king and queen of fairies move.
When his first rune the youth had learned!
No king’s could his bright glory reach,—
That letter would he Ing’borg teach.
His barque across the dark blue sea!
When gaily tacking Frithiof stands,
How merrily clap her small white hands!
That thither he not climbed for her;
E’en th’ eagle, as he cloudward swung,
Was plundered both of eggs and young.
O’er which he would not Ing’borg lift;
So pleasant feels, when foam-rush ’larms,
The gentle cling of small white arms!
The strawberry sweet that first grew red,
The corn-ear first in ripe gold clad,
To her he offered, true and glad.
He stands a stripling now, with eye
Of haughty fire which hopes and prayeth;
And she, with budding breast, see! strayeth.
Nor oft would hunter so have fought:
For, swordless, spearless all, he’d dare
With naked strength the savage bear;
Though torn, the bold youth masters him!
With shaggy hide now see him laden:
Such spoils refuse, how can the maiden?
Strength well is worth young beauty’s smile:
Each other suit they, fitly blending
Like helm o’er polished brows soft bending!
(The fire-hearth’s flaming blaze his light,)
A song of Valhall’s brightnesses,
And all its gods and goddesses,—
A cornland sea, breeze-waved so fair;
Sure Ing’borg’s, that like gold-net trembles
Round rose and lily, hers resembles!
How it heaves beneath her silken vest!
A silk I know, whose heave discloses
Light-fairies two with budding roses.
Blue as heaven’s cloudless canopy!
But I know eyes, to whose bright beams
The light-blue spring day darksome seems.
Fresh snows which playful north-lights dye!
I cheeks have seen whose day lights, clear,
Two dawnings blushing in one sphere.
As tender—why not so renowned?
Ah! happy Balder: ilk breast swelleth
To share the death thy scald o’ertelleth.
A faithful maid lamenting me,—
A maid like Nanna, tender, true,—
How glad I’d stay with Hel the blue!”
Sat murmuring hero-songs, and wove
Th’ adventures that her chief had seen,
And billows blue, and groves of green;
Round, gold-embroidered, shining shields,
And battle’s lances flying red,
And mail-coats stiff with silver thread:
Grows Frithiof like, weave how she will;
And as his form ’mid th’ armed host rushes,—
Though deep, yet joyful, are her blushes!
Carves I and F i’ th’ tall birch-tree;
The runes right gladly grow united,
Their young hearts like by one flame lighted.
King of the world, with golden hair,
Waking the tread of life and men,—
Each thinks but of the other then!
World’s mother with her dark-hued hair,
While stars tread soft, all hushed ’mong men,—
Each dreams but of the other then!
Thy green locks jeweling thick with flowers,—
Thy choicest give! fair weaving them,
My Frithiof shall the garland gem.”
Shine thousand pearls,—hear Love’s loud call!
Thy fairest give me, to bedeck
That whiter pearl, my Ing’borg’s neck!”
Eye of the world, bright golden Sun!
Wert thou but mine, should Frithiof wield
Thy shining disk, his shining shield.”
Thou Moon, whose beams so pale-clear roam!
Wert thou but mine, should Ing’borg wear
Thy crescent-orb among her hair.”
Turn, foster-son, thy mind away:
Had wisdom ruled, thou ne’er hadst sought her,
‘The maid,’ Fate cries, ‘is Bele’s daughter!’
Ascends her titled ancestry;
But Thorsten’s son art thou: give way!
For ‘like thrives best with like,’ they say.”
To death’s dark vale my ancestry:
Yon forest’s king late slew I; pride
Of high birth heired I with his hide.
His arm wins worlds where’er it will:
Fortune can mend as well as mar,—
Hope’s ornaments right kingly are!
Its sire, in Thrudvang’s fort gives law:
Not birth, but worth, he weighs above;
The sword pleads strongly for its love!
Though e’en the thundering god defied.
Rest thee, my lily, glad at heart;
Woe him whose rash hand would us part!”