Fridthjof's Saga

Upstanding, ask’d, with words and looks, consent.
In vain, in vain! But wasted was each prayer —
Like sunshine lavish’d on the naked rock,
No harvest tempting from its barren bosom.
Thus cold, thus hard, was Helge’s gloomy brow,
Still like itself — a chilling “No!” to mercy.
“The peasant’s son,” so, scornful glancing, spoke he,
“Might Ing’borg claim, but thou, the temlple-forcer,
Art scarce, methinks, a match for Valhal’s child.
Say, Fridthjof, Balder’s peace hast thou not broken,
Not seen my sister in his house, while Day
Concealed himself, abash’d, before your meeting?
Speak! yea or nay!” Then echoed from the ring
Of crowded warriors, “Say but nay, say nay!”
Thy simple word we’ll trust; we’ll court for thee, —
Thou, Thorstein’s son, art good as any king’s.
Say nay, say nay! and thine is Ingeborg!”
“The happiness,” I answered, “of my life
On one word hangs; but fear not therefore, Helge!
I would not lie to gain the joys of Valhal,
Much less this earth’s delights. I’ve seen thy sister,
Have spoken with her in the temple’s night,
But have not, therefore, broken Balder’s peace!”
More none would hear. A murmur of deep horror
The diet traversed; they who nearest stood
Drew back, as I had with the plague been smitten.
And, when I round me gaz’d, pale superstition
Had lam’d each tongue, and white-limn’d ev’ry cheek
But late with cheerful hope so brightly blooming.
Then conquer’d Helge. With a voice as hoarse
And gloomy as dead vala’s when to Odin
She sang, in Vegtamsqvida, how destruction
Should whelm his asas and how Hel should triumph,
So hoarse he spoke: “By our great father’s laws
To banishment or death I could condemn thee
For this thy crime; but mild as is that Balder
Whose shrine thou insultedst shall my judgement be.
Far westward lieth, garlanding broad ocean
An isle group govern’d by jarl Angantyr.
His gold the jarl paid yearly in the days
Of Bele’s reign, but now keeps back his tribute.
Away, then, o’er the sea! Collect the money —
This penance fix I for thy hardihood!
‘Tis said,” he added, with mean scoundrel-scorn,
“That Angantyr’s hard-handed, and stis brooding
Like Fafner, that famed dragon, o’er his gold.
But who can face our Sigurd, bane of Fafner?
Now, an thou wilt an exploit dare, more manly
Than witching timid girls in Balder’s grove.
Till summer breathe again, we’ll here await thee
With all thy fame, and with the gold in special;
Else, Fridthjof, art thou doom’d a branded coward,
And exil’d all thy days from this our land!”
His verdict thus he gave, and clos’d the diet.