Fridthjof's Saga

        But glad Bjorn proudly
Shouts, laughing loudly, —
“Thou asa-blood,
That trick was good!
Unseen, unfearful,
I scuttled cheerful
The ships last night;
The thought was bright!
What Ran infoldeth
I hope she holdeth,
As heretofore;
Yet pity sore,
They went to th’ bottom,
Their chief forgotten!”

        In angry mood
King Helge stood,
Scarce death-deliver’d;
His drawn bow quiver’d,
Stell-cast and round,
‘Gainst rocky ground;
Himself not knew it,
How hard he drew it,
Till th’ steel bow sprang
With snapping clang.

        But Fridthjof weigheth
His lance, and sayeth:
“Held back, this free
Death-eagle see!
If out he dashes
He mortal gashes
That tyrant-thing,
A coward king
Who needless shrinketh;
My lance ne’er drinketh
A craven’s blood.
Ay! ‘tis too good
For such achievements!
‘Mong rune-stone grievements
It carv’d may stand,
But ne’er shall brand
That scoundrel-framing
Which thy name’s shaming!
Thy manhood’s bloom
Finds shipwreck’s doom,
And ‘scaping hither
On shore, will wither.
Rust steel may break,
Not thou, — I’ll take
A mark far higher
Than base peace-buyer;
Take care how near
Thine own appear!”

        To an oar cut down, he
Then grasps a pine tree,
(That mast pine fell
In Gudbrand’s dell,)
Its mate then heaveth,
And th’ ocean cleaveth.
Strong pulls he takes, —
As reed-shaft breaks,
As cold-blade snappeth,
Each oar quick cracketh.

        Day’s orb now shin’d
Hill-tops behind;
Fresh breezes bounded
From shore, and sounded
Each wave to dance
In morning’s glance.
Where the high surge leapeth
Ellide sweepeth,
Glad stretch’d her wings, —
But Fridthjof sings: