Viking Tales of the North
Fridthjof's Saga
Bjorn and Fridthjof.
Fridthjof.
Billows, at best, are tumultuous urchins;
Northalnd’s firm, fast-rooted, dear belov’d mountains
Wondrously tempt me, afar though they be.
Happy whom never his land has outdriven,
None ever chas’d from his father’s green grave!
Ah! too long , yes too long, have I striven,
Peaceless and sad, on this ocean’s wild wave!
Freedom and gladness abide on its breast;
Nothing know I of weak womanish rest,
Onward I love with the billows to wander.
When I am old, on the blossoming earth
I, too, will grow soil-fast as the grass is;
Goblet and battle shall now be my mirth;
Now I’ll enjoy each young hour as it passes!
See! round our keel the big waves lie all lifeless.
Winter I waste not, the long and the strifeless,
Here ‘mong the rocks of a desolate strand.
Yule shall again in the Northland delight me,
Guesting with Ring and the bride that he stole.
Yes! I’ll again view those locks streaming brightly;
Tones still so lov’d shall yet speak to my soul!
Ring shall acknowledge a viking’s dire.
Sudden at midnight his palace we’ll fire;
First burn the old warrior, the ravish the beauty.
Haply it chances in vikinga-wise,
Isle-duel worthy the chieftain thou deemest;
Or, thou mayst challenge to host-fight on ice;
Say! I’m prepar’d for whatever thou schemest!
Peaceful I go. The good king has not wrong’d me;
She, too, is guiltless. Yes! gods avenge strongly —
I their insulter — the crime they abhor.
Little on earth may I hope. There remaineth
Now but to part from the bride I hold dear.
Part, ah! for aye. when soft spring again reigneth,
Then, if not sooner, I haste to thee here.
What! for a woman lament so sore!
Women, good lack! the whole earth swarm o’er;
Thousands, one gone, will soon banish thy sadness.
Quick, if thou wilt, where the south sun glows;
Cargoes as lambs and as red as the rose,
Gentle as lambs and as red as the rose,
Then draw me lots, or divide them like brothers.
Boldness in fight, skill in counsel, thou showest;
Odin and Thor both together thou knowest;
Freyja, the heav’nly, thou dost not obey.
- Speak we not
now of the power each god keepeth;
Sooner or later, the sparkle that sleepeth
Wakes in the bosom of gods and of men.
Blood-eagle lines on thy foe shall be flowing.
Hears he no longer than I. Farewell!
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