Viking Tales of the North
Fridthjof's Saga
Canto
XIX.
Page
1
Fridthjof’s Temptation.
I.
Spring
is come; birds sweetly warble, smiles the
sun, the woods are green,----
And, unchained, the murm’ring streamlets dancing sea-
ward down are seen.
Glowing red as Freyja’s cheeks, young op’ning rosebuds
freshly part,
And to life’s glad joys, to hope and courage, wakes man’s
heaven-touched heart.
attend the sport,
And in motley groups, assembles gay deck’d, thronging,
all the court.
Bows are clattering, quivers rattle, fiery coursers paw
the ground, —
And th’ impatient hooded falcon screams upon his prey
to bound.
ah! nor look, nor heed!
Star-like on a spring-cloud resting, so she sits her milk-
white steed.
Half a Freyja, half a Rota, both eclips’d if she ware by, —
From her rich, light, purple bonnet, plumes blue-tinted
Wave on high.
Look not on those eyes’ bright azure! look not on those
locks of gold!
Ah! beware that waist — ‘tis tapering; nor such round,
Full breasts behold!
Gaze not at the rose and lily on her changing cheek
that meet!
List not to that voice so clear, like spring’s soft music
sighing sweet!
hill and dale
Horns sound shrilly, and straight up to Odin’s hall the
glad hawks sail, —
Quick to lair and covert fly the screaming game from
such affray;
But with outstretch’d spear the fair valkyrie gallops on
her prey.
longer keep;
Fridthjof only, dark-brow’d, silent, near him rides as
forth they sweep;
Sad, sore, gloomy thoughts are rising thickly in his
troubled breast, —
And go where he will, still croak they, mutt’ring cease-
less words unblest.
blind;
Grief fares hardly on the billows, scatter’d by the
fresh’ning wind.
Droops the troubled viking, — danger soon to tread the
war-dance charms;
And away his black dreams vanish, dazzled by the glance
of arms.
their wings
Fultt’ring round my burning forehead. Trance-like are
my wanderings;
Balder’s sanctuary never can forgotten be, — not yet
The oath she sware, — not she, no! no! the cruel gods
have broken it.
wrathful look.
Fiends! to plant in winter’s bosom rosebud mine they
grimly took;
Winter! he the rose’s guardian! — what! his heart to feel
its price!
No! bud, leaf and stalk his cold breath slow enfrosts
with glitt’ring ice!”
rocks among,
Birch and elm high o’er a valley darkly-cluster’d shadows
flung.
“See this pleasant dell, how cool!” the king, his charger
leaving, said;
“Come! I’m wearied, — here I’ll slumber; yon green bank
shall be my bed.”
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