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Viking Tales of the North

Fridthjof's Saga

Canto XXII.

The Election to the Kingdom.

I.

To thing, away oer dale an hill
The fire-cross speeds;
King Ring is dead, his throne to fill
A diet needs.

II.

To his wall-hung sword each yeoman flies,
        Its steel is blue,
And quick its edge his finger tries,
        It bites right true.

III.

On shine, so steel-blue, joyful gaze
        His laughing boys;
The blades too big for one to raise,
        It two employs.

IV.

From spot and stain his daughter frees
        The helm with care;
But how she blushes, when she sees
        Her image there!

V.

His shields round fence, a sun in blood,
        Last guards his mail.
Hail iron-limbed freeman! warrior good!
        Hail, yeoman, hail!

VI.

Thy countrys honor, glory, all,
        Thee gone, would cease;
In battle still thy brave lands wall,
        Its voice in peace!

VII.

Thus gather they, with clang of shields
        And arms hoarse sound,
In open, thing, for heavns blue field
        Sole roof them around.

VIII.

But, standing on the thing-stone there,
        See Frithjof hold
(A child as yet) the kings young heir,
        With locks of gold.

IX.

To youngs that prince, loud murmur then
        The assembled throng;
Nor judge hell be among his men,
        Nor war-chief strong.

X.

But Fridthjof on his shield lifts high
        The son of Ring;
Northmen! nor yet your lands hopes die,
        See here you king!

XI.

See here old Odins awful race
        In image bright;
The shield he treads with youthful grace,
        So fish swims light.

XII.

I swear his kingdome to protect
        With sword and spear;
Till, with his fathers gold-wreath deckd,
        I crown him here!

XIII.

Forsete, Balders high-born son,
        Hath heard mine oath;
Strike dead, Forset, if eer Im won
        To break my troth!

XIV.

But thrond king-like, the lad sat proud
        On shield-floor high;
So the eaglet glad, from rock-hung could,
        The sun will eye!

XV.

At length this place his young blood found
        Too dull to keep;
And, with one spring, he gains the ground,
        A royal leap!

XVI.

Then rose loud shots from all the thing,
        We Northmen free,
Elect thee shields-borne youth! like Ring,
        Thy father, be!


XVII.

Neath Fridthjofs guardian counsels live,
        Thy realm his care;
Jarl Fridthjof, as thy bride we give
        His mother fair!

XVIII.

To-day, the frowning chief replied,
        A king we choose,
Not marry; when I take my bride,
        None for me woos.

XIX.

To Balders sacred grove I go;
        The norns, I dread,
I swore should there be met, and how
        They wait my tread.

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