“Go to Bele’s sons and warn them,
Peasants love not those who scorn them;
 To their power I bid defiance,
  Their behests will not obey.” 
“In thy chosen way abide thee,
For thy wrath I can not chide thee;
 Odin must be our reliance,”
  Hilding said, and went his way.

VII.

Fridthjof’s Happiness.

King Bele’s sons may go requesting
 From dale to dale the peasants’ aid,
In Balder’s grove my world is resting,
 For them I will not draw my blade. 
Then on king’s vengeance or earth’s sadness,
 I will no longer look or think,
But only will the high gods’ gladness,
 From out one cup with Ing’borg drink.

While yet the hazy sunshine sendeth
 Its purple rays on flowers at rest,
Like rosy gossamer which lendeth
 An added charm to Ing’borg’s breast,
With sighs along the strand I wander,
 My soul with longing all aflame,
Upon the sand I gaze and ponder
 And with my sword write Ing’borg’s name.

How slowly go the lonesome hours! 
 Thou Delling’s son, why stayest thou? 
Hast thou not seen our mountain bowers,
 Our lakes and islands until now? 
Dwells there in western halls no maiden
 Who waits since morn first kissed the sea,
Upon thy breast her joys to unladen,
 Whose whole of life is love and thee?

At last thy footsteps grow uncertain,
 Thy weary journey thou must close,
Now evening draws the rosy curtain,
 Behind whose folds the gods repose. 
The brooks and breezes to each other
 In softest whispers love express;
O! welcome Night, of gods the mother,
 With pearls upon thy wedding dress.

The stars are gliding like a lover
 On tiptoe to a maiden true;
Ellide! fly the deep gulf over,
 Roll on, roll on, ye billows blue. 
Yon sacred grove a temple hideth,
 Good Balder’s temple, doubly dear,
For there love’s goddess safe abideth,
 Unto the gods our course we steer.

Thy shores I tread with joyous measure,
 I kiss thy brown cheek, smiling earth,
And all ye little flowers, with treasure
 Of white and red, that edge my path. 
I hail thee, moon, with pale light streaming
 On temple-grove and flowers at rest,
How beautiful thou sittest dreaming
 Like Saga at a wedding feast.

To speak with flowers, O, brook, who taught thee
 The feeling in my heart a guest? 
Ye northern nightingales, where caught ye
 The wailing stolen from my breast? 
With evening’s red the fairies playing,
 In clouds my Ing’borg’s form disclose,
But Freyja, jealousy displaying. 
 Away the image quickly blows.

Though changing clouds lose her resemblance,
 Like radiant hope herself appears,
As true as childhood’s sweet remembrance,
 She comes, my love’s reward she bears. 
Come, loved one, come, and let me press thee
 Unto the heart that holds thee dear,
My soul’s desire, through life, I’ll bless thee,
 Come to my arms, and rest thee here.