Oh, weep not, love, those tears regretful,
 While through my heart the life-blood streams;
But sweetly sleep,—­of grief forgetful
 May love and Fridthjof fill thy dreams. 
Oh! when thine arms thou foldest round me,
 When thy dear eyes but look on me,
How quickly breaks the spell that bound me,
 How turn my thoughts from heaven to thee!

“List to the lark’s melodious numbers.” 
 Nay, ’tis a dove his love-song sings,
The lark on yonder hillock slumbers,
 Beside his mate with folded wings. 
How happy they, always together,
 As free their life as wings that bear
Through cheerless storm or sunny weather,
 Above the clouds, that happy pair.

“See, daybreak comes.”  Nay, but ascended
 From some far beacon is the light;
Our happy talk is not yet ended,
 Nor yet so soon the lovely night. 
Bright morning stat sleep till to-morrow,
 And when night cometh, slumber still,
Your waking brings to Fridthjof sorrow,—­
 So sleep till doomsday, if you will.

Vain hope!  No longer earth reposes,
 The morning breeze new pleasure seeks;
Already bud the eastern roses,
 As fresh as those on Ing’borg’s checks. 
I hear the winged songsters twitter,
 A thoughtless throng in the opening sky;
All life’s astir, the wavelets glitter,
 And lover must with shadows fly.

Ah! there he comes, in glory beaming;
 Forgive, O golden sun, my prayer. 
How beautiful, in splendor gleaming! 
 I feel—­I know a god is near. 
Oh! who could, in thy path advancing,
 With equal grace and power tread,
All hearts with light and joy entrancing,
 A life like thine victorious lead!

Here, ’neath thy watchful eye I leave her—­
 My peerless beauty of the North! 
Let not the rough world’s troubles grieve her,
 Thy likeness on the green-clad earth. 
Her soul is pure as rays of morning,
 Her eyes as blue as thine own sky,

The same rich tints thy crown adorning
 Among her golden tresses lie.

Farewell, my love, be not forgetful,
 Some longer night again we’ll meet;
I, lingering, kiss thy brow, regretful,
 One kiss I give thy lips so sweet. 
Sleep now, beloved; in thy slumber,
 May dreams of me thy bosom swell,
At mid-day wake, and with me number
 Each absent hour:  farewell, farewell.

VIII.

The Parting.

   Ingeborg.

The day breaks clear, and Fridthjof cometh not,
Though yesterday the council was proclaimed
At Bele’s grave.  The place was rightly chosen,
His daughter’s fate should be determined there. 
How many supplications hath it cost me,
How many tears by Freyja counted o’er,
To melt the ice of hate around Fridthjof’s heart. 
And gain a promise from his haughty lips
To give his hand in reconciliation. 
Alas! how hard is man!  And for his honor,