Is all of fatherland that we can need. 
My loved one, there another sun is found
Than that which pales above these hills of snow,
And there another sky, more bright than this;
And milder stars with god-like glance adorned,
Look down therefrom in balmy summer nights
On lovers wandering in the laurel groves. 
My father, Thorstein, Viking’s son, in wars
Had journeyed far, and oft I’ve heard him tell,
By fireside light in winter evenings long,
About the Grecian sea with islands filled,—­
Fresh groves of green in brightly shining waves. 
A powerful race once had its dwelling there,—­
And holy gods the marble temples graced. 
But now they stand deserted; grasses thrive
In paths left desolate, and flowers grow
From out the runes that tell of ancient lore;
The slender columns stand like budding trees
Entwined by graceful stems of southern vines. 
Throughout the year the earth spontaneous yields,
In unsown harvests, all that men require. 
There golden apples glow between the leaves,
And blushing grapes from every bough hang down
And, ripening, swell luxurious as thy lips. 
There, Ing’borg, there we’ll build us near the wave
A little North, more beautiful than this;
And with our ever faithful love we’ll fill
The radiant temple vaults, and thus delight
With human fondness the forgotten gods. 
And when, with loosened sheets (no storms are there)
The sailor idly floats along our isle
In twilight’s glow, and turns his joyous glance
From rosy-colored ripples to the strand,—­
Upon the temple’s threshold shall he see
A second Freyja, Aphrodite called
In southern tongue, and he shall wonder at
The golden locks, seen flowing in the breeze,
And eyes which brighter gleam than southern skies. 
And one by one around her groweth up
A little temple-dwelling race of fairies,
With cheeks where yon might see the south had set,
In Northern snowdrifts, freshly blooming roses. 
Ah!  Ingeborg, how beautiful, how near. 
Stands earthly happiness to faithful hearts;
If they are brave enough to seize it when disposed,

It follows willingly and builds for them
A Vingolf even here beneath the clouds. 
O come, let’s haste away, each spoken word
A moment shorter makes our waiting joy. 
Come, all’s prepared!  Ellide stretches now
Her shadowy eagle wings for eager flight,—­
And freshly blowing winds now guide the way
Henceforth from this inconstant land forever. 
Why tarriest thou?

Ingeborg.

I cannot follow thee.

Fridthjof.

Not follow me?

Ingeborg.

Ah!  Fridthjof, thou art blest! 
Thou followest none, but always in the front,
The stem of thy good dragon ship, dost place
Thy will beside the helm, to steer the way
With steady hand above the wrathful waves. 
How widely different the case with me! 
My cruel fate is held in other’s hands,
Which loosen not the prey although it bleed;
And sacrifice, lament and lonesome pining,
Is all king Bele’s daughter knows of freedom.