Fridthjof.

Art thou not free, if so thou willest?  In the grave
Thy father sits.

Ingeborg,

No, Helge is my father,
Is in my father’s stead; on his consent
My hand depends, and Ing’borg will not steal
Her happiness, however near it stands. 
Ah! what would woman be if she cut loose
The sacred band with which the Allfather binds
Unto the stronger power her gentle being? 
The water-lily pale resembles her;
It rises with the wave and with it falls. 
The sailor’s keel goes forward over it
And marks it not although it cut the stem. 
Such is indeed her fate!  And yet the flower,
As long as clings the root unto the sand,
Its growth increases, borrowing color pure
From its pale sister stars which shine above,—­
Itself a star upon the waters blue. 
But rudely broken loose, it ceaseless drives,
A withered leaf along deserted waves. 
Last night,—­that was indeed a fearful night,
An unrewarded watch I kept for thee,
And children of the night, the serious thoughts,
With raven locks went thronging closely by
My ever watchful, burning, tearful eyes;
And Balder too, the bloodless god looked down
On me with frowning glances full of threats. 
Last night I pondered o’er my wretched fate. 
My resolution’s taken; I remain
Obedient victim at my brother’s altar. 
Yet it is well I did not hear thee then,
With fabled islands floating in the clouds
Where evening’s glowing twilights always show
A flowery world of peace and happy love. 
Who knows how weak one is?  My childhood dreams
Though silent long, with joy rise up again,
And whisper in my anxious ear with voice
Familiar as a sister’s kindly tones,
As tender as a lover’s ardent praise. 
I hear ye not! ah, no, I hear ye not,
Alluring accents once so fondly loved! 
A child of Northland cannot elsewhere dwell;
Too pale am I for those bright summer roses;-
Too colorless my mind for that deep glow;
The scorching sun would quite consume me there. 
Of anxious longing full, my eyes would seek
The northern star which always watchful stands
A heavenly sentry o’er our fathers’ graves. 
My noble Fridthjof shall not now desert
The cherished hind that he was born to guard;
He shall not fling away his honored name
To gain so poor a thing, a maiden’s love. 
A life where spins the sun from year to year,
And where each day is ever like the next—­
A beauteous but unending sameness, is
For woman only, but for manly souls,
And most for thine, it’s quiet, weary dullness. 
Thou thrivest best where storms are raging round. 
On foaming pacers o’er the heaving sea,
And on thy tossing plank, come life or death,
Thou mayest fight with peril for thine honor. 
The beauteous desert thou dost paint, would be
A grave for high achievements, not yet born;
And like thy shield, with rust would be dissolved,