Thine independent mind.  It shall not be! 
I will not steal away my Fridthjof’s name
From poet’s storied song; I will not quench
My hero’s glory in its morning dawn. 
Be wise, my Fridthjof; let us yield unto
The haughty norn; let us rescue yet
Our cherished honor from this wreck of life;
Our happiness we cannot save, ’tis gone,
And separate we must!

Fridthjof.

And wherefore must? 
Because a sleepless night disturbed thy mind?

Ingeborg.

Because my honor must be saved, and thine.

Fridthjof.

A woman’s honor rests on manly love.

   Ingeborg.

Not long loves he whom he cannot respect.

   Fridthjof.

Respect is not by fickle fancy gained.

   Ingeborg.

A sense of justice is a noble fancy.

   Fridthjof.

Our love strove not with justice yesterday.

   Ingeborg.

Nor love to day, but all the more our flight.

   Fridthjof.

Necessity commands our flight,—­Oh, come!

   Ingeborg.

What’s right and noble, that’s necessity.

   Fridthjof.

High rides the sun and time is fleeting by.

   Ingeborg.

Ah, me, it has gone by, gone by forever!

   Fridthjof.

Consider well.  Is that thy last resolve?

   Ingeborg.

I have considered well; it is my last.

   Frydthjof.

Farewell then, fare thee well, king Helge’s sister.

   Ingeborg.

Oh, Fridthjof!  Fridthjof! must we separate thus? 
Hast thou indeed no friendly glance to give
Thy childhood’s friend; no kindly hand to reach
To the unfortunate, once so beloved? 
Think’st thou I stand on roses here, and turn
Away with smiles my happiness for life? 
And that I pangless tear from out my breast
A hope that hath with my affections grown?

Oh! wert thou not my heart’s own morning dream? 
Each joy that I have known was Fridthjof named,
And all of life that great or noble seemed,
Did Fridthjof’s likeness take before mine eyes. 
Bedim the image not:  oh, do not meet
With cruelty the weak one offering up
The dearest thing upon the face of earth. 
The dearest thing that Valhal’s gods can give! 
That offering, Fridthjof, is severe enough. 
And words of consolation well deserves. 
I know thou lovest me—­that I have known
E’er since my being first began to dawn;
And Ing’borg’s thoughts will surely follow thee
For years to come wherever thou may’st go. 
The clang of warlike weapons deadens grief. 
’Tis blown away upon the wild, wild waves,
Nor ventures to return when champions all
Their victory celebrate with drinking horn. 
Yet sometimes, then, when in the peace of night,
Thy thoughts review again forgotten days,
There will among them glide an image pale,