[He goes.]

Ingeborg.

How glad, how trusting, and of hope how full! 
He sets the glittering point of his good sword
Against the norns, and says:  “Ye must retreat!”
Thou wretched Fridthjof, the norns will ne’er retreat;
They go their way and laugh at Angervadil. 
How little knowest thou my gloomy brother. 
Thy brave, heroic temper fathoms not
The awful depths of his, nor understands
The hate that in his envious bosom burns. 
His sister’s hand he’ll never give to thee;
He’d sooner give his crown, pour out his life,
Of me an offering make to Odin old,
Or to old Ring, whom now he fights against. 
Wherever I may look, no hope is found,—­
Yet am I glad hope lives within thy breast. 
In secret will I keep my poor heart’s wound,
And pray that all the good gods follow thee. 
Here on thine arm-ring can I reckon up
Each separate month of all this lonesome sorrow. 
In two, four, six,—­then can’st thou come again,
But can’st not find again thine Ingeborg.

IX.

Ingeborg’s lament.

Autumn has come;
Storming now heaveth the deep sea with foam,
Yet would I gratefully lie there,
Willingly die there.

Long gleamed his sail,
Flying to westward before the fierce gale;
Fortunate, Fridthjof to follow
O’er the wild billow.

Swell not so high,
Billows of blue with your deafening cry! 
Stars lend assistance, a shining
Pathway defining.

With the spring doves
Fridthjof will come, but the maiden he loves
Cannot in hall or dell meet him,
Lovingly greet him.

Buried she sleeps,
Dead for her love’s sake, or bleeding she weeps,
Heart-broken, given by her brother
Unto another.

Falcon he left,
Mine shalt thou be, winged hunter bereft;
I for thy owner will heed thee,
Lovingly feed thee.

Here on his hand~
’Broidering I’ll picture thee on the cloth’s rand,
Silvery pinions I’ll give thee,
Golden claws weave thee.

Once, it is said,
Freyja with falcon-wings north and south sped,
Seeking for Oder, her lover,
All the world over.

Vainly I seek
Wings of the falcon, for mortals too weak. 
Only in passing death’s portal
Soareth a mortal.

Sit here with me,
Beautiful hunter and look at the sea;—­
Longing and looking forever
Bringeth him never.

Dead shall I be,
When Fridthjof comes again over the sea;
Bear thou my love for his weeping,
I shall be sleeping.

X.

Fridthjof at sea.

 On shore king Helge stood,
 By turns he sang and prayed,
 And in embittered mood
 Besought the goblins’ aid.

See! the heavens with darkness toiling,
 Empty space with thunders boom,
Lo, the furious waves are boiling,
 Ocean’s surface hid with foam. 
Lightnings now the clouds are streaking,
 Here and there a bloody rand,
All the sea-fowls now are shrieking. 
 Hasting to the safer strand.