“Ingeborg, pale maiden,
 Prayers sent unto Valhal;
 Lily-white she bowed her
 Knees on sacred gold.

 Light-blue eyes in weeping,
 Breast of swan’s down, sighing,
 Moved the hearts of asas;
 Let us give them thanks.”

-----
Now Ellide leaks,
Faithful dragon ship,
Shallow water seeks.—­
Wearied of the trip.

Still more tired by labor dreary,
 Fridthjof’s men desire the land;
But enfeebled, faint and weary,
 Sword-supported, scarce can stand. 
Bjorn, on powerful shoulders, beareth
 Four of them and safely lands;
Fridthjof, too, the labor shareth,
 Eight sets round the burning brands.

 “Do not bhtsh, pale heroes! 
 Waves are sturdy vikings;
 Hard indeed is fighting
 ’Gainst the ocean’s bride.

 See, there comes the mead-horn,
 Gold the feet that bear it. 
 Warm your frozen members;
 Skoal to Ingeborg!

XI.

Fridthjof with Angantyr.

’Tis now to tell the story
 How in his fir-wood hall,
Sat Angantyr, the hoary,
 And drank with champions all. 
He, joyous and light-hearted,
 Looked out to where the sun
Behind the waves departed,
 Just like a golden swan.

Outside the hall’s commotion
 Old Halvard watched,—­indeed
Not only watched the ocean,
 But also watched his mead. 
His custom, seldom broken,
 Was, quick the horn to drain,
And ere a word was spoken,
 To thrust it in again.

But now he threw it; striding

 Into the hall he spake: 
“I see the billows riding
 A ship, whose timbers shake;
I see some sailors dying
 Already on the strand,
And two strong giants, trying
 To bring the rest to land.”

O’er waves no longer foaming,
 The noble earl looked out: 
“That is Ellide coming,
 And Fridthjof too, no doubt;
His step, so firm and steady,
 Bespeaks him Thorstein’s son. 
Such brow, and smile so ready,
 In Northland there is none.”

Then viking Atle sturdy
 Sprang up at one swift bound;
Black-bearded berserk, bloody,
 And fiercely looked around. 
“Now, I will prove,” he thunders,
 “What rumor means by this,
That all blades Fridthjof sunders,
And never sues for peace.”

And with the doughty viking,
 His twelve best champions start,
And in the air sharp striking,
 They brandish sword and dart. 
They storm the strand, where by it
 The weary dragon lay;
But Fridthjof, sitting nigh it,
 Looks ready for the fray.

“Quite easy could I fell thee,”
 The noisy Atle cries: 
“No one comes here, I tell thee,
 But either fights or flies. 
If peace thou ask’st, believe me,—­
 I fight, but am no churl,—­
In friendship I’ll receive thee,
 And lead thee to the earl.”

“Although I’m scarcely rested,”
 Is Fridthjof’s sharp reply,
“Our good swords must be tested,
 Before for peace I cry.” 
Then swift the sun-brown fighter
 His flashing sword-blade swung,
Bright glowed the runes and brighter
 On Angervadil’s tongue.