Beside each champion sitting,
 A youthful maiden stood,—­
An evening star, bright flitting,
 Behind a stormy cloud
The blue eyes beamed, in showers
 The gold-brown tresses flowed,
Complete as sculptured flowers
 The little rose-lips glowed.

On silver stool, high mounted,
 Sat Angantyr, the old;
His helm shot rays uncounted,
 His corselet was of gold. 
His mantle, rich and splendid,
 With golden stars was strewn,—­
And where the purple ended,
 The spotless ermine shone,

Three steps the earl descended
 To Fridthjof genially
He said, with hand extended: 
 “Come higher, sit by me. 
Of horns I’ve emptied many
 With Thorstein in his day;
His son, more famed than any,
 Shall not sit far away.”

He filled each goblet brimming

 With wine from Sicily,—­
Like sparks of fire ’twas gleaming,
 And foaming like the sea. 
“Welcome!” exclaimed the speaker,
 “My friend’s most worthy son! 
To Thorstein fill a beaker,—­
 And drink now, every one!”

Now woke the harpstring’s slumbers,
 A skald from Morven’s hills,
In Gaul’s melodious numbers,
 Sad hero-songs he trills. 
But Thorstein’s praise was chanted
 In old Norwayan tongue;
His noble deeds were vaunted,
 His daring valor snug.

The earl asked much concerning
 His friends of days gone by;
In words replete with learning
 Young Fridthjof made reply. 
A judgment given blindly,
Swift accusation brings,
He spoke like Saga, kindly,
Remembering holy things.

And when he there recounted
 How Helge goblins sent,
Which first the blue waves mounted,
 Then, conquered, downward, went,
The champions cheered him loudly,
 And Angantyr the same,—­
In high approwd, proudly,
 They echoed Fridthjof’s name.

But when he spoke in anguish,
 Of Ing’borg in her bloom,
How she was left to languish,
 Her heart with grief o’ercome,—­
Each maiden’s cheek was burning,
 Each bosom sore distressed;
And to her lover turning,
 His faithful hand she pressed.

His embassy to mention
 He ventured by and by;
The earl gave pleased attention,
 And then he made reply: 
“I ne’er was tributary;
 King Bele’s health, maybe,
To drink was customary,
 But from his law we’re free.

“His sons, I do not know them;
 If tribute they demand,
Custom the way will show them,
 We’ll meet them on the strand,
And see who best is reckoned;
 But Thorstein was my friend.” 
His daughter then he beckoned,
 Who sat quite near at hand.

Then rose the maiden tender,
 From stool all golden bound,
Her waist is trim and slender,
 Her bosom full and round,
Each dimpled cheek encloses
 An Astrild, roguish sprite,
As when on opening roses,
 The butterflies alight.