“O woman, woman!” said Fridthjof, scorning,
“Old Loke’s thought should have been a warning;
His thought a lie, was in woman’s form,
To man he sent it his heart to warm,
A blue-eyed lie that with tears alarms us,
Forever cheats and forever charms us;
A rose-checked lie with bust defined,
Of spring-ice virtue and faith like wind;
From out whose heart folly often glances,
On whose fresh lips basest falsehood dances. 
And yet how dear to my heart was she! 
And dear as ever she still must be. 
My wife I’ve called her since in the wildwood. 
We played together in happy childhood. 
Of high achievement if e’er I thought,
Her love alone was the prize I sought;
As stems which grow from one root together,
If Thor strikes one then they both will wither;
If one its vesture of emerald shows,
The other mantles with green its boughs. 
Our lives in joy and in grief thus blended,
I cannot think of the union ended. 
But I’m alone.  O, thou noble Var
Who wanderest over the earth afar,
To record on gold every vow that’s spoken,
Forego thy pastime, the vows are broken. 
The tablet filled with but falsest lies,
The faithful gold ’gainst the insult cries. 
Of Balder’s Nanna I’ve oft been dreaming,
But truth in mortals is only seeming. 
In faithfulness can no heart rejoice
Since falsehood borrows my Ingeborg’s voice,—­
A voice like wind which o’er flower fields strayeth
Or harp-strings’ music when Brage playeth. 
I’ll list no more when the harp is tried,
I will not think of my faithless bride;
Where storms are raging there will I follow,
Till blood thou drinkest, thou ocean billow. 
Where swords sow seeds for pale death to reap,
On mount or vale I my vigil keep. 
If king I meet and to combat dare him
I smile to think how my sword shall spare him. 
But if in battle a youth I meet,
With heart enamored and visions sweet,
Deluded fool who on faith relieth,
I’ll hew him down e’er the vision flyeth,
Will kindly slay him ere yet he be
Deceived, disgraced and betrayed like me.”

“The blood that’s youthful no boundaries heedeth,”
Old Hilding said, “how much it needeth
The cooling touch of the snows of age. 
You wrong the maid with your senseless rage. 
My foster-daughter beware of blaming
For adverse fortune which, heaven ordaining,
The wrathful norns upon men below
Hurl down, for none can escape the blow. 
Like silent Vidar, no outward token
The maiden gave that her heart was broken. 
Her grief was mute as in southern grove
The voiceless woe of the widowed dove. 
To me alone who her childhood guided
Was all the pain she endured confided. 
As dives the sea-fowl with wounded breast
Lest daylight’s eye should upon it rest,
And there remaineth with life-blood flowing,
No sign of weakness or misery showing,
So she in darkness her suffering bore,
And only I saw her anguish sore. 
She often said:  ’I am but an offering
For Bele’s kingdom; who talks of suffering! 
The snow-drop fragrant, with leaf and vine
To deck the victim in wreaths they twine. 
How sweet to die and escape from anguish! 
But no, in pain must I live and languish;
For Balder’s wrath will no rest allow