“Thou temple reek
Fly up and seek
High Valhal’s towers;
The White God’s powers
Call down on me
With wrath’s decree. 
And tell, swift bounding,
The vault resounding,
The temple burned
To dust is turned;
The imaged glory
But lives in story. 
Quick burned the god
Like common wood. 
The grove protected
Nor once neglected
Since men swords bore
Is now no more;
By fire the slaying
Not time’s decaying. 
Forget no word
Thou hast seen or heard,
In Balder’s dwelling
The story telling,
Thou message cloud
Of gods the shroud. 
Long live in story
King Helge’s glory,
Who exiled me
From him and thee,
My father’s nation. 
We’ll roam creation
Where blue is king,
Where wild waves sing. 
Thou canst not rest thee
Ellide, haste thee;
Earth’s farthest bound
We’ll sail around. 
Soon thou’lt be rocking,
The sea-foam mocking,
My dragon good;
A drop of blood
Will nothing hinder
As on we wander.

In fiercest storm
Art thou my home;—­
The one I cherished
By Helge perished. 
Thou art my North
My foster-earth,—­
The other leaving
I wander grieving: 
My bride caressed
In black robes dressed;
The one in lustre
I could not trust her.

Thou ocean free,
Unknown to thee
Is king oppressive,
Untrue, aggressive. 
Thy king is he
Among the free
Who trembles never
How high soever,
With wrath oppressed,
Heaves thy white breast. 
Blue fields are charming
And not alarming;
There heroes plow
With keel and bow,
And blood-rain showers
In oaken bowers. 
The good steel blade
Is seed-corn made. 
The fields bring yearly
Not honor merely,
But gold as well. 
Oh, kindly swell,
Thou ocean billow! 
Thee will I follow. 
My father’s grave
Calm waters lave
(How still he sleepeth
Where green grass creepeth). 
Mine blue shall be,
Flecked like the sea;
Forever floating,
On tempest gloating,
And fathoms deep
Draw men to sleep;
To me thou’rt given
For life a haven;
My grave thou’lt be,
Thou ocean free.”

Thus inly burning
Sang Fridthjof, turning
His prow so true
From seas he knew,
And slowly creeping
’Mid rocks still keeping
Their faithful ward
O’er shallow fjord.

But vengeance watcheth;
King Helge fetcheth
Ten dragons out. 
Thh people shout,
With breath abated: 
“The king is fated;
He offers fight,
We scorn his might;
Though heaven-descended,
His reign is ended;
From earth we know
He now must go,
The blood god-given
Now longs for heaven.”

Scarce was it spoke
Ere keels of oak
By unseen power
Began to lower;
Then on and on
Are downward drawn
To Ran’s safe keeping. 
King Helge, leaping,