“Here, a longing, past describing, flaps its wings about my brow,
And like one asleep and dreaming, to and fro I wander now;
Balder’s precincts I remember, nor forget the oath she gave. 
’Twas the gods, not she, who broke it,—­gods relentless as the grave.

“For they hate the race of mortals, on their joy with anger look,
So to deck cold winter’s bosom, they my tender rose-bud took;
What does Winter with my blossom?  Can he understand its worth? 
Nay, but bud and stem and leaflet, clothes in ice with frosty breath.”

Thus bewailed he.  Soon they came into a dark and lonesome dell,
Gloomy, crowded ’twixt two mountains; o’er it densest shadows fell. 
Then the monarch halted, saying:  “See how lovely, fresh and deep! 
I am weary and would rest me, fain would have a moment’s sleep.” 
“Sleep not here, for hard and chilly is the ground, O king, indeed: 
Up, thy sleep will not refresh thee, let me back the monarch lead.”

“Like the other gods, sleep cometh unexpected.  Does my guest,”
Said the king with feeble accents, “grudge his host a moment’s rest?”
Fridthjof then took off his mantle, and outspread it ’neath a tree;
And the king, in trusting friendship, laid his head on Fridthjof’s knee;
Soon he slept as sleeps the hero after battle’s rude alarms,
On his shield, or as an infant cradled in his mother’s arms.

As he slumbers, hark! there singeth from a branch a coal-black bird;
“Hasten, Fridthjof, slay the gray-beard, free your mind by discord stirred;
Take the queen, she’s thine by promise; thee the bridal kiss she gave,
Human eyes do not behold thee; deep and silent is the grave.”

Fridthjof listens; hark! there singeth from a branch a snow-white bird: 
“Though no human eye behold thee, Odin sees and hears each word;
Coward, wilt thou murder slumber?  Slay an old defenceless man? 
Win what else, the crown of heroes is not won by such a plan.”

So sang both the birds, but Fridthjof, snatching up his battle-blade,
Flung it from him with a shudder, far into the gloomy glade. 
Black-bird flew away to Nastrand, airily the other one,
Singing, sweetly as a harp-tone, straightway mounted toward the sun.

Suddenly the old man wakens.  “Much that sleep was worth to me;
Guarded by a brave man’s weapon, sleep is sweet beneath a tree.

Yet I do not see your weapon; where has fled the lightning’s twin? 
What has parted you who never in your lives have parted been?”

“Little matters it,” said Fridthjof, “’tis not hard to find a sword;
Sharp its tongue, O king. and never speaks for peace a single word;
Haunted ’tis by evil spirit, black, from Niflheim it roams,
Sleep is here in danger from it, seeking silver locks it comes.”

“I, O youth, have not been sleeping, but to prove you have I tried;
Man or sword a wise man testeth, ere in them he will confide. 
You are Fridthjof; since you entered first my hall I’ve known you well;
Ring, though old, at once detected what his guest would fain conceal.