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IV
FRITHIOF’S WOOING
Loud soundeth the song in Frithiof’s hall,
The Skalds sing the fame of his ancestors all;
No joy do they bring
To Frithiof, who heeds not the tales they sing.
Again hath the earth donned her raiment of green,
And vessels swim over the billows again;
To the shadowy grove
Hieth Frithiof, by moonlight, to dream of his love.
Till lately he joined in the joys of his home,
For Halfdan the merry he *d bidden to come,
And dark Helge, the King,
And with them fair Ingborg persuaded to bring.
He sat by her side, and her white hand he pressed,
And the pressure returned made him happy and blest;
And he hung in a trance
Of unspeakable love on her favoring glance.
And often they spake of each happier day,
When the morning dew on their young lives lay,—
Of childhood’s hours,
To noble minds a garden of flowers.
They spake of each valley and forest dark,—
Of their names deep-carved in the birchen-bark,—
Of each ancient grave,
Where the oaks grew tall in the dust of the brave.
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