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j FRITHIOF’S SAGA 91
frithiof
I reached the Ting, where stand our fathers’ tombs,
And round its grassy sides, shield crowding shield,
And sword in hand, the Northland’s sons arrayed,
One ring within another gathered, stood
Up to the summit; on the judging-stone,
Like a dark thunder-cloud, King Helge sate,—
The pallid sacrificer, with forbidding looks;
And by him, thoughtless, leaning on his sword,
A fair, well-fashioned youth, King Halfdan sate.
Then stood I forth, and cried—"War cometh near;
The foemen’s shields upon our borders clash.
King Helge, peril threateneth thy realm.
Give me thy sister, and I bring to thee
This arm to combat, which may service do,
And let our former quarrel be forgot.
With Ingborg’s kindred love I not to strive.
Bethink thee, monarch, and together save
Thy golden crown, thy sister’s happiness.
Here is my hand; by Thor divine, no more
Than this last time I offer it for peace."
A shout filled all the Ting, a thousand swords
Clashed loud approval on a thousand shields.
Far fled the sounds into the lofty skies,
Which drank the shouts of freemen for the right:
"Oh, give him Ingeborg, the gentle lily;
No fairer ever in our valleys bloomed:
His is the bravest sword in all the land.
Oh! give him Ingeborg." Our foster-father,
The aged Hilding, with the silvery beard,
Stood forth, and spake, in words of wisdom deep,
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