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102 FRITHIOF’S SAGA
Thee many a year, where’er thou mayest wend.
But din of arms at length will dull thy grief,
Which, floating far upon the stormy waves,
Will find no place beside thee on the bench,
When, glad with victory, thou drain’st the horn.
Yet now and then, when in the peace of night
Thou musterest memories of the bygone days,
Amongst them may flit by an image pale
Well known to thee, and bringing greeting fond
Of thy dear home, and it shall bear the form
Of the pale maid who dwells in Baldens grove.
Thou wilt not drive it from thee, though its glance
May troubled seem; ah! whisper but a word,
One word of friendship to it, and the winds
Of night on faithful wings will waft it me;
One comfort left, the only one I own:
For I have nothing to disperse my grief;
All that surroundeth me recalleth it:
These lofty temple halls but speak of thee;
Even Balder’s image in the still moonlight,
Threatening no longer, seems thy form to take.
Seaward I look,—:there swam thy keel, and clave
Its way to me awaiting on the strand.
Landward I look,—there standeth many a stem
With Ingborg’s name deep carved upon the bark:
The trees stretch out, and so the name grows faint,
’T is but a token, as they say, of death.
I ask of daylight, when it saw thee last?
Of night I ask, but she remaineth still.
Even the sea, which beareth thee, returneth
My questions only with a sigh to shore.
Greetings I ’11 send thee in the sunset red,
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