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XXIII
INGEBORG’S LAMENTATION
"Autumn is here;
High-heaving Ocean its waves doth rear;
And still, here, far from my home,
Gladly I’d roam.
Long did I view
His sail in the west, on its course as it flew;
Oh! happy, my Frithiof to follow
Over the billow.
"Ye blue billows rough,
Swell not so high; ye speed swiftly enough.
Shine brightly, ye stars, to display
To my Frithiof his way.
" He will be home
With Spring; but his dear one will come
No more to his love-breathing call
In valley or hall.
" Ghastly, and cold
To the voice of his love, she shall lie in the mould;
Or, offered for her brother’s need,
Lamenting, bleed.
" Thou, his falcon, art left;
Mine shalt thou be, and I ’11 treasure the gift;
But by me, thou wing’d hunter of heaven,
Thy food shall be given.
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