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j FRITHIOF’S SAGA
127
And sails close under the holy grove,
Where the past summer, so many a night,
He had sat with his Ingborg in fond delight.
"Appeareth she not, and can she not guess
How near o’er the dark-blue waves I press?
Or doth she, from Balder’s temple gone,
Now dwelling at Helge’s court alone,
Sorrow by harp, or by golden woof?"
Lo! his falcon now from the temple roof
Arising, as often before he hath done,
To FrithioPs shoulder hath suddenly flown,
Eagerly flapping with snowy wing,—
The bird from his shoulder can nobody bring.
With gilded claw he scratched) in haste,—
He giveth no peace, he giveth no rest;
To FrithioPs ear he bendeth his beak,
As if some message he sought to speak,
Perchance from Ingborg, the bride so dear,
But the tale he telleth can no man hear.
The last point now doth Ellida pass,
Bounding, as deer bound over the grass,
The well-known waters her keel doth plough,
Glad standeth Frithiof in the prow.
He rubbeth his eyes, and with trembling hand
He shadeth his brow, he scanneth the strand;
But long though he rub them, and far though he see,
Framnas no more discovereth he.
Naught but the naked chimney there
Standeth, like warriors’ bones laid bare;
Where his court-yard had been is desert land,
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