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172 FRITHIOF’S SAGA
Or little I ’11 reck to take your lives
To quench my good sword’s thirst.
"O! Balder bright, forgive the harm;
Thine angry glances spare;
Yon ring of gold upon thine arm
Is naught but stolen ware.
" Never for thee, be it boldly said,
’Twas forged by the great Valunder:
’T was torn by a thief from a mourning maid, —
Away with his graceless plunder."
Boldly dragged he, but arm and ring
Seemed to be grown the same,
Till, coming loose, the force doth fling
The god into the flame.
Hark! it crackles, the golden blaze
Reacheth the roof-tree fast,
Bjorn, pale as death, at the portal stays,
Frithiof stands aghast.
"Let all men out, cast wide the door,
Thy watch no longer heed;
The temple flames, pour water,—pour
The ocean-tide with speed."
Down from the temple to the strand
They knit a chain of hands,
The billows flow on from hand to hand
And hiss upon the brands.
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