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177 FRITHIOF’S SAGA
Be thou my North,
My foster-earth;
Be thou my pride,
Thou dark-robed bride;
False was my other
Bride to her lover.
"Free flowing sea!
No trouble to thee
Is monarch’s grieving,
Or king’s deceiving.
He only can be
King over thee
Who never feareth,
Though lofty reareth
Thy foaming breast
Its billows tost.
Thine azure furrows
Are tilled by heroes:
Through them like plough
The keel doth go.
’Neath oak’s wide shadow
Blood dews the meadow.
Sown is death’s seed
From bright steel shed.
Who ocean reapeth,
Thence glory keepeth,—
Gold cometh too;
To me be true,
Thou stormy billow;
And I will follow.
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