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FRITHIOF’S SAGA
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On rocky shore,
His peril o’er,
King Helge stood
In wrathful mood:
His bow, ere long
Of steel, he strung,
And scarcely knew
How far he drew,
Till with a twang
In twain it sprang.
But Frithiof stayed
His lance, and said:
"Thy death-bird here
Enchained I bear:
O coward king,
If I freed its wing,
Low shouldst thou lie
For thy villany.
Yet ease thy fears:
My lance ne’er cares
For cowards’ blood;
She’s far too good
For such base uses;
And rather chooses
Her sign to grave
On tombs of the brave,
Than on pillars of shame,
Where is branded thy name.—
Thy fame on sea
Is lost to thee;
And e’en on earth
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