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j FRITHIOF’S SAGA
145
’T is little worth.
Rust snapped thy bow,
Not strength, I trow;
At nobler game
Than thee I aim,—
’T were shame to me
To slaughter thee."
Then bent he o’er
The sturdy oar,
Once pine-tree tall
In Gudbrand’s vale.
He grasped its fellow,
And o’er the billow
He rowed with speed;
Like bending reed,
Or broadsword’s tongue,
The stout oars sprung.
Up rose the sun,
On the cliffs he shone;
And the breeze, speeding
From shore, seemed bidding
Each wave to dance
In morning’s glance.
O’er the billow’s crest
Ellida pressed
Merry and glad;
But Frithiof said:
"Crest of creation,
Thou noble North,
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