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VIII
THE PARTING
ingeborg
Already comes the day, but brings not Frithiof,
Though yesterday the open Ting was held
At Bele’s grave: well chosen was the place
Where Bele’s daughter’s fate should be decreed.
How many fond entreaties did it cost,—
How many bitter tears,—by Freya told,
To melt the ice of hate round Frithiofs heart,
And win the promise from his haughty lips,
Once more to offer a forgiving hand?
Ah! man is stern, and for his own vain pride,
Miscalled his honor, he hath little care,—
Ay, less than care,—how easily he may
Torture and wound a fondly loving heart.
And hapless woman, clinging to his breast,
Is like the growth of moss, which on the cliff,
Blooming in pallor, difficultly keeps
Its hold unmarked upon the sturdy rock,
Drawing its nurture from the dews of night.
And yesterday my fate hath been decreed!
And over it the evening sun hath set:
Yet Frithiof cometh not. The pallid stars
Wane one by one, and vanish and depart,
And with each gleam, that slowly fades away,
Some hope within me sinketh to the grave.
Yet, wherefore should I hope ? Valhalla’s powers
Owe me no favor, by myself estranged:
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