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132 FRITHIOF’S SAGA
By naught will Balder be reconciled
Save a living death of lingering pain,
With a beating heart, and a throbbing brain.
But to none of my sorrow, I charge thee, speak;
My fate may be hard, yet no pity I seek;
King Bele’s daughter her doom will bear—
Yet greet from his Ingborg my Frithiof dear.’
"On the morn of the bridal (ah! sad-fated day,
From my runestaff, oh! would I could score it away),
To the temple passed the slow-pacing train
Of white-cladden maidens, and sword-bearing men.
By the sorrowing Skald the troop was led;
The bride sate pale on a coal-black steed,
Pale as the spirit that sitteth upon
The thunder-rack dark, when the storm rageth on.
From the saddle I lifted the fair lily down;
To the temple threshold I led her on;
By the altar standing she uttered there
Her vow to Lofn, and her voice was clear;
And she prayed to Balder fervently,
And all wept tears, but no tear wept she.
Of thy ring which she wore then was Helge ’ware,
And he tore it with force from her arm so fair;
And the image of Balder he decked with the gold.
My fury no longer could I withhold;
My trusty sword from my side I drew forth,
And King Helge’s life was then little worth.
But Ingeborg whispered me—’Let things be;
Such pang might a brother have spared to me;
But much must be borne ere life’s sorrows be past,
Between us Allfader will judge at the last.’"
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