XI Fridthjof With Angantyr
’Tis now to tell the story
How in his fir-wood hall,
Sat Angantyr, the hoary,
And drank with champions all.
He, joyous and light-hearted,
Looked out to where the sun
Behind the waves departed,
Just like a golden swan.
Outside the hall’s commotion
Old Halvard watched,—indeed
Not only watched the ocean,
But also watched his mead.
His custom, seldom broken,
Was, quick the horn to drain,
And ere a word was spoken,
To thrust it in again.
But now he threw it; striding
Into the hall he spake:
“I see the billows riding
A ship, whose timbers shake;
I see some sailors dying
Already on the strand,
And two strong giants, trying
To bring the rest to land.”
O’er waves no longer foaming,
The noble earl looked out:
“That is Ellide coming,
And Fridthjof too, no doubt;
His step, so firm and steady,
Bespeaks him Thorstein’s son.
Such brow, and smile so ready,
In Northland there is none.”
Then viking Atle sturdy
Sprang up at one swift bound;
Black-bearded berserk, bloody,
And fiercely looked around.
“Now, I will prove,” he thunders,
“What rumor means by this,
That all blades Fridthjof sunders,
And never sues for peace.”
And with the doughty viking,
His twelve best champions start,
And in the air sharp striking,
They brandish sword and dart.
They storm the strand, where by it
The weary dragon lay;
But Fridthjof, sitting nigh it,
Looks ready for the fray.
“Quite easy could I fell thee,”
The noisy Atle cries:
“No one comes here, I tell thee,
But either fights or flies.
If peace thou ask’st, believe me,—
I fight, but am no churl,—
In friendship I’ll receive thee,
And lead thee to the earl.”
“Although I’m scarcely rested,”
Is Fridthjof’s sharp reply,
“Our good swords must be tested,
Before for peace I cry.”
Then swift the sun-brown fighter
His flashing sword-blade swung,
Bright glowed the runes and brighter
On Angervadil’s tongue.
Blows fell without cessation,
Now deadly blows like rain,
And now in quick rotation
Each shield is cleft in twain.
Unhurt, with wrath unspoken
They stand within the ring,—
Now Atle’s sword is broken
And Fridthjof’s sword is king.
Said he: “A swordless foeman
I’ve no desire to slay;
But if you will, as yeomen,
We’ll try another way.”
As waves ’gainst waves are pushing,
And breaking crest on crest,
So on each other rushing,
They wrestled breast to breast.
They fought like two bears trying
Their strength on crust of snow,
Or, as o’er mad waves flying
The eagle meets his foe.
The firm earth trembled round them,
Though based on solid rock,
And oaks, though strong roots bound them,
Could scarce withstand the shock.
Their brows with sweat were beaded,
Their breasts heaved with a sound,
The brush and stones unheeded,
They scattered all around.
The twelve in expectation
Stood quaking on the sand;
Renowned through every nation
That struggle on the strand.
But Fridthjof was the stronger,
He felled his foe at last,
And said with fiery anger,
His knee on Atle’s breast:
“Had I my good sword ready,
Thou berserk blackbeard, now
Thy miserable body
I’d straightway plunge it through.”
“Go bring it! Who’ll prevent thee?”
Is generous Atle’s cry,
“And if it will content thee,
As now I’ll quiet lie.
Why should it make me sorrow?
For all must Valhal see;
I go to-day—to-morrow
Perhaps thy turn will be.”
Then Fridthjof quick returning,
Desired to end the fray;
Raised Angervadil burning,—
But Atle quiet lay.
The falling blade ne’er harmed him,
For Fridthjof struck the sand;
Such courage had disarmed him,
He took brave Atle’s hand.
With gleeful admonition
Old Halvard swung his staff:
“For your battle-meal potation
There’s nothing here to quaff;
Upon the board hot-smoking
The silver dishes glow;
A cold meal is provoking,
And thirst annoys me so.’
Appeased, with friendly feeling,
The portals they pass through,
And here from floor to ceiling,
To Fridthjof all was new.
Rough planks well matched together
Lined not the spacious hall,
But ‘broidered golden leather
Was stretched along the wall.
The center was not littered
By mortared hearthstone wide;
A marble fireplace glittered,
Built up against the side.
No smoke ’mid rafters flitted,
No roof with soot spread o’er;
Glass panes the windows fitted,
A lock secured the door.
No woollen torches crackling,
Illumed the champions’ feast,
But waxen candles, sparkling,
In silver sconces placed.
A roasted stag, well larded,
The table’s center graced;
Gold bands his raised hoof guarded,
With flowers his horns were dressed.
Beside each champion sitting,
A youthful maiden stood,—
An evening star, bright flitting,
Behind a stormy cloud
The blue eyes beamed, in showers
The gold-brown tresses flowed,
Complete as sculptured flowers
The little rose-lips glowed.
On silver stool, high mounted,
Sat Angantyr, the old;
His helm shot rays uncounted,
His corselet was of gold.
His mantle, rich and splendid,
With golden stars was strewn,—
And where the purple ended,
The spotless ermine shone,
Three steps the earl descended
To Fridthjof genially
He said, with hand extended:
“Come higher, sit by me.
Of horns I’ve emptied many
With Thorstein in his day;
His son, more famed than any,
Shall not sit far away.”
He filled each goblet brimming
With wine from Sicily,—
Like sparks of fire ’twas gleaming,
And foaming like the sea.
“Welcome!” exclaimed the speaker,
“My friend’s most worthy son!
To Thorstein fill a beaker,—
And drink now, every one!”
Now woke the harpstring’s slumbers,
A skald from Morven’s hills,
In Gaul’s melodious numbers,
Sad hero-songs he trills.
But Thorstein’s praise was chanted
In old Norwayan tongue;
His noble deeds were vaunted,
His daring valor snug.
The earl asked much concerning
His friends of days gone by;
In words replete with learning
Young Fridthjof made reply.
A judgment given blindly,
Swift accusation brings,
He spoke like Saga, kindly,
Remembering holy things.
And when he there recounted
How Helge goblins sent,
Which first the blue waves mounted,
Then, conquered, downward, went,
The champions cheered him loudly,
And Angantyr the same,—
In high approwd, proudly,
They echoed Fridthjof’s name.
But when he spoke in anguish,
Of Ing’borg in her bloom,
How she was left to languish,
Her heart with grief o’ercome,—
Each maiden’s cheek was burning,
Each bosom sore distressed;
And to her lover turning,
His faithful hand she pressed.
His embassy to mention
He ventured by and by;
The earl gave pleased attention,
And then he made reply:
“I ne’er was tributary;
King Bele’s health, maybe,
To drink was customary,
But from his law we’re free.
“His sons, I do not know them;
If tribute they demand,
Custom the way will show them,
We’ll meet them on the strand,
And see who best is reckoned;
But Thorstein was my friend.”
His daughter then he beckoned,
Who sat quite near at hand.
Then rose the maiden tender,
From stool all golden bound,
Her waist is trim and slender,
Her bosom full and round,
Each dimpled cheek encloses
An Astrild, roguish sprite,
As when on opening roses,
The butterflies alight.
She hastened to her bower,
A green silk purse she brought,
With bird and tree and flower
And beast ’twas deftly wrought;
On seas were white-winged vessels,
Beneath the silver moon,
Of gold were all the tassels,
The clasp with rubies shone.
She placed the dainty treasure
Within her father’s band;
He filled it, brimming measure,
With coin from foreign land.
“This welcome gift is only
A tribute to a friend;
And now the winter lonely
Consent with us to spend.
True courage knows no danger,
But Heyd and Ham, I fear,
Revived await the ranger,
And winter storms are here.
All foes the deep is hiding,
Ellide may not shun,
And many whales are riding
The waves, though conquered one.”
With jesting and potation
The hours till day were spent,
Without inebriation
The wine-cup gladness lent.
A brimming skoal was given
To Angantyr at last;
So Fridthjof in this haven
The cheerful winter passed.
XII
The Return
Now spring is breathing in skies of blue,
And earth her carpet has woven anew,
And Fridthjof grateful his kind host leaving
Again the billowy plain is cleaving,
And gayly speeding through silver-spray,
His black swan ploweth her sunny way.
The western breezes that spring is bringing,
Like nightingales in the sails are singing,
And AEger’s daughters in veils of blue
About the rudder their sports pursue.
Ah, how delightful when safely clearing
A foreign land, to be homeward steering!
When memory pictures the smoke that curled
Above one’s hearthstone, his childhood’s world,
The fount where playing his swift feet hurried,
The honored graves where his dead are buried.
He thinks of her who perchance may be
On high cliffs standing to watch the sea.
Six days he sailed on his way returning,
The seventh a strip of blue discerning
Low down the horizon, he neared it fast,
Saw rock and islet and land at last.
That land is his; from the waves advancing,
He sees green forests in sunlight dancing.
He hears the roar of the foaming streams,
Can trace each cliff which with granite gleams,
Salutes the headland and sound, then glideth
Along by the groves where his Ing’borg bideth.
Thinks how last summer each evening fair,
With her beside him he wandered there.
“Where is she? Guesses she not her lover
Is near her, safely the blue waves over?
Perhaps, removed from her Balder’s care,
She strikes the harp in the palace, where
Her grief she’d lessen, her needle plying.”
Then sudden rises his falcon, flying
From temple turret, then downward flits
To Fridthjof’s shoulder, and there he sits,
As was his wont, of his love to assure him.
From Fridthjof’s shoulder can none allure him,
He scratches fast with his gold-tipped claws,
He gives no quiet, he makes no pause.
To Fridthjof’s ear now his beak he bendeth,
Perchance some loved one a message sendeth;
Is it Ingeborg? Wildly his pulses bound,
But none interprets the broken sound.
Ellide gayly the headland rounding,
Skips lightly on, like a roebuck bounding.
Familiar waters surround the prow
Where happy Fridthjof is standing now.
He rubs his eyes and his hand he places
Above his brow to discern the traces
Of home so dear; but he looks in vain,—
Of Framness ashes alone remain.
The naked chimney stands lone and dreary,
Like warriors’ bones of their grave-mounds weary;
The garden place is a blackened floor,
The ashes whirl round the wasted shore.
In bitter mood from his ship he hasteth,
Around the ruins his eyes he casteth,
His father’s dwelling, his childhood’s pride.
Then faithful Bran with the shaggy hide,
Comes running toward him, each moment faster,—
Of forest bears had he oft been master;
How high he springs in his gladsome glee,
How leaps with pleasure his friend to see.
The milk-white steed he so oft had ridden
Comes bounding up from the valley hidden,
With swan-like neck and the frame of a hind
And gold mane floating upon the wind.
He curves his neck and he stamps while standing,
His food from Fridthjof’s own hand demanding;
But Fridthjof, poorer by far than they,
Has nought to give them,—he turns away.
Unsheltered, sorrowful stands the rover;
He looks at the meadow and grove burnt over,-
Of Hilding’s coming quite unaware,
His foster-father with silver hair.
“At what I see I can scarcely wonder,
When eagles flit then their nests are plunder.
’Tis Helge’s deed lest the land be wroth,
So well he keeps his crowning oath!
To hate mankind and to gods be loyal,
While blackened homes mark his progress royal!
More grief it gives me and less of pain;
But where does my Ingeborg meanwhile remain?”
“The word I hear,” Hilding said in sadness,
“I fear will bring you but little gladness.
You scarce had sailed when king Ring came on,
Five shields I counted against our one.
In Disar-dale did we prove our valor,—
The river foamed with a crimson color.
King Halfdan’s jest and his laugh arose,
So too the sound of his manly blows.
My shield I held as a buckler o’er him,
Well pleased with fruits his bravery bore him.
Not long indeed did the battle last.
King Helge yielded, and flying fast,
Though asa-blood in his veins was welling,
In passing Framness he fired the dwelling.
Before the brothers the choice was placed,
To give their sister to Ring, disgraced.
(By her alone could his wrongs be righted),
Or give their throne for his offer slighted.
Then hither and thither the messengers hied,
But now has Ring carried home his bride.”
“O woman, woman!” said Fridthjof, scorning,
“Old Loke’s thought should have been a warning;
His thought a lie, was in woman’s form,
To man he sent it his heart to warm,
A blue-eyed lie that with tears alarms us,
Forever cheats and forever charms us;
A rose-checked lie with bust defined,
Of spring-ice virtue and faith like wind;
From out whose heart folly often glances,
On whose fresh lips basest falsehood dances.
And yet how dear to my heart was she!
And dear as ever she still must be.
My wife I’ve called her since in the wildwood.
We played together in happy childhood.
Of high achievement if e’er I thought,
Her love alone was the prize I sought;
As stems which grow from one root together,
If Thor strikes one then they both will wither;
If one its vesture of emerald shows,
The other mantles with green its boughs.
Our lives in joy and in grief thus blended,
I cannot think of the union ended.
But I’m alone. O, thou noble Var
Who wanderest over the earth afar,
To record on gold every vow that’s spoken,
Forego thy pastime, the vows are broken.
The tablet filled with but falsest lies,
The faithful gold ’gainst the insult cries.
Of Balder’s Nanna I’ve oft been dreaming,
But truth in mortals is only seeming.
In faithfulness can no heart rejoice
Since falsehood borrows my Ingeborg’s voice,—
A voice like wind which o’er flower fields strayeth
Or harp-strings’ music when Brage playeth.
I’ll list no more when the harp is tried,
I will not think of my faithless bride;
Where storms are raging there will I follow,
Till blood thou drinkest, thou ocean billow.
Where swords sow seeds for pale death to reap,
On mount or vale I my vigil keep.
If king I meet and to combat dare him
I smile to think how my sword shall spare him.
But if in battle a youth I meet,
With heart enamored and visions sweet,
Deluded fool who on faith relieth,
I’ll hew him down e’er the vision flyeth,
Will kindly slay him ere yet he be
Deceived, disgraced and betrayed like me.”
“The blood that’s youthful no boundaries heedeth,”
Old Hilding said, “how much it needeth
The cooling touch of the snows of age.
You wrong the maid with your senseless rage.
My foster-daughter beware of blaming
For adverse fortune which, heaven ordaining,
The wrathful norns upon men below
Hurl down, for none can escape the blow.
Like silent Vidar, no outward token
The maiden gave that her heart was broken.
Her grief was mute as in southern grove
The voiceless woe of the widowed dove.
To me alone who her childhood guided
Was all the pain she endured confided.
As dives the sea-fowl with wounded breast
Lest daylight’s eye should upon it rest,
And there remaineth with life-blood flowing,
No sign of weakness or misery showing,
So she in darkness her suffering bore,
And only I saw her anguish sore.
She often said: ‘I am but an offering
For Bele’s kingdom; who talks of suffering!
The snow-drop fragrant, with leaf and vine
To deck the victim in wreaths they twine.
How sweet to die and escape from anguish!
But no, in pain must I live and languish;
For Balder’s wrath will no rest allow
My aching heart and my throbbing brow.
But tell to no one my secret sorrow,
I’d rather suffer than pity borrow;
King Bele’s daughter her fate may dare,—
But kindly greeting to Fridthjof bear.’
The wedding day with its footsteps fateful
Arrived at last. O, the day most hateful!
To the temple marched in procession sad,
The white-robed virgins and men steel-clad;
A bard dejected the train was guiding,
The pale bride followed, a black steed riding
As pale was she as the wraith which sits
On a storm-cloud black, when the lightning flits.
From off the saddle I quietly took her,
Nor at the temple door forsook her;
But led her up to the altar, where
Her vows she uttered in accents clear.
She wept and prayed, on good Balder calling,
While down her cheeks were the tear-drops falling.
When Helge saw on her arm your band,
He tore it off with an angry hand;
On Balder’s image now hangs the jewel.
My wrath burst forth at this act so cruel;
My sword was by me, I drew it forth,—
King Helge then was but little worth.
‘Let be,’ said Ing’borg, in accents broken,
‘My brother might surely have spared this token;
How much one suffers ere death sets free,—
The Allfather judgeth ’twixt him and me.’”
“The Allfather judgeth,” said Fridthjof slowly,
“I too would give him my judgment lowly.
Is’t not now mid-summer, Balder’s feast?
And in the temple the crowned priest,—
The king, who sold the maiden tender?
Ah! yes, my judgment I fain would render.”