Classic Poem

King Bele's sons may warriors seek
From hill to vale, from boor to lord;
For them my voice shall never speak,
My hand shall never draw the sword,
Why should I for a monarch die?
My battle field is Balder's grove;
All cares and woes I there defy,
United with the maid I love.

And while the sun's refulgent hue
Loves on each blushing flower to rest,
E'en like the rosy veil I view
On Ingeborga's fairer breast,
Still shall I wander on the shore,
And, as I linger in my pace,
The name of her whom I adore,
My sword upon the sand shall trace.

How long the idle hours remain!
Oh, Délling's son! why this delay?
Why slowly thus each hill and plain,
Each sea, each gulf, each isle survey?
Say! does no nymph thy name repeat
In the bright chambers of the west,
Who would with joy thy presence greet,
And clasp thee to her panting breast?

But now thy glowing cheek turns pale,
Thy slanting rays less bright descend;
And eve now draws her purple veil,
Heaven's joys from eyes profane to fend.
Each streamlet murmurs soft delight,
Each zephyr breathes an amorous sigh:
Hail, mother of the gods, Oh Night!
With pearl-clad robe, and diamond eye!

The stars in silence track their way,
As with a lover's cautious tread.
Oh, speed thee now across the bay,
No waves need'st thou, Ellida, dread!
'Tis distant yet,—more rapid fly!
Bound ever thus, my bark! 'tis well;
For now the temple I descry,
Where my heart's idol deigns to dwell.

And now my foot is on the shore;
Oh, sacred earth! I bend my knee,
And almost could the flowers adore,
That grow on this enchanted lea.
And thou, sweet moon—whose silver beams
Shine brightly on that hallow'd wall,
Thou seemest plung'd in blissful dreams,
Like Saga in her nuptial hall!

Who taught thee, gently flowing stream,
The murmurs of my accents faint?
And thou, sweet nightingale, dost seem
To echo now my sad complaint!
The Alfs, in yon deep azure sky,
My Ingeborga's image trace;
But oh, thou jealous Freya! why
So soon that lovely form efface?

I wish not for her image now;
The beauteous maid herself draws near;
Yes, she is faithful to her vow,
And I discard all doubt and fear.
But let me clasp thee, oh, my love—
Thus clasp thee to my beating heart!
Oh! how my joy and rapture prove?
Why should we, angel, ever part?

Like the sweet lily is thy form;
Thy cheek like rose-bud flushes still;
Thy feelings are like Freya's warm,
Yet pure as Asas' holy will.
And now embrace me! may the love
That fires my veins, flow too in thine!
This earth, and yon blue vault above,
All vanish, when thy lips touch mine.

But wherefore trembles thus thy hand?
Lo! Biorn stands there, our faithful guard,
With a well-armed and chosen band,
All danger from ourselves to ward.
No peril can my mind appal,
When thou art near, my lovely bride
Oh, could I tread Valhalla's hall,
With thee, Valkyrie, by my side!

What whispers't thou of Balder's ire?
He does not—no!—he cannot blame
Our bosoms' pure and holy fire.
And say! why should a mortal flame
Offend the god, on whose clear brow
The sun's bright rays for ever shine?
Balder must surely love allow;
Nanna was his—as thou art mine.

Nay, look upon his image fair!
That eye so mild, so gentle see!
I'll offer to his godhead there,
A heart that beats alone for thee.
Come, kneel with me! there can be nought
That Balder must so much approve,
As two fond hearts, whose constant thought
Is never ending faith and love.

My proffered heart then do not spurn:
Mine is not a mere earthly love;
From Heaven it sprung; my wishes burn
Its origin divine to prove.
Oh! if kind fate would but allow
That I with thee, my love, should die,
How proudly to the gods I'd show
Thy soft, pale cheek and azure eye.

And when the warriors goad the steeds,
Through the portentous silver gate,
That to the field of battle leads,
To guard thee I would ever wait;
And when Valhalla's maidens there,
The hydromel—of well-known fame,
To all with courteous accent bear,
My voice would murmur but thy name.

And I would build a lovely bower
Upon the cape that breasts the sea,
For the calm, silent, midnight hour,—
And golden fruit I'd pluck for thee
And when on that celestial land,
The sun's far brighter glories rise,
We'd join the god's majestic band,
But quit our solitude with sighs.

Then stars I'd bind around thy head,
Thy golden ringlets to inclose:
And as the mazy dance she led,
Would not my lily match the rose?
And we would from the dance retreat
To our lone bower and balmy grove:
Each night should Braga's harp repeat
Our nuptial song and hymns of love.

Hark to that soft harmonious lay!
That strain comes from Valhalla's hall.
See yonder moon illume the bay!
Her rays another world recall
That song, those rays from realms above,
Portend immortal ecstacy,
And there would I delight to rove,
With thee, mine Ingeborg, with thee.

Nay weep not! still my pulse doth beat;
My blood still flows: thy terrors cease!
But to the lover's soul how sweet
Such visions of eternal bliss!
Thou need'st thy hand but once extend,
Once turn thy radiant eyes on me,
I instant from that height descend,
And quit the gods, bright maid, for thee.

Hark! 'tis the lark;—no, 'tis the dove
I know that plaintive murmur still.
The lark yet sleeps beside his love,
In his warm nest on yonder hill:
Oh happy pair! for they are free
By day, as in the hour of night,
To bend their course from tree to tree,
And nought disturbs their fond delight.

But see that light!—no, 'tis not day;
'Tis but the bale-fire in the east.
I still may one short hour delay;
Still on thy gentle accents feast.
Arise not yet, bright star of day!
Still rest in thy dark shaded bower!
I would not blame thee, should'st thou stay
Thy course till Ragnarok's dread hour.

But vain that hope: more freshly blows
The breath of morning in the sky;
And roses now their leaves unclose,
With Ingeborga's cheek to view.
And now those blithesome carols tell
The rapture of the feather'd choir;
All nature stirs; the billows swell;
And shades and lovers now retire.

He comes in all his splendor now!
Oh golden sun, my accent hear!
As God receives my humble vow!
How great and glorious thy career!
Happy the man whose eagle glance
May match thy bright all-seeing eye,
And happy he who dares advance
With all thy force and majesty!

And now I place beneath thy care
The maid to whom thy smile gave birth;
Oh, listen to my fervent prayer!
Protect thy image here on earth.
Her soul is pure as thy own rays;
Like thy own heaven, her eye is blue
The self-same gold thy front displays,
Gives to her locks its dazzling hue.

And must I now indeed depart?
Another night we'll meet again.
Farewell, my love! how beats my heart!
One kiss before I seek the main!
And sleep! but dream, sweet maid, of me
Wake not till noon then count each hour,
And sigh, as I shall do for thee!—
And think, oh think of Balder's bower!