IX.
INGEBORG’S LAMENT.

Autumn has come;
Storming now heaveth the deep sea with foam,
Yet would I gratefully lie there,
Willingly die there.

Long gleamed his sail,
Flying to westward before the fierce gale;
Fortunate, Fridthjof to follow
O’er the wild billow.

Swell not so high,
Billows of blue with your deafening cry!
Stars lend assistance, a shining
Pathway defining.

With the spring doves
Fridthjof will come, but the maiden he loves
Cannot in hall or dell meet him,
Lovingly greet him.

Buried she sleeps,
Dead for her love’s sake, or bleeding she weeps,
Heart-broken, given by her brother
Unto another.

Falcon he left,
Mine shalt thou be, winged hunter bereft;
I for thy owner will heed thee,
Lovingly feed thee.

Here on his hand~
’Broidering I’ll picture thee on the cloth’s rand,
Silvery pinions I’ll give thee,
Golden claws weave thee.

Once, it is said,
Freyja with falcon-wings north and south sped,
Seeking for Oder, her lover,
All the world over.

Vainly I seek
Wings of the falcon, for mortals too weak.
Only in passing death’s portal
Soareth a mortal.

Sit here with me,
Beautiful hunter and look at the sea;—
Longing and looking forever
Bringeth him never.

Dead shall I be,
When Fridthjof comes again over the sea;
Bear thou my love for his weeping,
I shall be sleeping.