C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Frithiof Goes into Banishment

By Esaias Tegnér (1782–1846)

From ‘Frithiof’s Saga’

[Frithiof, persistently refused Ingeborg’s hand, wishes her to fly with him, but she refuses. He goes to the Orkney Islands to fetch tribute to her brothers in order to win their favor; but on returning finds that she has been forced into marriage with another suitor, King Ring, and has gone with him to his country. Quarreling with the brothers again, he is forced to go into exile.]

HIS ship’s deck slight,

I’ th’ summer night,

Bore th’ hero grieving.

Like waves high heaving,

Now rage now woe

Thro’ his bosom flow;

Smoke still ascended,

The fire not ended.

“Thou free broad Sea!

Unknown to thee

Are despot’s glances

And tyrant’s fancies.

Where freemen swing

Is he thy king

Who never shivers,

Howe’er high quivers,

With rage oppressed,

Thy froth-white breast!

Thy plains, blue-spreading,

Glad chiefs are treading;

Like ploughs thereon

Their keels drive on;

And blood-rain patters

In shade th’ oak scatters,

But steel-bright there

The corn-seeds glare!

Those plains so hoary

Bear crops of glory,

Rich crops of gold:

Thou billow bold

Befriend me! Never

I’ll from thee sever!

My father’s mound

Dull stands, fast-bound,

And selfsame surges

Chant changeless dirges;

But blue shall mine

Through foam-flowers shine,

’Mid tempests swimming,

And storms thick dimming,

And draw yet mo

Down, down, below.—

My life-home given,

Thou shalt, far-driven!

My barrow be,

Thou free broad Sea!”

Day’s orb now shined

Hill-tops behind;

Fresh breezes bounded

From shore, and sounded

Each wave to dance

In morning’s glance.

Where th’ high surge leapeth

Ellida sweepeth,

Glad stretched her wings.

But Frithiof sings:—

“Heimskringla’s forehead,

Thou lofty North!

Away I’m hurried

From this thine earth.

My race from thee goes,

I boasting tell;

Now, nurse of heroes—

Farewell! Farewell!

“Farewell, high-gleaming

Valhalla’s throne,

Night’s eye, bright-beaming

Midsummer’s sun!

Sky! where, as in hero’s

Soul, pure depths dwell,

And thronging star-rows,—

Farewell! Farewell!

“Farewell, ye mountains,

Seats glory for;

Ye tablet fountains

For mighty Thor!

Ye lakes and highlands

I left so sel’,

Ye rocks and islands,

Farewell! Farewell!

“Farewell, cairns dreaming

By wave of blue,

Where, snow-white gleaming,

Limes flower-dust strew!

But Saga spieth

And doometh well

I’ the earth what lieth;—

Farewell! Farewell!

“Farewell, ye bowers,

Fresh houses green,

Where youth plucked flowers

By murm’ring stream;

Ye friends of childhood

Who meant me well,

Ye’re yet remembered;—

Farewell! Farewell!

“My love insulted,

My palace brent,

My honor tarnished,

In exile sent,—

From land in sadness

To th’ sea we appeal;

But Life’s young gladness,

Farewell! Farewell!”

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