Spring is coming, song-birds twitter, woods are leafing, smiles the sun;
Dancing downward, toward the ocean, see the loosened rivers run;
Glowing like the cheeks of Freyja, from the buds the roses ope,--
Hearts of men to life awaken, full of courage, love and hope.

Ho! the chase! the aged monarch with his queen will go to-day;
Now in crowds the court assembles, waiting in confused array,--
Bows are clanging, quivers rattling, steeds impatient paw the ground;
Hooded falcons, wildly shrieking, make the echoing hills resound.

See! the queen appears! Poor Fridthjof, do not thither cast your eye;
Sits she on her milk-white palfrey like a star in spring's clear sky,--
Half a Freyja, half a Rota,--lovelier far than either one,--
From her dainty hat of purple, plumes are waving in the sun.

Look not on those eyes so heavenly,--of those golden locks beware!

Oh! take care! that form is supple, full that bosom, oh! take care!
Look not where the rose and lily shifting hues alternate fling;
Listen not to those loved accents, sighing like the winds of spring.

Now the hunting troop is ready. Hark, through hills and valleys all
Sounds the horn, the falcon loosened straight ascends to Odin's hall;
Forest denizens in terror haste to seek their cavern-homes;
But, with spear outstretched before her, each valkyrie swiftly comes.

Aged Ring no longer follows where the eager hunter flies;
By his side alone rides Fridthjof, silent, grave, with downcast eyes.
Darkest thoughts, and full of anguish, stir within his sorrowing breast,
And wherever he may wander, haunting voices banish rest.