"Oh, the sea! why did I leave it? thus to my own peril blind!
Sorrow thrives not on the billow, scattered 'tis by every wind.
Broods the viking? danger cometh bidding him the lance prepare;
Vanish then all sad reflections, blinded by the weapon's glare.

"Here, a longing, past describing, flaps its wings about my brow,
And like one asleep and dreaming, to and fro I wander now;
Balder's precincts I remember, nor forget the oath she gave.
'Twas the gods, not she, who broke it,--gods relentless as the grave.

"For they hate the race of mortals, on their joy with anger look,
So to deck cold winter's bosom, they my tender rose-bud took;
What does Winter with my blossom? Can he understand its worth?
Nay, but bud and stem and leaflet, clothes in ice with frosty breath."

Thus bewailed he. Soon they came into a dark and lonesome dell,
Gloomy, crowded 'twixt two mountains; o'er it densest shadows fell.
Then the monarch halted, saying: "See how lovely, fresh and deep!
I am weary and would rest me, fain would have a moment's sleep."
"Sleep not here, for hard and chilly is the ground, O king, indeed:
Up, thy sleep will not refresh thee, let me back the monarch lead."

"Like the other gods, sleep cometh unexpected. Does my guest,"
Said the king with feeble accents, "grudge his host a moment's rest?"
Fridthjof then took off his mantle, and outspread it 'neath a tree;
And the king, in trusting friendship, laid his head on Fridthjof's knee;
Soon he slept as sleeps the hero after battle's rude alarms,
On his shield, or as an infant cradled in his mother's arms.