And when night cometh, slumber still,
Your waking brings to Fridthjof sorrow,--
So sleep till doomsday, if you will.

Vain hope! No longer earth reposes,
The morning breeze new pleasure seeks;
Already bud the eastern roses,
As fresh as those on Ing'borg's checks.
I hear the winged songsters twitter,
A thoughtless throng in the opening sky;
All life's astir, the wavelets glitter,
And lover must with shadows fly.

Ah! there he comes, in glory beaming;
Forgive, O golden sun, my prayer.
How beautiful, in splendor gleaming!
I feel--I know a god is near.
Oh! who could, in thy path advancing,
With equal grace and power tread,
All hearts with light and joy entrancing,
A life like thine victorious lead!

Here, 'neath thy watchful eye I leave her--
My peerless beauty of the North!
Let not the rough world's troubles grieve her,
Thy likeness on the green-clad earth.
Her soul is pure as rays of morning,
Her eyes as blue as thine own sky,

The same rich tints thy crown adorning