Among her golden tresses lie.

Farewell, my love, be not forgetful,
Some longer night again we'll meet;
I, lingering, kiss thy brow, regretful,
One kiss I give thy lips so sweet.
Sleep now, beloved; in thy slumber,
May dreams of me thy bosom swell,
At mid-day wake, and with me number
Each absent hour: farewell, farewell.




VIII.



The Parting.


Ingeborg.

The day breaks clear, and Fridthjof cometh not,
Though yesterday the council was proclaimed
At Bele's grave. The place was rightly chosen,
His daughter's fate should be determined there.
How many supplications hath it cost me,
How many tears by Freyja counted o'er,
To melt the ice of hate around Fridthjof's heart.