And gain a promise from his haughty lips
To give his hand in reconciliation.
Alas! how hard is man! And for his honor,
So calleth he his pride, he counts it not,
Or lightly counts it, if he rudely break,
Of true and faithful hearts one more or less.
But wretched woman, leaning on his breast,
Is like the moss-growth blooming on the cliff,--
With faded tints, it difficultly holds
Itself unnoticed fast unto the rock,
Is only nourished by the dews of night.
But yesterday, indeed, my fate was fixed,
And now the evening sun hath set upon it,
Still Fridthjof cometh not. The pallid stars
Die one by one, and sadly disappear,
And with each one of them a hope is quenched
And goes from out my heart unto its grave.
Ah! wherefore still to hope? Valhal's gods
No longer love me; I've offended them.
And Balder, 'neath whose shelter I reside,
Is wroth with me, because a human love
Is too unholy for the sight of gods,
And earthly joy must never risk itself
Beneath the temple-arch in which the grave,
The haughty powers have fixed their dwelling-place.
And yet what fault is mine? and wherefore frowns
The pious god upon a maiden's love?
Is it not pure as Urd's bright sparkling fount,
And innocent as Gefjon's morning dream?
The shining sun doth never turn away