But we, my beauteous Ingeborg, will spread
O'er seas unknown Ellide's willing sail,
She'll kindly bear us to a friendlier strand
Where exiled love may safe asylum find.
What is the North to me? And what a race,
Which pales at every word of priest or king,
Whose shameless hands would pluck the living rose
From out the sanctuary of my heart?
So, Freyja help, it shall not prosper them!
The wretched slave is bound unto the turf
Where he was born, hut I will still be free,
Free as the mountain winds. A little earth
From Bele's grave and from my father's taken,
Can find a place ,upon our ship, and that
Is all of fatherland that we can need.
My loved one, there another sun is found
Than that which pales above these hills of snow,
And there another sky, more bright than this;
And milder stars with god-like glance adorned,
Look down therefrom in balmy summer nights
On lovers wandering in the laurel groves.
My father, Thorstein, Viking's son, in wars
Had journeyed far, and oft I've heard him tell,
By fireside light in winter evenings long,
About the Grecian sea with islands filled,--
Fresh groves of green in brightly shining waves.
A powerful race once had its dwelling there,--
And holy gods the marble temples graced.
But now they stand deserted; grasses thrive
In paths left desolate, and flowers grow