From out the runes that tell of ancient lore;
The slender columns stand like budding trees
Entwined by graceful stems of southern vines.
Throughout the year the earth spontaneous yields,
In unsown harvests, all that men require.
There golden apples glow between the leaves,
And blushing grapes from every bough hang down
And, ripening, swell luxurious as thy lips.
There, Ing'borg, there we'll build us near the wave
A little North, more beautiful than this;
And with our ever faithful love we'll fill
The radiant temple vaults, and thus delight
With human fondness the forgotten gods.
And when, with loosened sheets (no storms are there)
The sailor idly floats along our isle
In twilight's glow, and turns his joyous glance
From rosy-colored ripples to the strand,--
Upon the temple's threshold shall he see
A second Freyja, Aphrodite called
In southern tongue, and he shall wonder at
The golden locks, seen flowing in the breeze,
And eyes which brighter gleam than southern skies.
And one by one around her groweth up
A little temple-dwelling race of fairies,
With cheeks where yon might see the south had set,
In Northern snowdrifts, freshly blooming roses.
Ah! Ingeborg, how beautiful, how near.
Stands earthly happiness to faithful hearts;
If they are brave enough to seize it when disposed,