Fridthjof.

Art thou not free, if so thou willest? In the grave
Thy father sits.

INGEBORG,

No, Helge is my father,
Is in my father's stead; on his consent
My hand depends, and Ing'borg will not steal
Her happiness, however near it stands.
Ah! what would woman be if she cut loose
The sacred band with which the Allfather binds
Unto the stronger power her gentle being?
The water-lily pale resembles her;
It rises with the wave and with it falls.
The sailor's keel goes forward over it
And marks it not although it cut the stem.
Such is indeed her fate! And yet the flower,
As long as clings the root unto the sand,
Its growth increases, borrowing color pure
From its pale sister stars which shine above,--
Itself a star upon the waters blue.
But rudely broken loose, it ceaseless drives,
A withered leaf along deserted waves.
Last night,--that was indeed a fearful night,
An unrewarded watch I kept for thee,
And children of the night, the serious thoughts,
With raven locks went thronging closely by