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Fridthjof's Saga; a Norse romance by Esaias Tegner
page 63 of 162 (38%)
A hope that hath with my affections grown?

Oh! wert thou not my heart's own morning dream?
Each joy that I have known was Fridthjof named,
And all of life that great or noble seemed,
Did Fridthjof's likeness take before mine eyes.
Bedim the image not: oh, do not meet
With cruelty the weak one offering up
The dearest thing upon the face of earth.
The dearest thing that Valhal's gods can give!
That offering, Fridthjof, is severe enough.
And words of consolation well deserves.
I know thou lovest me--that I have known
E'er since my being first began to dawn;
And Ing'borg's thoughts will surely follow thee
For years to come wherever thou may'st go.
The clang of warlike weapons deadens grief.
'Tis blown away upon the wild, wild waves,
Nor ventures to return when champions all
Their victory celebrate with drinking horn.
Yet sometimes, then, when in the peace of night,
Thy thoughts review again forgotten days,
There will among them glide an image pale,
Thou knowest well; it fondly greeteth thee
From regions dear; it is the image of
That virgin pale in Balder's holy grove.
Thou must not drive it thence away, although
It looketh sorrowful, but whisper kind
Into its ear a friendly word; the winds
Of night on faithful wings will bear it me;
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