Farewell, my bride, my loved one, fare thee well.
Ere many moons our mournful lot will change.

[He goes.]

Ingeborg.

How glad, how trusting, and of hope how full!
He sets the glittering point of his good sword
Against the norns, and says: "Ye must retreat!"
Thou wretched Fridthjof, the norns will ne'er retreat;
They go their way and laugh at Angervadil.
How little knowest thou my gloomy brother.
Thy brave, heroic temper fathoms not
The awful depths of his, nor understands
The hate that in his envious bosom burns.
His sister's hand he'll never give to thee;
He'd sooner give his crown, pour out his life,
Of me an offering make to Odin old,
Or to old Ring, whom now he fights against.
Wherever I may look, no hope is found,--
Yet am I glad hope lives within thy breast.
In secret will I keep my poor heart's wound,
And pray that all the good gods follow thee.
Here on thine arm-ring can I reckon up
Each separate month of all this lonesome sorrow.
In two, four, six,--then can'st thou come again,
But can'st not find again thine Ingeborg.