Frithiof Saga, Canto I: Frithiof and Ingeborg - Esaias Tegnér

Two plants, in Hilding’s garden fair,

Grew up beneath his fostering care;

Their match the North had never seen,

So nobly tow’r’d they in the green!

The one shot forth like some broad Oak,

Its trunk a battle lance unbroke;

But helmet-like the top ascends,

As heav’n’s soft breeze its arched round bends.

Like some sweet rose,—bleak winter flown,—

That other fresh young Plant y-shone;

From out this Rose Spring yet scarce gleameth,

Within the bud it lies and dreameth.

But cloud-sprung Storm round th’Earth shall go,—

That Oak then wrestles with his foe;

Her heavenly path Spring’s sun shall tread,—

Then opes that rose her lips so red!

Thus sportful, glad, and green they sprung:

And FRITHIOF was that Oak the young;

The Rose so brightly blooming there,

She hight was INGEBORG the fair.

Saw’st thou the two by gold-beam’d day,

To FREJA’S Courts thy thoughts would stray;

Where, bright-hair’d and with rosy pinions,

Swings many a bride-pair, Love’s own minions.

But saw’st thou them, by moonlight’s sheen,

Dance round beneath the leafy green —

Thou’dst say, in yon sweet garland-grove

The King and Queen of fairies move.

How precious was the prize he earned

When his first rune the youth had learned!

No king’s could his bright glory reach,—

That letter would he ING’BORG teach.

How gladly at Her side steered he

His barque across the dark blue sea!

When gaily tacking FRITHIOF stands,

How merrily clap her small white hands!

No birds’ nests yet so lofty were,

That thither he not climb’d for her;

E’en th’Eagle, as he cloudward swung,

Was plunder’d both of eggs and young.

No streamlet’s waters rushed so swift,

O’er which he would not ING’BORG lift;

So pleasant feels, when foam-rush ’larms,

The gentle cling of small white arms!

The first pale flower that spring had shed,

The strawberry sweet that first grew red,

The corn-ear first in ripe gold clad, —

To her he offered, true and glad.

But Childhood’s days full quickly fly:

He stands a stripling now, with eye

Of haughty fire which hopes and prayeth; —

And She, with budding breast, see! strayeth.

The Chase young FRITHIOF ceaseless sought;

Nor oft would hunter so have fought:

For, swordless spearless all, he’d dare

With naked strength the savage bear:

Then breast to breast they struggled grim;—

Though torn, the bold youth masters him!

With shaggy hide now see him laden —

Such spoils refuse — how can the maiden?

For Man’s brave deeds still Women wile;

Strength well is worth young Beauty’s smile:

Each other suit they, fitly blending

Like helm o’er polish’d brows soft bending!

But read he, some cold Winter’s night,

(The fire-hearth’s flaming blaze his light,)

A song of Valhall’s brightnesses,

And all its gods and goddesses,—

He’d think, ‘Yes! yellow’s FREJA’S hair,

A corn-land-sea, breeze-wav’d so fair;

Sure ING’BORG’S, that like gold-net trembles

Round rose and lily, Hers resembles!

‘Rich, white, soft, clear is IDUN’S breast;

How it heaves beneath her silken vest! —

A silk I know, whose heave discloses

Light-fairies two with budding roses.

‘And blue are FRIGGA’S eyes to see,

Blue as Heav’ns cloudless canopy! —

But I know eyes, to whose bright beams

The light-blue Spring-day darksome seems.

‘The bards praise GERDA’S cheeks too high,

Fresh snows which playful north-lights dye! —

I cheeks have seen whose day lights, clear,

Two dawnings blushing in one sphere.

‘A heart like NANNA’S own I’ve found,

As tender,—why not so renown’d?

Ah! happy BALDER; ilk breast swelleth

To share the death thy Scald o’ertelleth.

‘Yes! could my death like BALDER’S be,—

A faithful maid lamenting me —

A maid like NANNA, tender, true —

How glad I’d stay with HEL the blue!’

But the King’s Child—all glad her love—

Sat murmuring Hero-Songs, and wove

Th’ adventures that Her Chief had seen,

And billows blue, and groves of green;

Slow start from out the wool’s snow-fields

Round, gold-embroider’d, shining shields,

And battle’s lances flying red,

And mail-coats stiff with silver thread; —

But day by day Her Hero still

Grows FRITHIOF like, weave how she will, —

And as His form ’mid th’ arm’d host rushes,

Though deep, yet joyful, are her blushes!

And FRITHIOF, where his wanderings be,

Carves I and F i’ th’ tall birch-tree;

The runes right gladly grow united,

Their young hearts like by one flame lighted.

Stands DAY on Heav’n’s arch,—throne so fair!—

King of the world, with golden hair,

Waking the tread of life and men —

Each thinks but of the other then!

Stands NIGHT on Heav’n’s arch,—throne so fair!—

World’s mother with Her dark-hued hair,

While stars tread soft, all hush’d ’mong men —

Each dreams but of the other then!

“Thou EARTH! — each spring through all thy bow’rs

Thy green locks jeweling thick with flow’rs,—

Thy choicest give! fair weaving them,

My FRITHIOF shall the garland gem.’

“Thou SEA! in whose deep gloomy hall

Shine thousand pearls, hear Love’s loud call! —

Thy fairest give me, to bedeck

That whiter pearl, my ING’BORG’S neck!”

“O crown of ODEN’S Royal Throne,

Eye of the world, bright golden SUN! —

Wert thou but mine, should FRITHIOF wield

Thy shining disk, his shining shield.’

“O lamp of great ALLFATER’S Dome,

Thou MOON, whose beams so pale-clear roam! —

Wert thou but mine, should ING’BORG wear

Thy crescent-orb among her hair.’

Then HILDING spoke:—‘From this love-play

Turn, fosterson, thy mind away;

Had wisdom rul’d, thou ne’er hadst sought her —

⟪The maid⟫, fate cries, ⟪is BELE’S Daughter!⟫

‘To ODEN, in His star-lit sky,

Ascends her titled ancestry;

But THORSTEN’S son art thou; give way!

For ⟫like thrives best with like⟫ they say.’

But FRITHIOF smiling said;—‘Down fly

To Death’s dark vale my ancestry:

Yon forest’s King late slew I; pride

Of high birth heir’d I with his hide.

‘The freeborn man yields not; for still

His arm wins worlds where’er it will:

Fortune can mend as well as mar,

Hope’s ornaments right Kingly are!

‘What is high birth for force? Yes! THOR,

Its sire, in Thrudvang’s fort gives law:

Not birth, but worth, he weighs above; —

The sword pleads strongly for its love!

‘Yes! I will fight for my young bride,

Though e’en the Thund’ring God defied.

Rest thee, my lily, glad at heart;

Woe him whose rash hand would us part!’

---

Statue of Fridtjof
Max Unger (1913)
(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frithiof%27s_Saga)

Esaias Tegnér (1782–1846) Sweden

Translated by G.S.

Source: Frithiof Saga. A Legend of the North, Esaias Tegnér, Black and Armstrong, 1839

Notes:

• Bele - Fylke-King (Independent Chief) of Sogne District, Norway
• Ingeborg - His only daughter
• Thorsten - A rich and powerful yeoman (Bonde), friend, chief stay and brother-in-arms of King Bele
• Frithiof - His son and Ingeborg's lover
• Hilding - A venerable Peasant, the foster-father of Frithiof and Ingeborg

Scene: Frammäs and its neighbourhood (Sogne District)

Esaias Tegnér's version of  Frithiof's Saga is based on the Icelandic original from around 1300, but warrants his name as author as he completely reworked it into the verse epic we have today.