Proud, hence descended
My race I tell;
Of heroes splendid,
Fond nurse, farewell!
* * * * *
My love false-hearted,
My manor burned,
My name departed,
An outlaw, spurned,
I now appealing
From earth, will dwell
With waves, for healing.
Farewell, farewell!"[39]
[39] Sherman's translation.
Frithjof now roams for many years over the sea as a viking, and gains
much booty and honor. His viking code, with its swift anapestic rhythm,
has a breezy melody which sings in the ear. It is an attempt to embody
the ethics of Norse warfare at its best, and to present in the most
poetic light the rampant, untamable individualism of the ancient
Germanic paganism. In defiance of his friend Bjoern's advice, Frithjof,
weary of this bootless chase for glory and pelf, resolves to see
Ingeborg once more before he dies, and, disguised as a salt-boiler, he
enters King Ring's hall. There he sees his beloved sitting in the
high-seat beside her aged lord; and the sorrow which the years had
dulled revives with an exquisite agony.
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