How sweet to die and escape from anguish!
But no, in pain must I live and languish;
For Balder's wrath will no rest allow
My aching heart and my throbbing brow.
But tell to no one my secret sorrow,
I'd rather suffer than pity borrow;
King Bele's daughter her fate may dare,--
But kindly greeting to Fridthjof bear.'
The wedding day with its footsteps fateful
Arrived at last. O, the day most hateful!
To the temple marched in procession sad,
The white-robed virgins and men steel-clad;
A bard dejected the train was guiding,
The pale bride followed, a black steed riding
As pale was she as the wraith which sits
On a storm-cloud black, when the lightning flits.
From off the saddle I quietly took her,
Nor at the temple door forsook her;
But led her up to the altar, where
Her vows she uttered in accents clear.
She wept and prayed, on good Balder calling,
While down her cheeks were the tear-drops falling.
When Helge saw on her arm your band,
He tore it off with an angry hand;
On Balder's image now hangs the jewel.
My wrath burst forth at this act so cruel;
My sword was by me, I drew it forth,--
King Helge then was but little worth.
'Let be,' said Ing'borg, in accents broken,
'My brother might surely have spared this token;
How much one suffers ere death sets free,--
The Allfather judgeth 'twixt him and me.
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