"
"I'm Orm Ungarswayne, thy son,
Youngest son, O father dear:
And to beg a mighty boon
In my need I seek thee here."
"If thou be Orm Ungarswayne,
Orm the kempion bold and free,
Silver, gold, last year I told--
All thou cravedst--o'er to thee."
"Thou wast free of gold and fee,
Glittering trash of little worth--
Birting now I crave of thee,
Birting bravest sword of earth."
"Never shalt thou Birting win,
To obtain the King's fair daughter,
Till to Ireland thou hast been,
And aveng'd thy father's slaughter."
"Give to me the Birting sword,
And with Birting bid me thrive,
Or I will thy sheltering hill
Into thousand atoms rive."
"Stretch thou down thy right hand here,
Take the falchion from my side;
If thou break thy father's hill,
Dreadful wo will thee betide."
From the hill he Birting stretch'd,
Plac'd the hilt within his grasp:
"Strong of hand and valiant stand,
That thy foes before thee gasp."
From the hill he Birting stretch'd,
Plac'd the hilt within his hold:
"Save good fate on thee await,
I shall never be consol'd."
INGEBORG'S LAMENTATION.
From the Swedish of Tegner.
(An extract from Frithiof's Saga.)
Autumn winds howl;
Ocean is swelling so stormy.--My soul,
Would with the sighs which I utter
Forth thou wouldst flutter!
Long did I view
Far in the West the sail which flew--
Happy my Frithiof to follow
O'er the wave hollow!
Blue billow run
O not so high, for it still sails on!
Stars, for my mariner sparkle,
As the nights darkle!
Spring will appear.
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