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147 FRITHIOF’S SAGA
147.
Whirling cold and fast,
Snow-wreaths fill the sail;
Over deck and mast
Patters heavy hail.
The very stem they see no more,
So thick is darkness spread;
As gloom and horror hover o’er
The chamber of the dead.
Still to sink the sailor dashes
Implacable each angry wave;
Gray, as if bestrewn with ashes,
Yawns the endless, awful grave.
"For us, in bed of ocean,
Azure pillows Ran prepares;
On thy pillow, Ingeborg,
Thou thinkest upon me.
Higher ply, my comrades,
Ellida’s sturdy oars;
Good ship, heaven-fashioned,
Bear us on an hour."
O’er the side apace
Now a sea hath leapt;
In an instant’s space
Clear the deck is swept.
From his arm now Frithiof hastens
To draw his ring, three marks in weight;
Like the morning sun it glistens,
The golden gift of Bele great.
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