King Ring moved his gold-stool back. Then uprose
Champion and dreamer;—
For where in the North does such goodness repose?
His word o’erflows
With the wisdom which dwells in god Mimer.
Like the groves of the peaceful gods was his land,—
War’s sable pinion
Cast not a shadow where on every hand
Through the length of his quiet dominion.
Here Justice alone on the judgment-seat
With Right presided;
And Peace every year paid its tribute meet,—
While golden wheat
With plenty the harvest provided.
And swarthy-prowed ships to this favored shore,
With snowy pinions
The products of numberless nations bore,—
A varied store
Of riches for fortune’s rich minions.
Here freedom and peace did in concord dwell,
And all loved their father, the king, full well,
For each might tell
His mind in the thing,* none were slighted.
Supreme in the Northland through thirty years
His reign extended;
Contented each went to his daily cares;
At evening prayers
The king’s name in blessings ascended.
King Ring moved his gold-stool back. From the
All there assembled
Arose to attend on the royal word,—
Renowned where heard:
But he sighed, and in accents that trembled,
He said: “My lost queen is in Folkvang-hall
On purple seated;
But here on her grave is a grassy pall,
While breathe o’er all
The flowers with sweet odor freighted.
“So queenly, so honored, so good and so fair,
There’s not another.
Immortal she dwelleth in Valhal’s care,
But the people’s prayer,
The children’s desire, is a mother.
“King Bele oft sat as a guest at my side
When winter ended;
The daughter he left I would choose for my bride,—
Her father’s pride,
In whose cheeks rose and lily are blended.
“I know she is young, and in youth sublime.
Would gather flowers;
My flower is past and my early prime;
My locks has Time
Besprinkled with snowy showers.
Oh, could she but honor the withered tree
Which age has blighted;
And could she a friend to the motherless be,
Then should you see
To the throne Spring by Autumn invited.
“Take gold froth my coffers, take jewels rare,
Let minstrels attending the way prepare
To win the fair,—
For song heralds wooing and pleasure.”
With gold and petitions, a noisy throng,
The young men speeded;
And minstrels and skalds, in procession long,
To the sons of King Bele proceeded.
The feast, where with wassail they drink and sing,
For three days lasted,
But they sought the fourth morning what answer they’d bring
From Helge king,—
For now their return must be hasted.