“Hard’s the weather, brothers! 
 Hear the stormy pinions
 Flapping in the distance,
 Yet we do not pale. 
 Sit within the temple,
 Think on me with longing,
 Beauteous in thy weeping,
 Beauteous Ingeborg.”

——­
 ’Gainst Ellide’s stem,
   Two goblins warfare made. 
  One was wind-cold Ham,
   One was snowy Heyd.

Now the storm-wind wildly drifts them
 O’er the deep, and madly down;
Now it beating, whirling lifts them,
 Upward where the heavens frown. 
All the powers of evil coming,
 Riding on the billows’ top,
From the bottomless, the foaming,
 From the wide graves up.

 “Brighter was the journey
 By the pale moon’s glimmer,
 Over mirrored waters
 Unto Balder’s grove;
 Warmer was it, nearer
 Ing’borg’s heart reposing;
 Whiter than the sea-foam
 Swelled her bosom fair.”

------
Solund island fair
Above the waves so white! 
Stiller seas are there,
Harbors safe invite.

But the bold sea-rover feareth
 Less upon the trusted oak,
Mans the helm himself and jeereth
 At the wild wind’s sportive stroke. 
Tighter now the sail he fastens,
 Fleeter o’er the water skims,
Straight to westward fearless hastens,
 Goes where’er the billow swims.

 “Fighting for a moment
 With the storm delighteth: 
 Storm and Northman prosper
 Well upon the wave.

 Ingeborg would redden
 Should her sea-eagle fly with
 Slackened wings, affrighted
 By a passing breeze.”

-----
Higher rise the waves,
Deeper furrows plow,
Cordage madly raves,
Creak both keel and prow.

Waves whichever way contending,
 With or ’gainst Ellide’s form,
Meet good timbered sides, defending
 Menaced ship, defying storm. 
Like an evening meteor sweeping,
 Joyful glides she through the night,
Like an Alpine roebuck leaping
 Over precipice and height.

“Better was it kissing her in Balder’s temple, Than to stand here tasting Salt-foam as it whirls.

 Better ’twas embracing
 Bele’s royal daughter
 Than to stand here gripping
 Fast the rudder’s helm.”

 From the cold sky’s field
 Snows intense prevail,
 And on deck and shield
 Rattling storms of hail.

Lo, o’er all the vessel flying
 Night has placed her sable pall,
As in rooms where dead are lying,
 Gloomy darkness covers all. 
Wave implacable now lashes
 Toward his doom the sailor brave
White-gray as with sifted ashes
 Frightful yawns a boundless grave.

 “Pillows Ran is making,
 Luring us to quiet;
 Thine I know are waiting,
 Ingeborg, for me.

 Faithful men are plying
 Oars of good Ellide;
 Gods the keel have made us,
 Bear us yet awhile.”