Though his heart grieveth,
  Enters the stranger;
Pale sits the king, while the queen’s gentle breast
Billow-like heaveth;
  Singeth the ranger
A song of departure, with sorrow oppressed.

 “Bathes now the billow
  Winged steed flying,
Sea-horse is longing to flee from the strand;
Glad will he follow
  Him who is hieing
Far from his home and his well beloved land.

 “The arm-ring I give thee,
  Ing’borg, receive it. 
Holiest memories with it remain. 
Ne’er let it leave thee: 
  Fridthjof, believe me
Truly forgives.  Thou’lt not see him again.

 “No more beholding
  The smoke’s upward motion
Northland I’ll see.  Truly man is a slave;
Fate is unyielding;
  Far on the ocean
There is my fatherland, there is my grave.

 “When in your roaming
  Stars the vault cover,
Go not with Ingeborg down to the strand;
Lest in the gloaming
  You should discover
Fridthjof, the outlawed, cast up on the sand.”

 “Sad is the hearing,”
  Ring said, replying,
“When a man moans like a weak maiden’s sigh. 
Valhal is nearing,
  E’en now the sighing
Death song I hear.  Every mortal must die.

 “No one can frighten,
  Or by complaining
Change the allotment the norns have set down;
Sorrow thou’lt lighten
  O’er the land reigning,—­
Take thou my queen, for my son guard the crown.

 “True is it spoken,
  Loved and respected
Peaceful I’ve reigned, over mountain and vale;
Yet have I broken
  Shields, unprotected,
Landward and seaward, without turning pale.

 “Now shall the bleeding
  Geirs-odd relieve me,—­
Dying in bed ill befits Northland’s kings;
Not worth my heeding,
  Death shall receive me,—­
Life’s pain is equal to that which death brings.”

 Then carved he rightly
  Letters all glowing,—­
Death runes to Odin on arm and on chest;
Shine now so brightly
  Blood-drops o’erflowing,
Dyeing the silvery hair on his breast.

 “Bring for my drinking
  The horn with wine flowing;
Skoal to thy honor, thou land of my birth! 
Minds deeply thinking,
  Harvest fields growing,—­
Peaceful exploits have I loved on the earth.

 “Vain amid slaughter
  Bloody and daring,
Sought I for peace,—­she fled in dismay. 
Now the mild daughter
  Of heaven appearing,
Beckons me hence to Valhal away.

 “Hail ye immortals! 
  Sons of high heaven! 
Earth disappears; Gjallarhorn to a feast
Opens the portals;
  By the gods given,
Blessedness crowns as a helmet the guest!”

 Speaking intently,
  Ing’borg’s hand loyal,
Also his son’s, and his friend’s, too, he pressed;
Eyelids close gently,—­
  Spirit so royal
Flies with a sigh to the Allfather’s breast.

XXI.