Straight the ancient king awakens.  “Sweet has been my sleep,” he said;
“Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man’s blade. 
But where is thy sword, O stranger?  Lightning’s brother, where is he? 
Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be?”

“It avails not,” Frithiof answered; “in the North are other swords: 
Sharp, O monarch! is the sword’s tongue, and it speaks not peaceful words;
Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem;
Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them.”

IV

FRITHIOF’S FAREWELL

No more shall I see
In its upward motion
The smoke of the Northland.  Man is a slave: 
The fates decree. 
On the waste of the ocean
There is my fatherland, there is my grave.

Go not to the strand,
Ring, with thy bride,
After the stars spread their light through the sky. 
Perhaps in the sand,
Washed up by the tide,
The bones of the outlawed Viking may lie.

Then, quoth the king,
“’T is mournful to hear
A man like a whimpering maiden cry. 
The death-song they sing
Even now in mine ear,
What avails it?  He who is born must die.”

*****

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER

BY ESAIAS TEGNER

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come.  The church of the village
Gleaming stood in the morning’s sheen. 
   On the spire of the bell
Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. 
Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses,
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet
Murmured gladness and peace, God’s-peace! with lips rosy-tinted
Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. 
Swept and clean was the churchyard.  Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor
Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron
Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. 
Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed,
(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet,
Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children’s children,
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes,
While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. 
Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season
When the young, their parents’ hope, and the loved-ones of heaven,
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of