King Belé's sons may gladly roam
From dale to dale, with flag unfurled.
'Tis nought to me; in Balder's dome,
There rests my soul, there lies my world;
There shall no thought my bliss destroy
Of kingly rage or earthly care;
But only drink without alloy
The cup of bliss with Ingborg fair.

Whilst the bright sun with radiance plays,
Sheds on the flower its crimson warm,
Like to the rosy gauze whose haze
Conceals the charms of Ingborg's form;
So long I wander on the strand,
Consumed by everlasting fire,
And, sighing, write upon the sand
Her name, with love that nought can tire.

How slowly pass the lazy hours!
O Delling's son, why tarriest thou?
Hast thou not seen both tombs and towers,
And lakes and islands, until now?
Is there no maid in the far West
To hasten on thy lagging pace;
Who, closely to thy bosom pressed,
Will look into thy radiant face?

At last, in spite of billows' roar,
Thou sink'st into the troubled deep,
And Evening draws her veil before
The mystery of godlike sleep.
Their tale of love the streamlets smother,
The winds their songs of love repress,
Welcome, O Night! Of gods the mother,
With pearls upon thy bridal dress

Silent the shining stars advance,
Like lover, tiptoe, to his maid.
O'er the rough wave, Ellida, dance,
Dance on, nor let thy course be stayed.
There, in the distance, lies the grove --
O'er the blue wave, a green line thin -- 
And Balder's temple is above,
And Love's fair goddess is within.

O Earth, I could embrace thee now!
O fields, I could thy bosom kiss!
O flowers, which red and white do grow
Upon the rugged precipice!
O Moon, who shed'st thy radiant beams
O'er grove and temple, tomb and tower,
And sit'st like prophetess who dreams
Of things below with silent power!

Who taught thee, brook, the voice which fails,
And dies unspoken in my breast?
Who taught you, northern nightingales,
To warble forth my love expressed?
The evening's blushes paint her form
All rosy on the darkening sky;
But Freya damps its colours warm,
And, envious, sweeps them now away.

Yet gladly let her phantom vanish;
She comes herself, with bright blue eyes,
And faith, which nought but Death can banish,
She comes herself, affection's prize.
Come, my beloved, let me press thee
To the heart which holds thee dear.
My soul's delight, may Heaven bless thee;
Come to my arms, and rest thee there.

Slim as the stalk of any flower,
Round as the form of full-blown rose,
With purity thy native [dower]1,
Thy love thou may'st with warmth disclose.
Kiss me, my fair one. Let the glow
Which warms my veins e'en quicken thee.
Ah! heaven above and earth below
Swim round me when thou kissest me.

Be not afraid -- there is no fear;
Björn stands below, with sails unfurled,
And warriors armed with shield and spear,
Fit to defend us 'gainst a world.
O that the Fates would so decide
That I might die for thee e'en now,
And joyful to Valhalla ride,
If my Valkyria wert thou.

What whisper you of Balder's ire?
The pious god -- he is not wrath.
He loves himself, and doth inspire
Our love -- the purest he calls forth.
The god with true and steadfast heart,
The sun upon his glittering form,
Is not his love for Nanna part
Of his own nature, pure and warm?

There is his image; he is near.
How mild he looks on me -- how kind!
A sacrifice to him I'll bear,
The offer of a loving mind.
Kneel down with me; no better gift,
No fairer sure for Balder is,
Than two young hearts, whose love doth lift
Above the world almost like his.

More unto heaven than to earth
Belongs my love. Despise it not;
For heaven it was that gave it birth,
It longeth for that sacred spot.
On high how pure would be our love!
O might I die by foeman's blade,
And glorious rise to realms above,
Clasped in the arms of my pale maid!

When to the fight the warriors ride
From out the silver portals free,
I should repose thy form beside,
A faithful friend, and gaze on thee.
When Valhall's maids around the board
Hand the large mead-horn, foaming high,
To thee I'd whisper low a word
Of love, and heave a tender sigh.

A hut of branches would I build
On some bright isle in dark blue bay,
'Neath trees with slumbering songsters filled,
The darksome night we'd sleep away.
When Valhall's sun again did burn,
(How pure, how glorious, are his beams),
Unto the gods we would return,
Whilst each of home and quiet dreams.

Thy pallid beauty to enhance,
With stars I'd crown thy golden head;
In Vingolf's hall with thee I'd dance
Till thy pale cheeks were rosy red.
Then from the dance I thee would bring
To the abode of love and peace.
Bragé the silver-haired to sing
Thy bridal song should never cease.

A songster chirps from yonder brake --
The song is from Valhalla's strand.
How the moon shines upon the lake!
She shineth from Death's shadowy land.
The song and moonlight soft portend
A world of love, devoid of care.
My life and love I'd gladly end
With thee, with thee, my Ingeborg fair.

Weep not, for yet the life-blood streams
In my young veins. Oh! weep not so;
For love and youth indulge in dreams
Fantastically here below.
Only thine arms toward me stretch,
With thy blue eyes but look on me,
And easily the dreamer fetch
From heavenly happiness to thee.

"Hush ! 'tis the lark." No, 'tis a dove
Cooing within the wood at rest.
The lark is sleeping by his love,
Secure within his downy nest.
O happy birds! Can ye not sing
The livelong day as free as air?
Their life is free, free as the wing
Which bears aloft the happy pair.

"See, the day breaks." No, 'tis the light
Guiding the homeward-veering sail;
Yet may we speak, as yet the night
Covers us with her darksome veil.
Sleep on, O golden star of day,
Delay to mount the arduous hill;
For me you may your course delay
Till Ragnarök, if so you will.

Alas! 'tis vain to hope for night;
See in the east the reddening streaks.
The morning breeze is fanning light
The roses on my darling's cheeks.
A crowd of feathered songsters twitters,
And soars into the cloudless sky;
Nature awakes, and Ocean glitters,
Whilst shadowy night and lovers fly.

Now rises bright the glorious sphere.
Grant me, O golden sun, this prayer,
I know it well -- the god is near,
And casts around his dazzling glare.
O thou, who tread'st thine annual course,
Proudly magnificent as now,
And cloth'st in light from glory's source
Victorious thy sacred brow,

I place before thy glitt'ring eye
The fairest thing within the North;
Take her into thy ward, most high,
She is thine image upon earth.
Her soul is pure as thy bright beams,
Her eyes are as the heaven blue;
The gold which from thy forehead streams
Reflects in her long tresses' hue.

Farewell, beloved one; and now
We part until a longer meeting.
Farewell! A kiss upon thy brow,
Now on thy lips a lover's greeting.
Sleep now, and dream of me; when soft
You wake at noon, let mem'ry dwell
Upon thy absent love, who oft
Doth sigh and dream of thee. Farewell.