C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Reconciliation

By Esaias Tegnér (1782–1846)

From ‘Frithiof’s Saga’

[In the thirteenth canto, Frithiof in a defiant mood enters the temple of Balder, seizes the arm-ring, pulls down the image of Balder, and involves the whole temple in ruin, it being consumed in a blaze of unquenchable fire.

Returning from the sea, Frithiof in disguise visits the court of King Ring, and sees Ingeborg, who recognizes him through his disguise. King Ring also divines his secret, but magnanimously allows him to depart in peace.

Frithiof rebuilds the temple in a spirit of sincere repentance.

King Ring has died, and Ingeborg is free.

The last canto is entitled ‘The Reconciliation,’ and is full of noble sentiment. Frithiof has made atonement, resumes his place in the kingdom, and is united to Ingeborg.]

FINISHED great Balder’s temple stood!

Round it no palisade of wood

Ran now as erst:

A railing stronger, fairer than the first,

And all of hammered iron,—each bar

Gold-tipped and regular,—

Walls Balder’s sacred house. Like some long line

Of steel-clad champions, whose bright war-spears shine

And golden helms afar, so stood

This glittering guard within the holy wood!…

Proud stood it there on mountain steep, its lofty brow

Reflected calmly on the sea’s bright-flowing wave.

But round about, some girdle like of beauteous flowers,

Went Balder’s dale, with all its groves’ soft-murmured sighs,

And all its birds’ sweet twittered songs,—the home of peace….

Farthest within, the god’s high altar rested,

Hewn all of one sole block

From Northern marble rock;

And round thereon its scroll the serpent twisted,

With solemn rune

Each fold thick strewn,

Whose words from Havamal and Vala taken

Deep thoughts in every human bosom waken,—

While in the wall above

A niche was seen with stars of gold

On dark-blue ground; and there, behold!

All mild and gentle as the silver moon

Sitting heaven’s blue aboon,

The silver image stands of Balder, God of Love!—

So seemed the sanctuary.—Forth in pairs now tread

Twelve temple virgins; vests of silver thread

Adorn each slender form, and roses red

O’er ev’ry cheek soft graces shed,

And spread

O’er ev’ry innocent heart a fragrant fair rose-bed.—

Before the White God’s image, and around

The late-blessed altar, dancing, light they bound

As spring winds leap where rippling fount waves sound.

As woodland elves that skip along the ground,

Skimming the high-grown grass

Which morning’s dew

Still hangs with sparkling gems of every hue;—

Ah! how those jewels tremble as the fairies pass!

And while the dance went round, a holy song they sung

Of Balder, that mild god, and how he was beloved

By every creature, till he fell by Höder’s dart,

And earth and ocean wide, and heaven itself, sore wept!

How pure, how tender that song it pealeth!

Sure never sprang

Such tuneful clang

From mortal breast! No,—heaven revealeth

Some tone from Breidablick, from out the gods’ own hall,

All soft as lonely maiden’s thoughts on him she loves,

What time the quail calls deeply ’mid the peace of night;

The North’s tall birches bathed i’ th’ moon’s pale-quivering sheen.

And Frithiof, leaning on his sword, whose glance

Shines far around, stood lost as in a trance,

And charmed and silent gazed upon the dance!—

Thereat his childhood’s memories, how they throng

Before his raptured eye!—A jocund train, and long,

And innocent and glad and true,

With eyes like heaven’s own blue,

And heads rich circled by bright-golden tresses,—

His former youth-friend each with some sign addresses;

Then all his Viking life,

With scenes of murderous strife

And bold adventures rife,

Like some dark bloody shadow sinketh

Fast down to night.—Ah! glad he drinketh

Forgetfulness’s sweet cup, and thinketh,

“Repose at last those sea-king exploits have,—

I stand a flower-crowned Bauta-Stone upon their grave!”…

“Son Frithiof, welcome! Yes, I’ve long expected

That thou shouldst come;—for force, ’tis true, still wanders

Round land and sea afar, wild Berserk like

That pale with rage the shield’s hard border biteth;

But yet at last it home returns again,

Outwearied and all calm.—The strong-armed Thor

Full oft ’gainst giant Jotunheim did wend;

But spite his belt celestial, spite his gauntlets,

Utgårda-Loke still his throne retains;—

Evil, itself a force, to force yields never!

Goodness, not joined with strength, must child’s-play be;—

On Ägir’s bosom so, the sun shines prettily;

But fickle as the flood the graspless splendor see!

As sink or rise the billows, thus all changeably

The fairy brightness flitteth, moving endlessly.

And force, from goodness severed, surely dies;

Self-eating, self-consumed, as sword that lies

In some damp cairn, black rust corrodes the prize:

Yes! Life’s debauch fierce strength’s mad riot is!

But ah! Oblivion’s heron flutters still

O’er goblet-brim that traitorous sweet draughts fill,

And deep’s the wakened drunkard’s shame for deeds of ill!…

“King Helge is no more!”—

“King Helge, he,” said Frithiof,—“when, where, how?”

“Thyself know’st well that whilst thou here hast builded

This temple to the god, King Helge marched

On painful foray ’mong the heathen Fins,

Scaling each mountain wall. In Finland’s borders,

Raised on a barren time-worn peak, there stood

An ancient temple consecrate to Jumala:

Abandoned and fast-shut, for many ages

This desolate fane had been, its every rite

Long since forgotten; but above the portal

An old and monstrous idol of the god

Stood, frail-supported, trembling to its fall.

This temple none dared enter, scarce approach;

For down from sire to son an eld tradition

Went dimly warning, that whoever first

The temple visited should Jumala view!

This Helge heard, and in his blind fierce rage,

The pathless wilds trod ’gainst this deity

So hated from of old, all bent on razing

The temple’s heathen walls. But when he’d marched

Up where the ruin threatened, lo! all fast

The massy moss-grown door was closed; and, covered

With thick brown rust, the key still sat within it.

Grim Helge then, the door-posts griping hard,

With rude uncivil strain the moldering pillars

Fierce shook, and straightway—with tremendous crash

The sculptured image fell, burying beneath it

Valhalla’s impious son; and so dread Jumala

His eyes behold.—A messenger in haste

These tidings brought ere yet last night was ended.

“Now, only Halfdan sits on Bele’s chair.

Thy hand, brave Frithiof, offer him! Revenge

And passion sacrifice to heaven’s high gods:

This Balder’s shrine demandeth;—I demand, too,

As Balder’s highest priest, in token meet

That peace’s gentle chief thou hast not mocked

With vain professions and an empty homage.—

Decide, my son!—shall Balder’s peace be broken?

If so, in vain thou’st built this fane, the token

Of mild forgiveness, and in vain aged priest hath spoken!”

Over the copper threshold Halfdan now,

With pallid brow

And fearful fitful glance, advanceth slow

Tow’rds yonder tow’ring ever-dreaded foe,

And, silent, at a distance stands.

Then Frithiof, with quick hands,

The corslet-hater, Angurvadel, from his thigh

Unbuckleth, and his bright shield’s golden round

Leaning ’gainst the altar, thus draws nigh;

While his cowed enemy

He thus accosts, with pleasant dignity:—

“Most noble in this strife will he be found

Who first his right hand good

Offers in pledge of peaceful brotherhood!”

Then Halfdan, deeply blushing, doffs with haste

His iron gauntlet, and—with hearty grasp embraced—

Each long, long severed hand

Its friend-foe hails, steadfast as mountain-bases stand!

That aged and awful priest then glad removeth

The curse that rested on the varg I veum,

Frithiof the outlaw; and as the last deep accents

Of reconcilement and of blessing sounded—

Lo! Ing’borg sudden enters, rich adorned

With bridal ornaments, and all enrobed

In gorgeous ermine, and by bright-eyed maidens

Slow followed, as on heaven’s broad canopy

Attending star-trains guard the regent moon!

But the young bride’s fair eyes,

Those two blue skies,

Fill quick with tears,

And to her brother’s heart she trembling sinketh;—

He, with his sister’s fears

Deep-moved, her hand all tenderly in Frithiof’s linketh,

His burden soft transferring to that hero’s breast,

Its long-tried faith fit place for Ing’borg’s rest.

Then, to her heart’s first, best beloved, her childhood’s friend,

In nuptial band

She gives her lily hand,

As before pardoning Balder’s altar both low bend!

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