Bibliofreakblog

FreeVerse: Frithiof with Angantyr

Last week, I posted Longfellow’s ode to Tegner, a Scandinavian poet from the 19th century.  So that got me wondering who this Tegner guy is.

So, I went to the library, where they had one book of his translated poetry, which said that really only Longfellow really knew of him, and he never really caught on in English-speaking countries.

Apparently, he was hella into sagas.

I didn’t read the whole of Frithiof’s Saga, which was one of the ones in the book, but I did do a good scanning and found an awesome passage that involves mead and much of the “northerness” that Lewis liked in Longfellow’s poem.  So this is part of Frithiof with Angantyr, which is part of Friothiof’s Saga, in which there is much adventuring.  Think like if you combined the stories of The Odyssey and The Illiad.

from “Frithiof with Angantyr by Elaias Tegner

Now also ye the tale shall hear
     How, with his vassals all,
Drank joyfully Yarl Angantyr
     In the fir-wood fashioned hall.
In mirth and gladness sitting, he
     The blue waves looked upon,
As down the sun sank in the sea,
     Like to a golden swan.

In the deep bow of the window wide
     Old Halvar, keeping ward,
With one eye viewed the spreading tide,
     With one his mead did guard.
A habit strange the old man had–
     He’d ever empty the cup,
And into the hall, with gesture sad,
     For more would hold it up.

But now he cries, as the empty horn
      Into the hall he throws,
“A ship upon the sea is borne,
     Full heavily she goes;
Now seemeth she to tarry,
      Now reacheth she the land;
To mighty giants carry
     The pale crew to the land.”

O’er ocean’s wide dominions
     The Yarl now looketh he;
Those are Ellida’s pinions,
     That, too, must Frithiof be:
By such a proud appearing
     Must Thorsten’s son be known;
In all the North such bearing
     Belongs to him alone.”

Forth from the board, in furious mood,
     Doth Viking Atle rise,
Black-bearded Berserk, craving blood,
     Rage flashing from his eyes:
“Now, now,” he cries, “my hand shall show
     If Frithiof, as they say,
A spell o’er steel itself can throw,
     And ne’er for quarter pray.”

With him sprung up twelves comrades there,
     Twelves comrades from the board;
They weild the club, they cleave the air
      With fiercely brandished sword.
They rush down to the level strand,
     Where rests the ship at length, 
And Frithiof sitteth on the sand,
     Bespeaking might and strength.

And then Frithiof kicks all of their asses.