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~ Historical & Classical Poetry ~


  ——— Freya’s hall,
With precious gems o’erlaid,
Stands in a lonely vale,
Which rose-tree forests shade;
Swans, white as virgin snow,
There on the calm lakes sail,
Lovers, who ne’er brake vow,
Tell there their ardent tale.

But in Folkvangur’s bower
Nought like its matchless queen;
Mid many a beauteous flower
No flower like her, I ween.
Her form so round and slight,
Her look which love doth beam,
Her step as Zephyr’s light,
Exceeds e’en poet’s dream.

Each small, white, taper hand
A blushing rose doth bear,
Which through her faery land
Breathe forth their fragrant air.
Their sweets no guardian thorn
From rude touch needs defend,
Tis they to even and morn
The roseate tints which lend.

Like her no goddess kind,
She saves from wounds and death,
Her sigh—the sweet south wind
O’er the wild flowers doth breathe.
Round tears for mortal woe
Each morn her blue eyes till,
Which on the flowers below
In purest dew distill.

Her daughters Siofha10 hight
And Hnos, with amber hair,
Not e’en the spirits of light
Can boast of aught so fair.
Whate’er is passing bright
On earth, from Hnos we call:
Siofha gives slumbers light,
The morn on pure souls fall.

Adam Gottlob Oehlenschläger (1779-1850)    Short Biography of Adam Oehlenschläger

Translation by Grenville Pigott, in "A Manual of Scandinavian Mythology, Containing a
Popular Account of the Two Eddas and of the Religion of Odin" (London, 1839)