The Deserted Fylgia

Like a meteor, radiant, streaming, Seems her hair to me, And thou bear'st her feet like lilies, Dark and chilly sea! Wannish fires enclasp her bosom, Like the Northern Light, And like icicles her fingers Glisten, locked and white. On the blue and icy ocean, As a stony floor, Toward thy boat, oh, dying Viking, Walks she evermore! Like a star on morning's forehead, When the intense air, Sweeping o'er the face of heaven, Lays its far depths bare - Is the beauty of her smiling, Pale and cold and clear - What, oh, fearful, dying Viking, Doth the maiden here? Moaningly his white lips tremble, But no voice replies - Starlight in the blue waves frozen, Seem his closing eyes. Woman's lot is thine, oh Fylgia, Mourning broken faith, And her mighty love outlasting Chance and change and death!