The following is the hunting-scene, which we have already spoken of, and which needs no further explanation :

FRITHIOF'S TEMPTATION.

Spring is come; the birds are warbling; woods are green, and bright the sun;

And the ice-freed brooks leap onward, singing as they seaward run; Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeps the young rose from its bud;

Hope wakes in the human bosom, strength and joy impel the blood.

Old King Ring will go a-hunting, and the Queen with him must ride,

And the Court is all assembled, thronging round in gorgeous pride. Bows are twanging, quivers rattling, steeds are pawing by the way; And the hooded falcons screaming all impatient for their prey.

See, there comes the Queen o' th' hunting! Ah, poor Frithiof, shun the sight!

Like a star on spring clouds resting sits she on her palfrey white.
Half like Freya, half like Rota, yet more fair than either she,
And in her light cap of crimson floats an azure feather free.

Look not on her blue eye's heaven; look not on her golden hair; Arm thee 'gainst her waist so slender; arm thee 'gainst her bosom fair:

Glance not thou as rose and lily o'er her cheek their changes fling; List not to her voice beloved whispering like the breeze of spring!

Now the hunting-train is ready. Hark away! By dale and height;

Horns are sounding, hawks ascending up to Odin's halls of light. Terror-struck the wild-wood creatures seek their broods 'mid wood

and reeds,

While, with spear advanced, pursuing she the fair Valkyria speeds.

He the old King cannot follow in the chase as far it flies, Lonely by his side rides Frithiof, silent and with downcast eyes.

Gloomy thought and full of sadness through his troubled breast

careers,

And where'er he turns within him its lamenting voice he hears.

"Ah! why left I the wild ocean unto mine own danger blind? Sorrow on the sea scarce smiteth, borne away by heaven's wind! Droops the Viking, all his manhood is aroused by wars alarms, And his troubled thoughts soon vanish in the bright assault of

arms.

“Here 'tis different! Tender longings of unutterable love
Round my busy brain are floating, and like one in dreams I move.
Balder's field can I forget not, nor forget the vow she spoke ;
No, that vow she has not broken; it the gods of evil broke.

"For they hate the human being, and displace his good for ill, They my rose-bud took, and placed it in the breast of Winter chill. What can Winter do with roses? He knows not their beauties' price; His cold spirit but enfoldeth bud and leaf and stalk in ice!"

Thus he murmured. And then came they to a little valley lone, Dark and overtopped with mountains, and with birch and elm

o'ergrown.

Here the aged King alighted: "See how cool this wood and fair, Let us rest, for I am weary, and an hour would slumber here."

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Here, O King, do thou not slumber! chill the sod, and all too hard,

Heavy would thy sleep be; let me to thy castle be thy guard !” Said the old King: "Sleep it cometh, like the gods, when looked

for least;

And an hour of quiet sleeping grudges not his host the guest."

Then took Frithiof off his mantle and upon the meadow spread,
And upon his knees, the old man laid to sleep his heavy head;
Calmly slept he, as the hero when the battle's strife is past
On his shield, or as the infant sleeps upon its mother's breast.

As he slumbers, hark! there singeth a dark bird upon the bough : "Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, let your strife be ended now!

Take his Queen, she is thine only, thou hast her as bridegroom kissed, Not a human eye can see thee; from the deep grave nought is wist."

Frithiof listened; hark! there singeth a white bird upon the bough: "Though no human eye should see thee, not from Odin's 'scapest thou!

Niding, wilt thou slay the sleeper; slay an old, defenceless man? Win whate'er thou may'st, the glory of no hero thus is won!"

So the two birds sung unto him, and he snatched his falchion good, And he flung it, thrilled with horror, far into the gloomy wood. Flew the dark bird down to Nastrånd, but the other's pinions bare, As it sung a harp-like anthem, it into the sunny air.

And just then the old King wakened: "Much this sleep has me restored,

Sleep is sweet beneath green shadows guarded by a brave man's sword;

Yet where is thy sword, O stranger? Where is it, the lightning's brother?

Who has parted you, who never should be parted from each other?"

"Little boots it," Frithiof answered; "swords enough the North affords,

Sharp the sword's tongue is, O monarch, never uttering peaceful words;

In the steel dwell sprites of darkness, spirits sent from Nifelhem, They with sleep have no accordance; silvery hair inciteth them."

"Youth, I have not slept, I only wished to prove thee in this wise. Who is prudent never trusteth man nor sword till both he tries. Thou art Frithiof; I have known thee since thee first my hall received, What his prudent guest kept hidden old King Ring has long perceived.

"Why by stealth sought'st thou my dwelling, without name and in disguise,

Why, unless to steal his young bride from the old man's loving

eyes.

Honour, Frithiof, stands not nameless where the cheerful guests

advance,

Like the sun her shield is spotless; frank her noble countenance!

"Fame has told us of a Frithiof, terror both of gods and man, Cleaving shields and burning temples, boldly carrying forth his ban;

I believed that with an army he would come against my land; And he came, but came in tatters, with a beggar's staff in hand.

"Wherefore are thine eyes thus downcast; I was young, like thee, in sooth;

From the first, life is a combat; its Berserker-time is youth.
Youth will press into the battle till its wilder mood is spent:
I have proved all, and have learned now but to pity and relent.

"Look thou! I am very aged, soon must sleep beneath the stone, O young man, then take my kingdom; take my bride, she is thine

own!

Be my son, and in my palace dwell a guest as heretofore, Weaponless thou wilt defend me; so shall our old feud be o'er."

Gloomily spoke Frithiof: "Thief-like I have not come unto thee; If thy Queen I would have seized on, what was there to hinder me? I, my bride would once more gaze on-once, once only would her ken,

But, oh fool! the half-slaked embers of my love revived again.

"In thy hall too long I tarried: King, I break no more thy bread : Heaven's wrath yet unappeased weighs like mountains on my head.

Balder with the sunbright tresses, he whose love is broad as day, I alone to him am hateful-am alone a castaway!

"Yes, I burned to earth his temple; Varg i Veum am I called; At my name gay guests are silenced and the children shrink appalled;

But my native land has treated her lost son with scorn unkind; I am exiled from my country; exiled from my peace of mind.

"No more on the green earth's bosom will I seek for peace or aid; 'Neath my foot themild turf burneth, and the trees afford no shade; Ingeborg is lost for ever! she of old King Ring is wife :

Darkness only is around me; and 'tis set, my sun of life!

"Therefore hence unto the ocean! Thou, my vessel staunch and good,

Bathe thy pitchy bosom proudly once more in the briny flood; Stretch thy wings amid the storm-cloud through the deeps thy pathway dare

Fly as far as stars can lead thee, or the conquering billows bear.

"Let me see the heaven's lightning; let me hear the thunder's roll,

When there is a roar around me, then is peace within my soul! Clang of shield and rain of arrows! Far at sea 'mid combat wild, Let me fall, and, blood assoiled, meet the gods then reconciled !"

Amongst the minor poems of Tegnér, the "Clergyman's Inauguration" is a fine religious poem; and his "Children at the Communion Table," which we have already mentioned, is a charming piece in hexameters, full of a beautiful religious spirit, and beaming with the innocent freshness of young life. It alternately reminds you of portions of Voss's "Louise," and of our own John Wilson's "Children's Dance on Christmas Eve." "Axel," is a narrative of the times of Charles XII., in the style of the poems of Byron's younger days—“ The Bride of Corinth," "Parisina," and the like. It has fine passages, but is too romantic by half. In his poem written for the Swedish Academy's Jubilee Feast, he gives a series of excellent portraits of the past poets of the country. His "Song to the Sun;" "Poet's Morning Hymn," "Voices of Peace," "Cloister Memories," "The Flood," may be named amongst his most attractive lyrical pieces. But to know their value, they require not merely