Olaf Liljekrans

[OLAF alone.]

OLAF. [Gazes out to the right.]

   As merry she is as the youthful roe,
   As it plays with no thought of the morrow;
   But soon will she wring her small hands in woe,
   And suffer in anguish and sorrow!
   Soon must I destroy the faith in her heart,
   And waken her out of her dreams.
   And then—yes, then we forever must part.
   Poor Alfhild!  So bitter your fate to me seems!

OLAF. [Brooding.]

   What cared I for honor, what cared I for power,
   What mattered my race when I wandered with you!
   It seemed in your eyes was reflected a flower,
   More precious than any the world ever knew!
   Forgotten I had both struggle and strife,
   But since I again came home to this life,
   Since at table I sat in my father's hall,
   Since I went to answer my mother's call—

OLAF. [Abruptly.]

  'Tis true from a noble race I am born,
   And Alfhild lives up in the mountains forlorn.
   In her I should find but a constant sorrow.
   I must tell her—yet, no, I can't let her know!
   Yet truly—I must—I must ere the morrow,
   She must hear what to me is the bitterest woe!