Thorolf,--thou my last-born!
Of the bold the boldest!
Soon were spent my sorrow
so but thou wert left me!
Fair thou wast as springtide,
fond towards thy father,
waxing straight and stalwart
to so wight a warrior.
Dark and drear his death-wound
leaves my life's lone evening;
grief hath gripped my bosom
as 'twixt hurtling targes.
Nought the Norn denied me
of her rueful riches,
showering woes unstinted
over Ornulf's world-way.
Weak are now my weapons.
But, were god-might given me,
then, oh Norn, I swear it,
scarce should'st thou go scatheless!
Dire were then my vengeance;
then had dawned thy doomsday,
Norn, that now hast left me
nought but yonder grave-mound.
Nought, I said? Nay, truly,
somewhat still is Ornulf's,
since of Suttung's[3] mead-horn
he betimes drank deeply.
(With rising enthusiasm.)
Though she stripped me sonless,
one great gift she gave me--
songcraft's mighty secret,
skill to sing my sorrows.
On my lips she laid it,
goodly gift of songcraft;
loud, then, let my lay sound,
e'en where they are lying!
Hail, my stout sons seven!
Hail, as homeward ride ye!
Songcraft's glorious god-gift
stauncheth woe and wailing.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81