Note 73 — Chapter I · DENMARK.
Reading edition
Awake, Angantyr! sire, awake!
Thy daughter, Hervor, bids thee break
The slumber of thy desert tomb!
Oh, give me, from its yawning womb,
The magic sword—the hardened blade,
By dwarfs for Swafurlami made!
What, silent? Then on you I call,
My sire, my kinsmen, warriors all!
Obey! let Hervor’s voice prevail!
Yes, by the helmet and the mail,
By the sharp sword, the spear, and shield
Ye wore on many a battle field,
Obey my spell! by each of these,
I call you from your tombs beneath the roots of trees.
What! can the sons of Arngrim, erst
In mischief’s busy work the first,
In dust and ashes mouldering rot?
Are ye all mute? For Hervor’s sake,
Herwarder, Herwarder, awake!
So may you, then, dishonoured lie,
Till rank corruption putrefy,
Unless ye give the belt and blade
By dwarfs for Swafurlami made.
[Here the tomb opens, the inside of which is all fire, and the following dialogue is chaunted:—]
Angantyr.
Daughter, of potent spells possest,
Why dost thou call us from our rest?
What mad ambition bids thee wake
The slumber of the dead?
Hervor, thy rash demand shall break
In ruin on thy head!
Me were the funeral rites denied,
Father nor friend was there.
Seek for the sword in air;
It decks some living warrior’s side.
Hervor.
Thy words are false! deceiver, no!
May Odin on thy tomb bestow
Such safety, sire, as thou hast got
The fairy sword I seek, or not!
Thy child, thine only child, demands
This dowry at a father’s hands.
Angantyr.
Listen, daughter! Hervor, hear
The voice of prophecy, and fear!
Let not a father’s hand consign
A gift so fatal to thy line.
For, lo! I see before this sword
Thine offspring perish, till restored
To son of thine, who then shall prove
The Heidrek of his people’s love.
Hervor.
I heed thee not; but by the sway
Of spells which spirits must obey,
I charge thee, by enchantments dread,
No rest shall know my kindred dead
Till I obtain the belt and blade
By dwarfs for Swafurlami made!
Angantyr.
Maiden, of more than warrior’s might,
Who visitest the tombs by night,
Trusting to the belt and spear
Of magic power, wander not here.
Hervor.
I deemed thee brave before I came
To seek thee in thy house of flame.
Why do I wait? Give me the blade!
Nor longer be the gift delayed!
Angantyr.
The sword lies here, begirt with fire,
Which once—fit weapon for thy sire—
Hialmar slew: but weak the brand
If wielded by a woman’s hand.
Hervor.
Yet I will wield, if I may gain
The fire-girt sword, Hialmar’s bane.
No spectre-fire can Hervor dread
That idly plays around the dead.
Angantyr.
Then, proud and daring spirit, know,
To save thee from the fires below
I give the sword! Thy suit is won!
Hervor.
Offspring of heroes, wisely done!
Oh, dearer is this gift to me
Than Norway in her pride could be!
Angantyr.
O woman! mad and blind to fate!
Rejoicing now, but wise too late,
When thou shalt see thine offspring all,
Beneath that fatal weapon fall.
Hervor.
Too long in parting I delay;
My heroes call—I must obey.
Let my sons quarrel as they will,
My father’s gift! I hold thee still.
Spirits whom I have roused, farewell!
I feel the fires in which ye dwell
Burning around me. Here I cease.
Spirits, retire, and rest in peace![75]