FROM THE OLD NORSE

The maid at eve in Munarvoe Saw the herdsman homeward go.

Who walketh alone so late i’ the isle? Go seek thee shelter and sleep awhile

I seek not shelter to sleep awhile, For I know not the dwellers in the isle; Tell me, thou, what fain I’d know— Where is the mound called Hiorward’s Howe?

Mad thou art, that askest thus, And thy plight is piteous! Fly we to shelter, far and fast— The world without is grim and ghast.

I’ll give thee a neck-ring of gold so red— Not thus is the friend of heroes stayed!

No ring that’s wrought of the gold so gay, No goodly guerdon, my feet shall stay; Him I hold but a witless wight That will walk alone in the grisly night. Fires are flitting, and grave-mounds gape! Burns field and fen! Seek we to ’scape!

Nay, for their fretting no fright I know, Tho’ all the isle went up in a lowe. Nay, it behoves not to fear nor flee Tho’ ghosts arise. Talk thou with me! Far to the forest he fled, afraid To hold discourse with the hardy maid; But higher-strung for her dauntless quest, Herwor’s heart swelled in her breast.

Angantheow, wake! the voice is mine, Tofa’s only child and thine; Give to me the sword of flame Forged by dwarfs for Swafurlam! Angantheow, Herward, Hiorward, Rann Waken, each and every man! Waken, waken from your sleep ’Mid the tree-roots, where ye keep Blood-stained spear and sword and shield— All the weapons warriors wield. Surely, seed of Arngrim bold, Dust ye are, and mounds of mould, Speechless, if ye let me go, Eyfur’s sons, in Munarvoe! Angantheow, Herward, Hiorward, Rann! Be it in your rib-bones’ span As of ants a stinging horde, If ye give me not the sword! Ghosts no gear should have in ward!

Herwor, daughter! Wherefore thus Callest curses down on us? Mad thou art, distracted maid, Wilful waking thus the dead! Surely thou art no mortal wight That comest thus to the howe at night, With helm and spear and bright breast-plate, Ore of the Goths, to the grave-mound’s gate!

Men called me a mortal, till thus I yode To seek thee out in thine abode. Give me what the dwarfs have wrought— Hiding it avails thee not.

Never hand of sire nor kin Laid me here, the howe within, But the foeman two that I did not slay— Tyrfing one of them bears to-day.

See now that the truth thou tell! May the grisly fiends of hell Tear thee piecemeal from thy grave If thou hast not there the glaive! Slow thou art, I tell thee true, To give thine only child her due!

Hell-gate is opening—the graves gape wide! The isle is flaming on every side! All is ghastly and grim to see— Back to thy ships, maid! Turn and flee.

Never a bale that burns by night Shall put me with its flame to flight. Never thy daughter’s heart shall shrink Tho’ a ghost should stand at the grave-mound’s brink. I bind ye all with a magic doom To lie and rot within the tomb! Hjalmar’s bane, from out the howe, The sharp mail-scather, give me now!

Under my shoulders lies Hjalmar’s bane, Fenced with a fire that will not wane No maiden I ken of earthly mould Will dare such a blade in her hand to hold.

May I have the shining blade I will hold it, unafraid. It scares me not, it sinks and dies, The burning flame, before mine eyes.

Herwor the brave, art mad, to go Open-eyed into the lowe! Rather with the sword shalt hie thee; Nothing, maid, can I deny thee. (He gives her the sword out of his grave.)

Son of Vikings, well dost thou To give me the sword from out the howe; Better to me the boon, I say, Than were I to conquer all Norroway.

Little, daughter, dost thou know Wherefore thou rejoicest so! Fond, thou speakest words of woe. Thou shalt bear a son at length Who will trust in Tyrfing’s strength; Heidrek, thus his name shall run, Richer than all beneath the sun.

I must fare to my steeds of the sea; Gay and glad is my heart in me. Son of a king, I reck not at all How my children hereafter strive and brawl!

Long shalt thou hold and enjoy thy gain; But keep in the scabbard Hjalmar’s bane. Touch not the edges, with venom dight, Worse than a plague to living wight. Daughter, farewell! The power and pith Fain would I endue thee with Of us twelve men, the life and breath The sons of Arngrim lost in death!

All is accomplished; I must not stay. Hail, ye in the howe! I will away. . . . . . ’Twixt life and death, methought, I found me, When the flaming fire was all around me!

When Thor awoke, his wrath was grim To find his hammer gone from him. He shook his beard, he tossed his hair, The Son of Earth sought here and there. And first of all he spake this word: “Listen, Loki! never was heard In earth or heaven what now I say— The Thunderer’s hammer is stolen away!” To Freyja the fair their way they take, And this is the word that first he spake: “Lend me thy feather-fell, I pray, To seek my hammer, that’s stolen away.” “Were it of silver, or were it of gold, That would I give thee, that should’st thou hold.” Loki he flew in the rustling fell Out of the halls where the Aesir dwell To Jôtunheim. On a howe sat Thrym, King o’ the giants, a-twisting trim Golden bands for his hounds of speed, And smoothing the mane of his trusty steed; And this is the word that first he said: “What of the Aesir? What of the Elves? Why art thou come to the Giant’s door?” “’Tis ill with the Aesir, ill with the Elves! Say, hast thou hidden the hammer of Thor?” “Yea, I have hidden the hammer of thunder Eight full fathoms the earth down under; No man shall win it in all his life Until he shall bring me Freyja to wife.” Loki he flew in the rustling fell Out of the halls where the Giants dwell, Until he came to Asgard’s bound, And Thor in the midmost garth he found. And this is the word that first he said: “What tidings, toiling, hast thou won? For a man that sits tells a stumbling tale, And a man that lies, a lying one.” “News for my toiling do I bring; Thrym has thine hammer, the Giant’s king, No man may win it in all his life Until he take him Freyja to wife.” To Freyja the fair their way they take, And this is the word that first he spake: “Bind on thy bridal-veil amain, For to Jôtunheim we must fare, we twain.” Wroth was Freyja! she caught her breath— The hall of the Aesir shook beneath, The Brising necklace snapped in three. “Marriage-mad is the name for me If to Jôtunheim I fare with thee!” All the Aesir to council went, The mighty ones to parliament, Gods and goddesses, all in wonder How to win back the hammer of thunder. It was Heimdall spake amain, Whitest of gods, the wily Wane: “Now bind on Thor the veil so fair, The Brising necklace let him wear; Hang round him many a clinking key, Let woman’s weeds fall to his knee; Jewels broad on his breast shall shine, And neatly shall ye the topknot twine!” Up spake he, mightiest at need: “Call me a coward’s name indeed If ever I wear a woman’s weed!” Up spake Loki, Laufey’s son: “Thor, with thy witless words have done! Soon shall the Giants in Asgard reign Unless thou win thine hammer again.” On Thor they bound the veil so fair, The Brising necklace did he wear; They hung him with many a clinking key, Let women’s weeds fall to his knee; Jewels broad on his breast did shine, And neatly did they the topknot twine. Then Loki, son of Laufey, said: “I will go with thee as waiting-maid!” The goats they harness by two and by one— To the shafts they are shackled, well can they run! Valley and hill burst into flame When Odin’s son to the Giants came. The King o’ the Giants did loudly call: “Up now, Giants! strew the benches all! See where the bride they bring adown, Daughter of Niord, from Noa-town! “Kine go here with gilded horn, Oxen black my garth adorn; Gold have I and goods galore— For Freyja alone I long so sore.” Evening fell on the blithe bridàle; The Giants sat a-drinking ale. The greedy spouse of Sif, he ate Seven salmon, every cate For the ladies spread, and a goodly steer— And he drank three tuns, his heart to cheer. The King o’ the Giants, he up and cried: “Never was known such a hungry bride! Ne’er saw I lady so full of greed, Nor maiden drink so deep of mead!” Sitting apart, the wily maid Answered what the Giant said: “This se’nnight past no meat had she, So fain she was to come to thee!” He lifted the veil to kiss the bride, And the hall’s full length he sprang aside: “Why are her eyes so full of ire? Methinks they are darting sparks of fire!” Sitting apart, the wily maid Answered what the Giant said: “This se’nnight past no sleep had she, So fain she was to come to thee!” The Giant’s sister entered in, Greedy a bridal-gift to win: “Give me thy ring of red, red gold, If thou my love wouldst have and hold!” The King o’ the Giants, he up and cried: “Bear in the hammer to hallow the bride! To the maiden’s knees now Miöllni bring, And Var shall hallow our hand-fasting.” Deep in his breast laughed the heart of Thor, When his hammer he held once more! He slew the King o’ Giants, Thrym, And all his race smote after him. He smote the Giant’s sister old, She who begged a gift of gold— For pence, a pound was what she won, And a hammer-blow for a gay guerdòn! Thus back to his hammer came Odin’s son!