THE SWORD OF ANGANTYR.
Angantyr, in his low earth-bed, pale, stiff, and grave,
Beyond reach of the moon-gleam and fierce glare of the sun,
With a sword in his hand, a sleep peaceful has won;
For the fierce eagles have spared the flesh of the brave,
And the heather has drunk the red blood that had run.
On the black cape's summit, where the ocean waves moan,
Stands Angantyr's child. Avenger none has been found
For the dead who reposes beneath the high mound;
So Hervor, her fair breasts bruised by thicket and stone,
Disturbs the slain hero with her clamour alone.
'Angantyr! Angantyr! 'Tis thine Hervor who calls!
O chief whose proud galleys ploughed the foam of the sea,
Give thy sword iron-hilted that bright flashed, unto me;
It rests on thy breast, but its name yet appals,
For it was forged by the dwarfs of Ymer for thee.'
'My child, my child, why dost thou in darkness thus shriek,
Like a gaunt famished she-wolf that howls by a tomb?
The earth and the granite press me down in this gloom;
My closed eyes see only an immensity bleak,
And thy cry thrills my heart like the trumpet of doom.'
