Ruthless Norn[1] and wrathful
wrecked my life and ravaged,
wiled away my welfare,
wasted Örnulf's treasure.
Sons had Örnulf seven,
by the great gods granted;—
lonely now and life-sick
goes the greybeard, sonless.
Seven sons so stately,
bred among the sword-blades,
made a mighty bulwark
round the snow-locked sea-king.
Levelled lies the bulwark,
dead my sons strong-hearted;
gone the greybeard's gladness,
desolate his dwelling.
Thorolf,—thou my last-born!
'Mongst 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,
- ↑ See note, p. 72.
