A maiden young
in Munarvag
with the setting of the sun
meets a man at herding.
Who is all alone
come into this island?
Get you now
to your night-lodgings!
I will not leave
for my night-lodgings,
because I know
none of the islanders;
say you, hurry,
before you go from here:
where are Hjorvardh’s
howes known to be?
Ask you not of this;
wise are you not,
friend of pirates,
you are wanting of way;
let us fare fast,
as our legs might lead us,
all is outside
menacing to men!
A treasure we offer to you
in reward for your talk;
a friend of warriors will not be
easy to dissuade:
never will move me
so magnificent things,
fair rings,
that I fare not.
Foolish seems to me,
he who here fares
a man all alone
the dread darkness;
fire is all adrift,
the graves are opened,
burn both earth and fen;
let us fare forth fast.
Let us not be frightened
with such phantasms,
though across all the island
the fires burn;
let us not ourselves
the departed dead
so shamefully shake;
we should with them speak.
Was then the herdsman
hastened to the forest
most quickly from the matter
of this maiden;
and hard-turned
the heart and the breast
for such sake
swelled of Hervor.
Wake thou, Angantyr,
wakes thee Hervor,
only daughter
engendered of you and Tofa;
sell thou to me from the grave
the sharpened sword,
that which for Svafrlami
slaked the dwarves.
Hervardh, Hjorvardh,
Hrani, Angantyr!
I rouse you all
under root of tree,
with helm and with mail,
with sharpened sword,
with shield and with rim,
with reddened spear.
Overmuch are you become
sons of Arngrim
reckless relations
to dally with the dust,
when no soul shall
among the sons of Eyfura
with me speak
in Munarvag.
So may you all
be inwardly riven
as you in the ant
mounds waste away,
save that you release the sword,
that which Dvalinn slaked;
unfit it is to draugs
a dear weapon to conceal.
Hervor daughter,
why damn you so
with foul oaths?
‘Twill fare for you at ill!
Listless are you become
and lost of wit,
wild of will,
that you wake men dead.
Buried me not my father
nor my family other;
they held Tyrfing
two, who lived;
yet came the wielder
one alone at last.
Say thou one truth to me,
so let thee the gods
hale in the tomb
if you have not
Tyrfing with thee;
shameful it is to turn
thy inheritance, Angantyr,
from your only daughter.
Sunken is the hell gate,
the graves are opened.
All is in fire
the island earth to see;
terrible it is outward
all about to look;
hurry, maiden, if you shall
to thy ships.
Burn not so
Bales in the night,
that I with these fires
of thine falter;
shakes not the maiden’s
mind or heart,
though she a draug might see
stand in the doors.
Say I to thee, Hervor,
hear thou yet more,
wise daughter,
that which is to be;
Will this Tyrfing,
if trust you may,
your bloodline, maiden,
all blacken.
You will a son beget,
he who will after
Tyrfing bear
and with true might.
Him they will Heidhrek
the people hight,
he shall be most nobly born
under the sun’s enclosure.
I enchant so
the champions dead,
that you shall
all lie
dead with the draugs
decaying in the grave;
give to me, Angantyr,
out of the grave
the smithwork of the dwarves,
it serves you not to conceal.
I will not say thee, maiden young,
to men pleasing,
when you among the graves
move in the night
with a graven spear
and with a blade of the Goths,
with helm and with mail
before the doors of the hall.
A man I seemed
most human as for that,
before I thy hall
to seek resolved;
give thou to me from out the grave,
that which mars the mail,
treacherous to shields
the bane of Hjalmar.
Under my shoulders lies
Hjalmar’s bane,
all is he from without
in fire swept;
I know of no maiden
over all the earth
who would dare that sword
to take in hand.
I will dare
and in hand take
the sharpened sword,
if I to hold it may;
fear I not
fire burning,
at once the flames flicker,
as I look them over.
Foolish are thou, Hervor,
able of thought,
when you by your eyes
into the fire rush;
still will I sell to you
the sword out of the grave,
maiden so young,
I may not deny it to you.
Well have you done,
son of Vikings,
that you have sold to me
the sword out of the grave;
better I seem now,
prince, to fare
than if I Norway
all might take.
Know you not,
wretched you are of speech,
false-minded woman,
why you should rejoice;
for this Tyrfing will,
if trust thou may,
your bloodline, maiden,
all blemish.
I will go
to the steeds of the waves;
now is the helm’s maiden
in good spirits;
little reck I that,
son of princes,
how my sons
after fare.
You shall have
and enjoy long,
take you by the sheath
Hjalmar’s bane,
take you not by its edges,
poison is in both;
that is a man’s fate-giver
worse than disease.
Fare well, daughter,
readily would I have given you
twelve men’s lives,
if believe thou might,
life and endurance,
all of it noble,
that which the sons of Arngrim
left of themselves.
May you dwell all,
the road beckons me,
hale in the hollow,
from here will I swiftly;
most strongly do I think now
at home to be,
because me all around
the fires burn.
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