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Page 12
Studded with nails were the walls, and upon them were hanging
Helmets and coats-of-mail closely together; also between them
Here and there flashed down a sword, like a meteor shooting at evening.
Brighter than helmet or sword were the sparkling shields ranged round the
chamber;
Bright as the time of the sun were they, clear as the moon's disc of silver.
Oft as the horns needed filling, there passed round the table a maiden;
Modestly blushing she cast down her eyes, her beautiful image
Mirrored appeared in the shields, and gladdened the heart of each warrior.
Rich was the house, and the eye of the stranger, whichever way gazing,
Rested on cellar well filled, or on pantry or press overflowing.
Jewels the rarest, trophies of conquest, gleamed in profusion;
Gold carved in runes with great skill, and wonderful things wrought in silver.
Chief in this limitless treasure three things were most of all valued.
First of the three was a sword, which from sire and from grandsire descended.
Called Angervadil, or grief-wader, sometimes, too, brother of lightning.
Far, far away in the East it was forged--so at least says the story--
Tempered in fire by the dwarfs. Bjorn Bluetooth the first one who bore it.
Bjorn lost at once both the sword and his life in a bravely-fought battle,
Southward in Groning Sound, where he struggled with Vifil the powerful.
Vifil's possessions descended to Viking.
At Woolen-Acre,
Old and infirm, there lived a great king with a beautiful daughter.
See, from the depths of the forest there cometh a giant misshapen,
Higher in stature than man, a monster ferocious and shaggy,
Boldly demanding a hand-to-hand combat, or kingdom and daughter.
No one, however, accepted the challenge, for none had a weapon
Able his hard skull to pierce, and therefore they called him the Iron-skull.
Viking, whose winters scarce fifteen had numbered, nobly advancing,
Entered the fray, secure in his strong arm and good Angervadil.
Cleft at one blow the hideous goblin, and rescued the maiden.
Viking bequeathed the good weapon to Thorstein, his son, and Thorstein,
To Odin ascended, bequeathed it to Fridthjof. Whenever he drew it,
Light filled the hall as when northern lights entered, or lightning flashed
through it.
Hammered of gold was the hilt, with strange letters 'twas covered;
Wonderful mysteries were they in Northland, but known to the people
Who dwell near the gates of the sun, where our fathers lived ere they came
hither.
Faint were the runes when the land was in quiet throughout all its borders;
But when the followers of Hild were summoned, then were they burning
Red as the comb of a cock when he fighteth. Lost was the warrior
Who met, on the field of encounter, the blade with its red letters glowing.
Highly renowned was that sword, and of swords was the chief in the Northland.
Next highly prized was the ponderous arm-ring, widely notorious,
Forged by the Vulcan of northern tradition, the halting smith Volund;
Three marks it weighed, and gold was the metal of which it was fashioned;
Carved were the heavens with twelve towering castles, where dwell the
immortals,--
Emblem of changing months, called by the poets the sun's glorious dwelling.
First there was Frey's castle Alfheim, that is the sun, which born newly,
Starts once again to ascend the steep pathway of Heaven at Yule-time.
There too was Sokvabek; seated within it were Odin and Saga
Drinking together their wine from a gold shell,--that shell is the Ocean,
Colored with gold from the glow of the morning. Saga is Spring-time,
Writ on the green of the fresh springing field, with flowers for letters.
Balder, the kingly, is pictured there, throned on the sun at midsummer,
Which pours from the firmament riches untold,-- personified goodness;
For lights are the good, radiant, resplendent, but the evil are darkness.
Constantly rising the sun groweth weary; the good also falter,
Giddy with walking precipitous heights; sighing they downward
Sink to the land of the shades,--down to Hel. That is of Balder
The funeral pile. Glitner, the castle of Peace, is there; seated
Within it was Forse'te',* scales in hand, meting out justice.
*For-se-te
Many more pictures with these there engraven, betoken the conflict
Waged against darkness, on earth and in heaven; bright were they shining,
Wrought by a master's hand on the broad arm-ring. Clustering rubies
Crown its high center, e'en as in summer the sun crowns the heavens.
Long was the circlet a family heir-loom. On the side of the mother
Traced they their pedigree back to old Volund, ancestor mighty.
Once, says tradition, the jewel was stolen by robber named Soti,
Roaming abroad through the seas. Long was it ere 'twas recovered.
Finally (so runs the story) 'twas said that the robber had buried
Himself with his ship, and. his treasure, deep on the far coast of Britain.
Pleasure or quiet he found not, a ghost was his irksome companion.
Hearing the rumor, Thorstein with Bele the dragon ship mounted,
Dashed through the foaming waves, straight to the place of the sepulcher
steering.
Wide as a temple's arch, or a king's gateway, bedded in gravel,
Covered with grassy turf, arched to the top, the tomb rose forbidding.
Light issued from it. Through a small crevice within the closed portal,
Peered the two champions. There the pitched viking ship
Stood with its masts, its yards and its anchor. High in the stern sheets
Was seated a terrible figure, clad in a mantle all flaming,
Furious demon scouring a blade that with blood spots was covered.
Vain was his labor, naught could remove them. All his rich booty
Round him was scattered, and on his arm was the ring he had stolen.
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