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Read Ebook: The Norse King's Bridal Translations from the Danish and old Norse with original ballads by Smith Dampier E M
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Ebook has 407 lines and 18732 words, and 9 pages
FROM THE OLD NORSE
PAGE
THE WAKING OF ANGANTHEOW 3
THE LAY OF THRYM 10
FROM THE DANISH
THE NORSE KING'S BRIDAL 19
THE GIPSY'S BRIDE 23
HAGEN AT THE DANCE 27
THE LOWLY SQUIRE 31
THE DROWNING OF JOHN REMORSSON 34
SIR DALEBO'S VENGEANCE 39
THE LUCK OF THE LINDEN-TREE 45
AGNES AND THE MERMAN 48
ORIGINAL
MORS YANUA VITAE 55
BALLAD OF THE TURNING TIDE 59
BALLAD OF ALL SOULS' EVE 66
THE BRIDE'S BRACELET 75
THE WOLF OF IRONWOOD 79
BALLAD OF MIDSUMMER EVE 84
FROM THE OLD NORSE
THE WAKING OF ANGANTHEOW
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!
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.
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!
THE LAY OF THRYM
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 J?tunheim. 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?"
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