showering woes unstinted
over Örnulf's world-way.
Weak are now my weapons.
But, were god-might given me,
<g>one</g> thing would I strive for—
on the Norn to venge me!
<g>One</g> thing would I toil for—
down to death to hurl thee,
Norn, that now hast left me
nought but yonder grave-mound.
Nought, I said? Nay, truly,
somewhat still is Örnulf's,
since of Suttung's[1] mead-horn
he betimes drank deeply.
[With rising enthusiasm.
Though she stripped me sonless,
one great gift she gave me—
songcraft's mighty secret,
skill to sing my sorrows,
On my lips she laid it,
goodly gift of songcraft;
loud, then, let my lay sound,
e'en where they are lying!
Hail, my stout sons seven!
Hail, as homeward ride ye!
Songcraft's glorious god-gift
stauncheth woe and wailing.
[He draws a deep breath, throws back the hair from his brow, and says calmly:
So—so; now is Örnulf sound and strong again.
- ↑ Suttung was a giant who kept guard over the magic mead
of poetical inspiration.
