A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Sword of Angantyr (Leconte de Lisle)
THE SWORD OF ANGANTYR.
Angantyr, in his low earth-bed, pale, stiff, and grave,
Beyond reach of the moon-gleam and fierce glare of the sun,
With a sword in his hand, a sleep peaceful has won;
For the fierce eagles have spared the flesh of the brave,
And the heather has drunk the red blood that had run.
On the black cape's summit, where the ocean waves moan,
Stands Angantyr's child. Avenger none has been found
For the dead who reposes beneath the high mound;
So Hervor, her fair breasts bruised by thicket and stone,
Disturbs the slain hero with her clamour alone.
'Angantyr! Angantyr! 'Tis thine Hervor who calls!
O chief whose proud galleys ploughed the foam of the sea,
Give thy sword iron-hilted that bright flashed, unto me;
It rests on thy breast, but its name yet appals,
For it was forged by the dwarfs of Ymer for thee.'
'My child, my child, why dost thou in darkness thus shriek,
Like a gaunt famished she-wolf that howls by a tomb?
The earth and the granite press me down in this gloom;
My closed eyes see only an immensity bleak,
And thy cry thrills my heart like the trumpet of doom.'
'Angantyr! Angantyr! On this high promontory
The tempest fierce whirling, far away bears my sobs,
And thy name, O warrior, in the wave's music throbs.
Hear me, answer me, from thy dark bed and gory,
And break from thy prison, for thy glory it robs.'
'My child, O my daughter, do not trouble my dream!
If the body is bound, the spirit soars like a song!
Ha! I drink hydromel in the cup of the strong,
In the heaven of Valhalla my glave adds a gleam,
But the voice of the living to the dead is a wrong.'
'Angantyr! Angantyr! Give, oh give me thy sword;
Thy children save myself welter naked in blood,
And fishes devour them in the river's red flood;
Sole escaped of thy race from the foemen's fierce horde,
Let me wear the bright glave that none ever withstood.'
'My child, O my child, let us remain what we are,
Befits well the distaff a young maiden's fair hand;
Hence! Depart! Lo, on thy path the moon rises grand!
For a man is the sword, and the tumult of war,
But a fight foot to foot no woman may stand.'
'Angantyr! Angantyr! Hark! My birthright I claim!
O warrior, revile not thy own race in this way,
I long for the murderer's blood and the fray.
Help me, or by Fenris, perish, perish thy name!
May thy bones be dragged out by the wolf as a prey!
'My child, O my child, thy soul is lofty and great,
The child of a hero must thus speak and thus feel,
And clean his dimmed honour till it shine like this steel.
Take the sword, O my loved, and be reckless of fate,
Run, avenge me, and die where the trumpets loud peal.'
Angantyr lifting up the high mound of his tomb
Like a spectre, with eyes without vision that stare,
Rises up and extends forth an arm wan and bare,
Whence the sword iron-hilted drops down in the gloom,
And his white teeth low mutter, 'Now take it, nor spare.'
And while he sinks slowly on the couch of the dead,
And recrosses his arms and earth's glory resigns,
Hervor, brandishing the steel that vibrates and shines,
With her black hair wild streaming, a phantom of dread,
Runs, leaps, disappears in the forest's dark lines.