Wheresoe’er he carries me, he who clasps the spear!
On me, still upstanding, smite the streams (of rain);
Hail, the hard grain (helms me), and the hoar-frost covers me;
And the (flying) snow (in flakes) falls all over me.”
Riddle, lxxix. 6-10.
III. The horn speaks:—
“I a weaponed warrior was! now in pride bedecks me
A young serving man all with silver and fine gold,
With the work of waving gyres! Warriors sometimes kiss me.
Sometimes I to strife of battle, summon with my calling