Shepherd:
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!
Herwor:
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!
Far to the forest he fled, afraid
To hold discourse with the hardy maid;
But higher-strung for her dauntless quest,
Herwor’s heart swelled in her breast.
Herwor:
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!
Angantheow:
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!
Herwor: