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.
Angantheow:
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.
Herwor:
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!
Angantheow:
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.
Herwor:
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!
Angantheow: