Under my shoulders lies Hjalmar’s bane,
Fenced with a fire that will not wane
No maiden I ken of earthly mould
Will dare such a blade in her hand to hold.
Herwor:
May I have the shining blade
I will hold it, unafraid.
It scares me not, it sinks and dies,
The burning flame, before mine eyes.
Angantheow:
Herwor the brave, art mad, to go
Open-eyed into the lowe!
Rather with the sword shalt hie thee;
Nothing, maid, can I deny thee.
(He gives her the sword out of his grave.)
Herwor:
Son of Vikings, well dost thou
To give me the sword from out the howe;
Better to me the boon, I say,
Than were I to conquer all Norroway.
Angantheow:
Little, daughter, dost thou know
Wherefore thou rejoicest so!
Fond, thou speakest words of woe.
Thou shalt bear a son at length
Who will trust in Tyrfing’s strength;
Heidrek, thus his name shall run,
Richer than all beneath the sun.
Herwor: