II.
King Bele And Thorstein.
King Bele, sword-supported, in the palace stood;
And with him Thorstein, Viking's son, the peasant good.
His ancient war companion, grown old in glory,
His brow was scarred like rune-stones, his hair was hoary.
They stood, as on the mountain two temples stand
To honored gods devoted, now half in sand;
And many words of wisdom the walls are saying,
And holy recollections through domes are straying.
"The evening steals upon me," king Bele said,
"The helmet now is heavy, and stale the mead;
The fate of man grows darker, but all the clearer
High Valhal shines before me, as death draws nearer.
"My sons I here have summoned, and Thorstein's son
For they should cling together, as we have done;
But I would give the eaglets some words of warning—
Words may in death be sleeping ere dawns the morning."
Obedient to the mandate, the three advance—
First, Helge, dark and gloomy, with sullen glance;
He dwelt amid diviners; the hand he proffered
Was red with blood of victims, on altars offered.
The next who came was Halfdan, a light-haired swain:
His countenance was noble, but weak and vain;
He gaily bore a falchion, with which he gestured,
And seemed a youthful maiden, in armor vestured.
And after them came Fridthjof, in mantle blue;
He was stronger than the others, and taller, too;
He stood between the brothers, by contrast seeming
Like noon 'twixt night and morning, in splendor beaming.
"Ye sons," the king said gently, "my son goes down;
Together rule the kingdom and take the crown;
For unity is power, and no endeavor,
While lance with ring is circled, its stem can sever.