Their mails like maidens’ silken weeds:
One ‘gainst a hundred will he strive,
Take countless wounds, and yet survive.
How rush the eagles to his cry
Of slaughter and of victory;
And blood he quaffs like Odin’s bowl,
Deep drinks his sword—deep drinks his soul,
And all that meet him in his ire
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire.
Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den,