He slew so many of noble race,
And trampled them his warhorse under;
Not one, not e’en of highest place,
Was spared by Axel’s hand of thunder.
He slew the lords of Oppeland,
Upon gigantic coursers mounted;
King Aumund’s sons, a stalwart band,
He slew, who manfully him confronted.
Like hay, which in the loft up fling
The boors, the yard-long shafts are flying;
There wounded lies the son of the king,
Upon the earth is Hogen dying.
And when from steed the King’s son fell,
O there was none that hasted faster
Than the good knight redoubtable,
Axel, to aid his luckless master.
“Hear, Axel Thordson,” Hogen said,
“Avenge my death in gallant fashion,
And thou shalt Norway rule, and wed
The maid we loved with rival passion.”
“O I’ll revenge, my Lord, thy death,
Or I will do my best endeavour,
For dread of this poor body’s scathe,
While life shall last I’ll faulter never.”
Now speed, his eyeballs gleaming wrath,
Sir Axel ’mongst the hostile forces,
And all the foes that crossed his path
To earth are smitten bleeding corses.
Then fell the mighty on the plain
Like corn which hand of peasant reapeth;
Sir Axel, young and noble swain,
In all his woes a stout heart keepeth.
So long and well he him did guard
That piecemeal lay his armour scattered;
And still fought hard that stalwart lord
Until his beamy shield was shattered.
Still he defended himself full brave,
Inspiring all with fear and wonder;
Yes even ’till his trusty glaive
At the gold hilt was snapped asunder.