With eighteen wounds, each dire to view,
The noble breast of Axel smarted;
To his tent bore him his friends so true,
At his sad fortune broken-hearted.
Down ran his blood in reeking flood,
He for the victory won has perished;
The last, last word his lips proffer’d
Devotes he to his maiden cherished.
“To Valborg bid a kind adieu,
To Christ’s high care I now bequeath her;
We soon shall meet in yonder blue
Were we in joy shall live together.”
Enters the hall the little page,
And takes his stand before the table;
’Tis true he was of tender age,
But well to ply his words was able.
“Doff the red silk and don the white,
Ye maids, I’ve news of sore disaster;
Hogen the prince is slain in fight,
And Axel, too, my gallant master.
“In fight Sir Hogen the King’s son fell,
Upon the bier now lies his body;
My master him avenged full well,
But got thereby his death wound bloody.
“’Tis true we’ve won a victory,
But tempered is our exultation;
We have lost a host of peasantry
And all the best knights of our nation.”
How fair Queen Malfred wept that tide
Each mother’s heart can form a notion;
The fair Valborg in secret sigh’d,
And wrung her hands in wild emotion.
She calls her servitor in haste,
And him with tears is thus commanding:
“Now fetch ye down the gilded chest
From the high chamber where ’tis standing.
“And the grey horse to the chariot set,
Me to the cloister it shall carry;
Sir Axel’s death I’ll ne’er forget
So long as on the earth I tarry.”