The ring that was golden, gave to his liegeman,
The youthful war-hero, his gold-flashing helmet,
His collar and war-mail, bade him well to enjoy them:
“Thou art latest left of the line of our kindred,
Of Wægmunding people: Weird hath offcarried
All of my kinsmen to the Creator’s glory,
Earls in their vigor: I shall after them fare.”
’Twas the aged liegelord’s last-spoken word in
His musings of spirit, ere he mounted the fire,
The battle-waves burning: from his bosom departed