The Norse King's Bridal
THE WAKING OF ANGANTHEOW
NOTE: Swafurlami, a king of the seed of Odin, stole the sword Tyrfing (ripper) from the dwarfs who forged it. They laid on it a curse---that it should bring death to its bearer; that no wound made by it should be healed; and that three deeds of woe should be wrought by it. Swafurlami is slain by Arngrim, who inherits the sword. Eyfura, his wife, has twelve sons, all of whom become Vikings. Angantheow, the eldest, and his brothers, are eventually all slain near Upsala by Hjalmar, and his brother Arrow-Odd; but Hjalmar, being wounded by Tyrfing, has only time to sing his death-song before he dies.
Angantheow's daughter,
Herwor (by his wife Tofa) is brought up as a bond-maid, in ignorance of
her parentage. When at last she learns it, the war-fury comes upon her;
she arms herself as an Amazon, and goes to Munarvoe in Samsey, in quest
of the dwarf-doomed weapon. The following poem concerns her dialogue with
her dead father, his yielding up to her of Tyrfing, and his prophecy of
the further doom its possession will bring upon her race.
The maid at eve in Munarvou
Saw the herdsman homeward
go.
Shepherd:
Who walketh alone so late
i' the isle?
Go seek thee shelter and
sleep awhile.
Herwor:
I seek not shelter to
sleep awhile,
For I know not the dwellers
in the isle;
Tell me, thou, what fain
I'd know---
Where is the mound called
Hiorward's Howe?
Shepherd:
Mad thou art, that askest
thus,
And thy plight is piteous!
Fly we to shelter, far
and fast---
The world without is grim
and ghast.
Herwor:
I'll give thee a neck-ring
of gold so red---
Not thus is the friend
of heroes stayed!
Shepherd:
No ring that's wrough
of the gold so gay,
No goodly guerdon, my
feet shall stay;
Him I hold but a witless
wight
That will walk alone in
the grisly night.
Fires are flitting, and
grave-mounds gape!
Burns field and fen! Seek
we to 'scape!
Herwor:
Nay, for their fretting
no fright I know,
Tho' all the isle went
up in a lowe.
Nay, it behoves not to
fear nor flee
Tho' ghosts arise. Talk
thou with me!
Far to the forest he fled,
afraid
To hold discourse with
the hardy maid;
But higher-strung for
her dauntless quest,
Herwor's heart swelled
in her breast.
Herwor:
Angantheow, wake! the
voice is mine,
Tofa's only child and
thine;
Give to me the sword of
flame
Forged by dwarfs for Swafurlam!
Angantheow, Herward, Hioward,
Rann
Waken, each and every
man!
Waken, waken from your
sleep
'Mid the tree-roots, where
ye keep
Blood-stained spear and
sword and shield---
All the weapons warriors
wield.
Surely, seed of Arngrim
bold,
Dust ye are, and mounds
of mould,
Speechless, if ye let
me go,
Eyfur's sons, in Munarvoe!
Angantheow, Herward, Hiorward,
Rann!
Be it in your rib-bones'
span
As of ants a stinging
horde,
If ye give me not the
sword!
Ghosts no gear should
have in ward!
Angantheow:
Herwor, daughter! Wherefore
thus
Callest curses down on
us?
Mad thou art, distracted
maid,
Wilful waking thus the
dead!
Surely thou art no mortal
wight
That comest thus to the
howe at night,
With helm and spear and
bright breast-plate,
Ore of the Goths, to the
grave-mound's gate!
Herwor:
Men called me a mortal,
till thus I yode
To seek thee out in thine
abode.
-
Give me what the dwarfs have wrought---
Hiding
it avails thee not.
Angantheow:
Never hand of sire nor kin
Laid me here, the howe within,
But the foeman two that
I did not slay---
Tyrfing one of them bears
today.
Herwor:
See now that the truth thou
tell!
May the grisly fiends of
hell
Tear thee piecemeal from
they grave
If thou hast not there the
glaive!
Slow thou art, I tell thee
true,
To give thine only child
her due!
Angantheow:
Hell-gate is opening---the
graves gape wide!
The isle is flaming on every
side!
All is ghastly and grim
to see---
Back to thy ships, maid!
Turn and flee.
Herwor:
Never a bale that burns
by night
Shall put me with its flame
to flight.
Never thy daughter's heart
shall shrink
Tho' a ghost should stand
at the grave-
-
mound's brink.
I
bind ye all with a magic doom
To lie and rot within the
tomb!
Hjalmar's bane, from out
the howe,
The sharp mail-scather,
give me now!
Angantheow:
Under my shoulders lies
Hjalmar's bane,
Fenced with a fire that
will not wane
No maiden I ken of earthly
mould
Will dare such a blade in
her hand to hold.
Herwor:
May I have the shining blade
I will hold it, unafraid.
It scares me not, it sinks
and dies,
The burning flame, before
mine eyes.
Angantheow:
Herwor the brave, art mad,
to go
Open-eyed into the lowe!
Rather with the sword shalt
hie thee;
Nothing, maid, can I deny
thee.
(He
gives her the sword out of his grave.)
Herwor:
Son of Vikings, well dost
thou
-
To give me the sword from out the howe;
Better
to me the boon, I say,
Than wee I to conqu er all
Norroway.
Angantheow:
Little, daughter, dost thou
know
Wherefore thou rejoicest
so!
Fond, thou speakest words
of woe.
Then shalt bear a son at
length
Who will trust in Tyrfing's
strength;
Heidrek, thus his name shall
run,
Richer than all beneath
the sun.
Herwor:
I must fare to my steeds
of the sea;
Gay and glad is my heart
in me.
Son of a king, I reck not
at all
How my children hereafter
strive and brawl!
Angatheow:
Long shalt thou hold and
enjoy thy gain;
But keep in the scabbard
Hjalmar's bane.
Touch not the edges, with
venom dight,
Wose than a plague to living
wight.
Daughter, farewell! The
power and pith
Fain would I endue thee
with
Of us twelve men, the life
and breath
The sons of Arngrim lost
in death!
Herwor:
All is accomplished; I must
not stay.
Hail, ye in the howe! I
will away.
------- -------- -------- ---------
'Twixt life and death, methought,
I found me,
When the flaming fire was
all around me!