Ring’s drapa.

Sepultured sits he,
Sovereign descended,
Battle sword by him,
Buckler on arm;
Chafes his good charger
Champing impatient,
Pawing with gold-hoof
The gate of the grave.

Ring, great in riches,
Rideth o’er Bifrost;
Bends with its burden,
Bridge of the gods. 
Wide for his welcome
Valhal it opens,
Hands to the hero
Heaven extends.

Absent is Asa-Thor,
Active in warfare. 
Beckoned by Odin
The beaker is brought;
Frey the king graces
With garlands of grain-ears,
Blossoms the bluest
Binds Frigg therein.

Graspeth the gold-string,
Gray-bearded Brage,
Stiller now sigheth
The song than before;
Freyja the faithful,
Fondly reclining. 
Bends o’er the board and
Burneth to hear.

“Sing high the smiting
Of sword upon helmet,
Boisterous billows,
Bloody for aye;
Power, the gift of
Gods ever gracious,
Bitter as berserk
Biting the shield.

“Hence was the hero-king,
Heaven-born dear to us,
Showing his shield
A shelter for peace. 
Power’s embodiment
Plainly impersonate,
Soared like a sacrifice-
Smoke to the sky.

“Words full of wisdom
Wise Odin chooseth
Sitting with Saga
Sokvabek’s maid. 
Such, too, the saying
Spoke by the monarch,
Fair as of Mimer
Flows the clear fount.

“Forsete faithful
All feuds adjusteth,
Sitting serenely
By the side of Urd’s spring;
Thus high enthroned
Thou, king beloved,
Potently pleadest
For peace in the land.

“Niggard in nothing,
Near and far strewed he
Beauty and blessing,
Bought with his gold;
Gave he most gladly
Guerdon unstinted,
Sadness he solaced,
Suffering relieved.

“Welcome, thou wisest
Winner of Valhal! 
Long thou’lt be lauded,
Loved of the North. 
Brage, the bearded,
Bears thee the mead-horn,
Favored of fortune,
Friend from below.”

XXII.

The king’s election.

“To thing! to thing!” from dale to hill
 The cry arose. 
“King Ring is dead; his place to fill
 A king we’ll choose.”

From off the wall the peasant moves
 His steel sword blue;
Its edge his practiced finger proves,
 It biteth true.

The boys admire in pleased surprise
 The gleaming blue: 
To lift the sword one vainly tries,
 It needeth two.

The daughter scours the helmet clean,
 Bright shall it be. 
And blushes, in its silvery sheen
 Her face to see.

At last he takes his shield so round. 
 A sun in blood;
“Hail! iron man, so strong and sound,
 Thou peasant good!

Renown and power which nations wield
 From thee they draw,
In war thou art thy country’s shield,
 In peace its law.”