Viking, whose winters scarce fifteen had numbered, nobly advancing, Entered the fray, secure in his strong arm and good Angervadil.  Cleft at one blow the hideous goblin, and rescued the maiden.  Viking bequeathed the good weapon to Thorstein, his son, and Thorstein, To Odin ascended, bequeathed it to Fridthjof.  Whenever he drew it, Light filled the hall as when northern lights entered, or lightning flashed through it.  Hammered of gold was the hilt, with strange letters ’twas covered; Wonderful mysteries were they in Northland, but known to the people Who dwell near the gates of the sun, where our fathers lived ere they came hither.

Faint were the runes when the land was in quiet throughout all its borders;
But when the followers of Hild were summoned, then were they burning
Red as the comb of a cock when he fighteth.  Lost was the warrior
Who met, on the field of encounter, the blade with its red letters glowing. 
Highly renowned was that sword, and of swords was the chief in the Northland.

Next highly prized was the ponderous arm-ring, widely notorious, Forged by the Vulcan of northern tradition, the halting smith Volund; Three marks it weighed, and gold was the metal of which it was fashioned; Carved were the heavens with twelve towering castles, where dwell the immortals,—­ Emblem of changing months, called by the poets the sun’s glorious dwelling.  First there was Frey’s castle Alfheim, that is the sun, which born newly, Starts once again to ascend the steep pathway of Heaven at Yule-time.  There too was Sokvabek; seated within it were Odin and Saga Drinking together their wine from a gold shell,—­that shell is the Ocean, Colored with gold from the glow of the morning.  Saga is Spring-time, Writ on the green of the fresh springing field, with flowers for letters.  Balder, the kingly, is pictured there, throned on the sun at midsummer, Which pours from the firmament riches untold,—­ personified goodness; For lights are the good, radiant, resplendent, but the evil are darkness.  Constantly rising the sun groweth weary; the good also falter, Giddy with walking precipitous heights; sighing they downward Sink to the land of the shades,—­down to Hel.  That is of Balder The funeral pile.  Glitner, the castle of Peace, is there; seated Within it was Forse’te’,* scales in hand, meting out justice.

For-se-te

Many more pictures with these there engraven, betoken the conflict
Waged against darkness, on earth and in heaven; bright were they shining,
Wrought by a master’s hand on the broad arm-ring.  Clustering rubies
Crown its high center, e’en as in summer the sun crowns the heavens. 
Long was the circlet a family heir-loom.  On the side of the mother
Traced they their pedigree back to old Volund, ancestor mighty. 
Once, says tradition, the jewel was stolen by robber named Soti,
Roaming abroad through the seas.  Long was it ere ’twas recovered. 
Finally (so runs the story) ’twas said that