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IV
KING BELE AND THORSTEN VIKINGSSON
King Bele in his palace stood, on his sword he leaned,
And by him Thorsten Vikingsson, his old, tried friend;
The comrade who for eighty years his wars did share,
Scarred as a monument was he, and white his hair.
So stand two aged temples, midst mountains high,
Both with age tottering, to ruin nigh;
Yet words of wisdom still on the walls we see,
And on the roof pictures of antiquity.
"My day is setting fast," King Bele said;
"Tasteless the mead; I feel the helmet’s weight;
Dim are my glazing eyes to mortal state,
But Valhall’ dawns more near; I feel my fate.
" So my two sons, with thine, I ’ve called to me,
Together they’re united, as have been we;
Once more to warn the young birds am I fain,
Ere from a dead man’s tongue all words be vain."
Then to the hall they entered in, as he had willed:
The elder, Helge, whose dark brow with gloom was filled;
His days in temples spent he, with spaemen hoary,
And now from sacrificing came, his hands still gory.
Then came the younger, Halfdan, with flaxen hair;
His countenance was noble, but soft and fair;
As if in sport a heavy falchion bearing,
Like a young maid a warrior’s armor wearing.
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