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FRITHIOF’S SAGA 63
Holding the scales in his hand impartial, ruleth the
autumn.
Many such forms, whereby the progress of light was
betokened,
High in the vault of the sky and deep in the spirit of mortals,
Stood, wrought by master-hand on the ring; and a cluster
of rubies
Crowned the circlet fair as the sun doth the arch of the
heaven.
Heirloom old in the race was the ring, its origin ancient
(Though by the mother’s side) reached up to mighty
Val-under.
Once had the gem been stolen away by plundering Sote;
Widely he cruised through the sea of the north, but
suddenly vanished.
Rumor at last was borne how on Britain’s coast he had
buried
Himself, with treasure and ships, in a builded sepulchre
lofty:
Still there found he no rest, and his grave forever was
haunting.
Thorsten the rumor heard, with King Bele he mounted his
dragon,
Cleft through the foaming waves, and steered his course
unto Britain.
Wide as a temple-dome, or a lordly palace, deep-bedded
Down in the dark green grass and turf, lay the sepulchre
rounded;
Light gleamed out therefrom; through a chink in the
ponderous portal
Glanced the comrades in; pitch-black within stood the
vessel
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