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Viking Tales of the North Fridthjof's Saga
Page 1 Balder’s Pyre. I. Midnights sun, all
blood-red bright, Holy hearth red staineth; Yet, soon dies its last faint spark, Darkly then Hoder reigneth. Stood, and the pile-brands shifted; Silver-bearded and pale, they all Flint-knives in hard hands lifted. Help ‘mid the circle proff’ring. Hark! then clatter, at midnight’s tide, Arms in the grove of off’ring. Pris’ners they’ll all obey me; Out or in whoe’er would go, Cleave his skull I pray thee!” Knows he, and what presaging. Froth trod Fridthjof, and dark words fell Storm-like in autumn raging. Order’d from western waters; Take it, then for life or death Fight we at Balder’s altars! Nought shall unfair be reckon’d. First, as king, strike thou! (1) Beware, Mind, for I strike the second. Caught in his hole the fox is; Think of Framness, and Ing’borg dear, Fam’d that for golden locks is!” Th’ purse from his belt then freely Drew he, and careless enough it flang Right at the son of Bele. Streaming blackly splendent; There by his altar swooning lay The asa’s high descendant. 1. The challenged party had a right to strike first. — See “The Saga of Thorstein, Viking’s Son,” ch. IV, p.10. (chapter IV of the web version as well) Back << Previous Page Next Page >>
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