[Translated by S.R. Hardy]
There came a maiden to Munarvág.
The sun was falling; she saw a herdsman.
The Herdsman spoke:
“Who comes alone to this lonely isle?
You should go now to get some rest.”
Hervor spoke:
“To do that is hard: I have no lodgings;
on this island I am a stranger.
Tell me swiftly as soon as you can:
where are the Hjorvard howes on this island?”
The Herdsman spoke:
“It is unwise to ask for this
my Viking friend, most foully led.
Let us fleetly go as fast as we can;
tonight there are nasty things roaming.”
Hervor spoke:
“I point you to a path to riches;
do not waylay the warriors’ friend.
I will have none of needless metals,
and fairly wrought rings; in full they are yours.”
The Herdsman spoke:
“It seems foolish to search hither,
one man alone in lengthening shadows.
Fires are guttering, graves are opening;
field and marsh burn. Follow me swiftly!”
Hervor spoke:
“We must not fear such fell tidings,
though fully the island in flames is covered!
Let us awake dead warriors tonight
to ask of them the answers I seek.”
Then the herdsman hied to the forest,
Making to flee the maiden’s words.
Hervor’s noble heart and spirit
swelled within her able breast.
She now saw fires and ghosts rising up from the graves and she walked among the graves but was not frightened. She passed through the fires as if they were no more than smoke, until she came to the grave of the Hjorvards. Then she said:
“Wake, Angantýr! Awake to see
Your single daughter, sired with Tofa.
Send from the grave the grim weapon
smithed by the dwarves for Svafrlama.
Hervor, Hjorvard, Hrani, Angantýr!
I wake those resting, with roots above them,
with helms and shields and sharp swords,
byrnies and wrathful red-tipped spears.
Much are you changed, children of Arngrím,
violent kindred, covered by earth.
Sons of Eyfur, I say to you:
speak with me on Munarvág.
I would see you all sundered and torn,
as if by ants in open graves.
Give up the sword smithed by Dvalinn;
that mighty weapon you wights have hidden.”
Then answered Angantýr:
“Hervor, my daughter, why hail you so,
full of curses? You flatter me not.
You are bewildered, wanting your senses;
in your wailing you wake the dead.
I was not buried by brother or father.
Tyrfing was owned by two who lived;
later it was owned by one man less.”
Hervor spoke:
“Do not lie to me! May dauntless gods
rend your corpses if covered there lies
Tyrfing with you. Unwilling you are
to give your daughter your great hoard.”
Then Hervor saw a flame rise up and engulf the grave, which opened.
Then spoke Angantýr:
“The graves are open, the gates of hell.
The island of Samsey is all aflame;
everywhere one looks is awful to see.
Go to your ship, if go you can.”
Hervor said:
“You will yet fail to frighten me
with burning fires ablaze at night;
my maiden’s breast will beat not more,
even if ghosts from graves arise.”
Then spoke Angantýr:
“Hark me, Hervor. Hear what I know,
prince’s daughter, of deeds to come.
This sword Tyrfing, if truth you believe,
will destroy, maiden, the strength of your kin.
You shall beget a great strong son
to bear Tyrfing, and trust its power.
Then shall the folk feast him as Heidrek,
a son born and raised, roofed by the heavens.”
Hervor spoke:
“I cast a spell to curse the dead,
and doom you all down to lie,
rotting in a grave, with ghosts of men.
Give me, Angantýr, up from the soil,
dwarfed-smithed Tyrfing you’ve tried to hide.”
Angantýr said:
“Young maiden you are as men are not.
You walk at night on noisome graves,
with graven spear and Gothic metal,
with helm and birney, to the hall’s door.”
Hervor said:
“You took me for a man, until such time
As I thought to seek your silent hall.
Give up from your grave the gasher of birneys,
the breaker of shields, the bane of Hjálmar.”
Angantýr spoke:
“It’s here under me, Hjálmar’s bane,
ringed by fire, reddened with heat.
There is no maiden, anywhere on earth
who dares to bring that blade to hand.”
Hervor said:
“I’ll take in hand and try to keep
the edge-sharp blade if I am able.
I do not fear the fires that burn:
they fall at once under my gaze.”
Angantýr spoke:
“It is foolish but also daring
to enter the fire with open eyes.
I will give you the grave-housed sword,
my young maiden; I must not refuse.”
Hervor spoke:
“It would be kind, kinsman Viking,
if out of the grave you gave me the sword.
I would prefer, by far, to have it
than even to own all of Norway.”
Angantýr spoke:
“Witless maiden, your words are nonsense.
You know not well for what to be glad.
This sword Tyrfing, if truth you believe,
Will indeed destroy the strength of your kin.”
She said:
“I shall fly now to my fleet ship;
the prince’s maiden in mind is glad.
I am little worried, warrior kinsman,
whether my sons shall waste their blood.”
Angantýr spoke:
“You shall have it and hold it long,
but hold it sheathed, Hjálmar’s bane.
Don’t touch its edges, tipped with poison;
it is to men a meter of fate.
Farewell, daughter! Would that I could give
twelve mens’ lives, if truth you believe.
The strength and will, steady and good,
of Arngrím’s sons sadly has left.”
Hervor spoke:
“I must away. I wish you all
peace in your graves! Gone must I be.
Now I am trapped between the worlds,
as all around me rage bright fires.”
A Note on the Translation. The source text used for this translation is that found in E.V. Gordon’s An Introduction to Old Norse, 2nd Ed. Oxford, 1956. The original text is preserved in the Codex Regius 2845 quarto.
[S.R. Hardy is a poet, novelist and translator whose work has appeared in venues such as Northern Traditions, Death Head Grin, Widowmoon Press and the Eunoia Review. He is currently at work on a variety of translations, poems and stories. In addition, he blogs about words atwww.anarcheologos.com.]