HERVA Doctor Hicks' literal prose Translation in his Thesaurus Septentrionalis , of this ancient Norse Poem , is here given to gratify the reader's curiosity ; also to show that it is used only as an outline , and that the following Poem is a bold Paraphrase , not a Translation . The expressions in Dr. Hicks' prose , have a vulgar familiarity , injurious to the sublimity of the original conception . A close translation , in English verse , will be found in a valuable collection of Runic Odes , by the ingenious and learned Mr. Mathias . After his example , some slight changes have been made in the names , for their better accommodation to the verse . , AT THE TOMB OF ARGANTYR . A RUNIC DIALOGUE . HERVA . Hervor . " Awake , Argantyr ! — Hervor , the Daughter of thee and Sauserlama , doth awaken thee ! Give me out of the tomb the hardened sword which the Dwarfs made for Sauserlama . " ARGANTYR , wake ! — to thee I call , Hear from thy dark sepulchral hall ! 'Mid the Forest's inmost gloom , Thy Daughter , circling thrice thy tomb , With mystic rites of thrilling power Disturbs thee at this midnight hour ! I , thy Sauserlama's child , Of my filial right beguil'd , Now adjure thee to resign The CHARMED SWORD , by birth-right mine ! When the Dwarf , on Eyvor's plain , Dim glided by thy marriage-train , In jewel'd belt of gorgeous pride , To thy pale and trembling Bride , Gave he not , in whisper deep , That dread companion of thy sleep ? — Fall'n before its edge thy foes , Idly does it now repose In the dark tomb with thee ? — awake ! Spells thy sullen slumber break ! Now their stern command fulfill ! Warrior , art thou silent still ? — Or are my gross senses found Deaf to the low sepulchral sound ? — HERVARDOR , — HIARVARDOR , — hear ! " Hervardur , Hiarvardur , Hrani , — with helmet and coat of mail , and a sharp sword , with shield and accoutrements , and a bloody spear , I awaken vou all under the roots of Trees . " Are the Sons of Andgrym , who delighted in mischief , now become dust and ashes ? — Can none of Eyvor's Sons speak to me out of the habitations of the dead ? " — HRANI , mid thy slumber drear ! Spirits of a dauntless Race , In armor clad , your tombs I trace . Now , with sharp and blood-stain'd spear , Accent shrill , and spell severe , I wake you all from slumber mute , Beneath the dark Oak's twisted root ! — Are Andgrym's hated Sons no more That sleeps the SWORD , that drank their gore ? — Living , — why , to MAGIC RHYME , Speaks no voice of former time , Low as o'er your tombs I bend To hear th' expected sounds ascend , Murmuring from your darksome hall , At a Virgin's solemn call ? — HERVARDOR , — HIARVARDOR , — hear ! " Hervardur , Hiarvardur , Hrani ! — so may you all be within your ribs , as a thing that is hanged up to putrify among insects , unless you cause Argantyr to deliver up to me the sword which the Dwarfs made , and the glorious belt ! " HRANI , — mark my spell severe ! Henceforth may the semblance According to the Gothic Mythology , the spirits of Heros slept in their bodies , which did not decay . Putrefaction , therefore , was the heaviest curse that could be denounced . " Never shall Enquirer come " To break my iron-sleep again , " Till Lok has burst his ten-fold chain . " GRAY'S Descent of Odin , from the Norse Poetry . cold , That did each Warrior's spirit hold , Parch , as Corse unblest , that lies Withering in the sultry skies ! — Ghastly may your forms decay , Hence the noisome reptile's prey , If ye force not , thus adjur'd , My Sire to yield the CHARMED SWORD ! ARGANTYR . " Argantyr . Daughter Hervor , full of spells to raise the dead , why dost thou call so ? — wilt thou run on to thine own mischief ? — Thou art mad , and out of thy senses , who art desperately resolved to awaken dead men ! " — " I was not buried either by Father or other Friends — Two which lived after me , got Turfing , one of whom is now possessor thereof . " Arm'd amid this starless gloom , Thou , whose steps adventurous roam ; Thou , that wav'st a magic spear Thrice before our mansions drear , Devoted Virgin , — know in time The mischiefs of the RUNIC RHYME , Forcing accents , mutter'd deep , From the cold reluctant lip ! Me no tender Father laid Entomb'd beneath an hallow'd shade ; It was no friendly voice that gave The Oak , that screen'd a Warrior's grave , Gave it , in malignant tone , To the blasting thunderstone . — Timeless now these bones decay , Pervious to the baleful ray Of the swart star . — 'Mid Battle's yell The charm'd , the fatal Weapon fell From my unwary grasp . — A Knight Seiz'd the SWORD of magic might . Virgin , of thy spells demand His name , — and from his victor hand , Try if thy intrepid zeal May win the all-subduing Steel . HERVA . " Hervor . Thou dost not tell the truth — so let Odin hide thee in the tomb , as thou hast got Turfing by thee . Art thou unwilling , Argantyr , to give an inheritance to thy only child ? " — Warrior , — thus , with falsehood wild , Seek'st thou to deceive thy child ? — Sure as Odin doom'd thy fall , And hides thee in this silent hall , Here sleeps the SWORD — Pale Chief , resign That , which is by birthright mine ! Fear'st thou , Spirit of my Sire , At thy only Child's desire , Glorious heritage to yield , Conquest in the deathful field ? ARGANTYR . " Argantyr . I will tell thee , Hervor , what is to come to pass . — This Turfing will , if thou dost believe me , destroy almost all thy offspring . — Thou shalt have a Son , and many think that he will be called Hydrec by the People . " Daring HERVA , listen yet , Spare thy heart its long regret ! Why trembling shrunk thy Mother's frame When the FATAL PRESENT came ? Virgin , mark the boding word , Sullen whisper'd o'er the SWORD ! It prophecied Argantyr's Foes Shou'd rue its prowess ; — yet that woes Greater far his RACE shou'd feel , Victims of the CRUEL STEEL , When , in blood of millions dyed , It arms an ireful Fratricide MAID , no erring accents warn ; — Of Sons to thee , hereafter born , One thy Chiefs shall HYDRECK name , Dark spirited ! — but dear to fame Shall blooming HIARALMO live . — Maid , his doom thy mandates give ! Renounce , renounce the dire demand , Or to thy Sons ; in HYDRECK'S hand , Fatal proves , some future day , The CHARMED SWORD . — Disturb it not ! — away ! HERVA . " Hervor . I do , by Enchantments , make that the Dead shall never know peace , or rest , unless thou deliver up to me Turfing . " ARGANTYR , — hear thy Daughter's voice , Spells decree an only choice ! Or , in perturbed tomb unblest , The silence of sepulchral rest Shall no more thy sunk eye steep , Close no more thy pallid lip , Or , ere this night's shadows melt , Mine the SWORD , and gorgeous belt . ARGANTYR . " Argantyr . Young Maid , I say thou art of manlike courage , who dost roam about by night to tombs , with spear engraven by magical spells , with helmet and coat of mail , before the door of our Hall . " Young Maid , — who as of warrior might , Roamest thus to tombs by night , In coat of mail , with voice austere , Waving the Corse-awakening SPEAR O'er thy dead Ancestors ; — offence , And danger threaten ! — hie thee hence ! HERVA . " Hervor . I took thee for a brave man before I found out your halls . Give me out of the tomb the workmanship of the Dwarfs , which hates all coats of mail . — It is not good for thee to hide it . " Obey , obey , or sleep no more ! Now my sacred right restore ! The SWORD , that joys when Foes assail , Sword , that scorns the ribbed mail , Scorns the car , in swift career , Scorns the helmet , scorns the spear ; Scorns the nerv'd experienc'd arm ; ARGANTYR , yield it to my charm ! 'Tis not well the Victor's pride , With thee in silent tombs to hide ; Thy Child , thy only Child , demands , — Reach it with thy wither'd hands ! ARGANTYR . " Argantyr . The death of Hialmor lies beneath my shoulders . — It is all wrapt up in fire . I know no Maid of any Country that dares take this Sword in hand . " The death of HIARALMO lies Beneath this mouldering arm ! — and rise Round its edge , the lurid fires , Hostile to unaw'd desires . Hie thee hence , nor madly dare The death-denouncing grasp ; — beware ! HERVA . " Hervor . I shall take and keep it in my hand , if I may obtain it . — I do not think the fires will burn that play about the sight of deceased men . " Not if thousand fires invade Streaming from its angry blade . Innoxious are the fires that play Round the Corse , with meteor ray , And in these waste hours of night Silent death-halls dimly light ; Yet , gliding with consuming force , Undaunted wou'd I meet their course . ARGANTYR . " Argantyr . O , conceited Hervor , thou art mad ! Rather than thou shouldest in an instant fall into the fire , I will give thee the Sword , O , young Maid , and not hide it from thee . " Thou , whose awless voice proclaims Scorn of the sepulchral flames , Lest their force around thee swell , Punishing thy daring spell , And thy mortal form consume , HERVA , see ! — thy Father's tomb Opens ! — mark , to thee restor'd , Rising slow , the baneful SWORD ! — See , it meets thy rash desire " And from about him fierce effusion roll'd " Of smoke , and bickering flame , and sparkles dire . " MILTON'S Par. Lost . B. vi . line 765. Bickering with funereal fire ! HERVA . " Hervor . Thou dost well , Offspring of Heroes , that thou dost give me the Sword out of the Tomb . — I am now better pleased , O Prince , to have it , than if I had got all Norway . " Warrior , now dost thou reclaim The lustre of thy former fame ; Lo , the SWORD , a seeming brand , Blazes in thy Daughter's hand ! Nor perishes that hand beneath Vaporous flames , that round it wreathe , Gleam along the midnight air , Illume the forest wide , — and glare On the scath'd Oak ! — Sepulchral wood , Thee I quit for fields of blood ! Nor would I , on its fateful range , This SWORD , with all its meteors , change For the Norweyan sceptre . — Lo , Death , and conquest , wait me now ! — ARGANTYR . " Argantyr . False Woman ! — thou dost not understand that thou speakest foolishly of that in which thou dost rejoice . — Turfing shall , if thou wilt believe me , destroy all thy offspring . " HIARALMO'S future bane , Grasp'd with exultation vain , Fatal , fatal shall be found To thee , and thine , in cureless wound ! By that wound 'tis now decreed HYDREK'S self at length shall bleed ! Herva , less thy long regret Had thy Chiefs in combat met Andgrym's sons , with warlike zeal , Met them in uncharmed steel . HERVA . " Hervor . I must go to my Seamen — here I have no mind to stay any longer . — Little do I care , O royal Friend , what my Sons hereafter quarrel about . " Sleep , Argantyr , — Chief of might , Thro' the long , the dreary night ; Nor let strife , and bitter scorn , 'Mid Herva's offspring , yet unborn , Disturb thee in the tomb ! — and mark , The SPEAR , that broke thy slumber dark , Round the blasted Oak I wave , That ill protects a Warrior's grave ! Soon shall its scath'd trunk be seen Cloth'd in shielding bark , and green As before the vengeful time , When , by force of baleful RHYME , It shrunk amid the forest's groan , Smote by the red thunderstone . Thro' the renovated boughs , Guardians of thy deep repose , Shall the hail no longer pour , The livid Dog-star look no more ! Spirits of the elder Dead , Spell-awak'd from slumber dread , Not to your spears , in martial pride , Resting by each Hero's side , Not to your gore-spotted mail , Steely shroud of Warrior pale , Shall , thro' thousand Winters , drain Driving snow , or drenching rain ; Nor , while countless Summers beam On arid plain , or shrinking stream , Thro' the widening chink be known Reptile vile of sultry Noon , To wind the slimy track abhorr'd ! — Fate is mine , since mine the SWORD ! ARGANTYR . " Argantyr . Take and keep Hialmor's bane , which thou shalt long have and enjoy . — Touch not the edges , there is poison on both of them ! — It is a most cruel Devourer of Men ! " " Farewell Daughter . — I do quickly give thee the twelve men's deaths , if thou canst believe with might and courage , — and all the goods that Andgrym's Sons have left behind them . " Herva , thine the source of woes , Direful long to all thy foes , Ere against thy peace it turn , And thou thy bleeding Race shalt mourn . When extinct the tomb's blue fires , Whose light now gleams , and now retires , Quivering o'er its edge , forbear To touch the VENOM'D BLADE ; — beware ! Venom , for the blood prepar'd Of twelve brave Chiefs , their dread reward . Herva , now thy Father's tomb . Slowly closes ! — Ne'er presume Again to breathe , in Odin's hall , Shrill , the Corse-disturbing call ! HERVA . " Hervor . Dwell , all of you safe in the Tombs ! I must be gone and hasten hence , for I seem to be in a place where fire burns about me . " I go , — for these blue fires infest The troubled tomb's presumptuous Guest ; As of step profane aware , Round me , more and more , they glare . — Hervardor , Hiarvardor , — keep Lasting slumber ! — Hrani sleep ! And sleep ARGANTYR ! — Chiefs of might , Quiet be your mornless night !