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We fought with swords, at the isle of Onlug. The uplifted weapon bit the shields. The gilded lance grated on the mail. The traces of that sight will be seen for ages. There kings marched up to the play of arms. The shores of the sea were stained with blood. The lances appeared like flying dragons.
We fought with swords. Death is the happy portion of the brave[1]; for he stands the foremost against the storm of weapons. He, who flies from danger, often bewails his miserable life. Yet how difficult is it to rouze up a coward to the play of arms? The dastard feels no heart in his bosom.
- ↑ The northern warriors thought none were intitled to Elizium, but such as died in battle, or underwent a violent death.
