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We hew'd with our Swords!
6. The warriors dropt their bucklers — brands, the riflers of life, flew wrathful from their scabbards against the bosoms of the brave. At Scarpa-skeria cruelly hack'd the trenchant battle-ax. Red were the borders of our moony shields, until King Rafn died. The tepid blood, spurting from the temples of the valiant, was drifted on their harness.
We hew’d with our Swords!
7. On Ulla’s plain loud roar’d the spear ere to our force King Eistein bow’d. Gleaming in gold the slaught’rous field we travers’d. The taper'd lance, indignant, bor’d the shield, at the helm’d conflict. Rills, of winy hue, warm from the wounded neck flow’d down the hero’s shoulder.
