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We hew'd with our Swords!
28. Full fifty times my lance, dire devastation’s harbinger, announc’d the distant enterprize. Methinks no King has truer cause to glory — it was the pastime of my boyish days, to tinge my spear with blood. The immortals will permit my presence in their company. No sigh shall e’er disgrace my exit.
Now let us cease our Song!
29. See! the celestial virgins, sent from that Hall where Odin’s martial train resides, invite me home. There, happy on my high-rais’d throne, I’ll quaff the barley’s mellow’d juices. The moments of my life are fled. The smiles of death compose my placid visage.
FINIS.
