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THE LAY OF HELGI.
169
Dead-cold are the hands
Of the son of Hogni!
How for thee, O my king,
May I win healing?
Of the son of Hogni!
How for thee, O my king,
May I win healing?
Helgi.
Thou alone, Sigrun
Of Sevafell,
Hast so done that Helgi
With grief’s dew drippeth;
O clad in gold
Cruel tears thou weepest,
Bright May of the Southlands,
Or ever thou sleepest:
Each tear in blood falleth
On the breast of thy lord,
Cold-wet and bitter-sharp
Swollen with sorrow.
Of Sevafell,
Hast so done that Helgi
With grief’s dew drippeth;
O clad in gold
Cruel tears thou weepest,
Bright May of the Southlands,
Or ever thou sleepest:
Each tear in blood falleth
On the breast of thy lord,
Cold-wet and bitter-sharp
Swollen with sorrow.
Ah, we shall drink
Dear draughts and lovely,
Though we have lost
Both life and lands;
Neither shall any
Sing song of sorrow,
Though in my breast
Be wounds wide to behold:
For now are brides
In the mound abiding;
Kings’ daughters sit
By us departed.
Dear draughts and lovely,
Though we have lost
Both life and lands;
Neither shall any
Sing song of sorrow,
Though in my breast
Be wounds wide to behold:
For now are brides
In the mound abiding;
Kings’ daughters sit
By us departed.
