"Hail ye immortals!
Sons of high heaven!
Earth disappears; Gjallarhorn to a feast
Opens the portals;
By the gods given,
Blessedness crowns as a helmet the guest!"

Speaking intently,
Ing'borg's hand loyal,
Also his son's, and his friend's, too, he pressed;
Eyelids close gently,--
Spirit so royal
Flies with a sigh to the Allfather's breast.




XXI.

RING'S DRAPA.

Sepultured sits he,
Sovereign descended,
Battle sword by him,
Buckler on arm;
Chafes his good charger
Champing impatient,
Pawing with gold-hoof
The gate of the grave.