Of horns I've emptied many
With Thorstein in his day;
His son, more famed than any,
Shall not sit far away."

He filled each goblet brimming

With wine from Sicily,--
Like sparks of fire 'twas gleaming,
And foaming like the sea.
"Welcome!" exclaimed the speaker,
"My friend's most worthy son!
To Thorstein fill a beaker,--
And drink now, every one!"

Now woke the harpstring's slumbers,
A skald from Morven's hills,
In Gaul's melodious numbers,
Sad hero-songs he trills.
But Thorstein's praise was chanted
In old Norwayan tongue;
His noble deeds were vaunted,
His daring valor snug.

The earl asked much concerning
His friends of days gone by;
In words replete with learning
Young Fridthjof made reply.
A judgment given blindly,
Swift accusation brings,