On sacred hearth was burning,--
Soon is quenched its wasted light,
Hoder's reign returning.

Priests around the temple wall
Burning brands were grasping;
Silver-bearded, old men all,--
Their hard hands flint knives clasping.

The crowned king stands the altar near;
Hark! the midnight soundeth,--
With clash of weapons, sharp and clear,
The sacred grove resoundeth.

"Bjorn, stand fast by yonder door,
No one must pass under,
Whosoe'er would cross the floor,
Cleave his skull asunder."

Helge paled: he knew too well
Whose that voice so ringing.
Forth stood Fridthjof; his fierce words fell
Like autumn storm winds singing.

"Here's the ordered tribute; it came
Safe through the tempest's rattle;
Take it; then here by Balder's flame,
For life or death we'll battle.

"Shields behind us, our bosoms free.