Argantyr

Herva, thine the source of woes, Direful long to all thy foes, Ere against thy peace it turn, And thou thy bleeding race shalt mourn. When extinct the tomb’s blue fires, Whose light now gleams, and now retires, Quivering o’er its edge, forbear To touch the Venom’d Blade;—beware! Venom, for the blood prepar’d Of twelve brave chiefs, their dread reward. HERVA, now thy father’s tomb Slowly closes!—Ne’er presume Again to breathe, in ODIN’S hall, Shrill the corse-disturbing call!