Daughter, of potent spells possest, Why dost thou call us from our rest? What mad ambition bids thee wake The slumber of the dead? Hervor, thy rash demand shall break In ruin on thy head! Me were the funeral rites denied, Father nor friend was there. Seek for the sword in air; It decks some living warrior’s side. _Hervor._ Thy words are false! deceiver, no! May Odin on thy tomb bestow Such safety, sire, as thou hast got The fairy sword I seek, or not! Thy child, thine only child, demands This dowry at a father’s hands. _Angantyr._ Listen, daughter! Hervor, hear The voice of prophecy, and fear! Let not a father’s hand consign A gift so fatal to thy line. For, lo! I see before this sword Thine offspring perish, till restored To son of thine, who then shall prove The Heidrek of his people’s love. _Hervor._ I heed thee not; but by the sway Of spells which spirits must obey, I charge thee, by enchantments dread, No rest shall know my kindred dead Till I obtain the belt and blade By dwarfs for Swafurlami made! _Angantyr._ Maiden, of more than warrior’s might, Who visitest the tombs by night, Trusting to the belt and spear Of magic power, wander not here. _Hervor._ I deemed thee brave before I came To seek thee in thy house of flame. Why do I wait? Give me the blade! Nor longer be the gift delayed! _Angantyr._ The sword lies here, begirt with fire, Which once—fit weapon for thy sire— Hialmar slew: but weak the brand If wielded by a woman’s hand. _Hervor._ Yet I will wield, if I may gain The fire-girt sword, Hialmar’s bane. No spectre-fire can Hervor dread That idly plays around the dead. _Angantyr._ Then, proud and daring spirit, know, To save thee from the fires below I give the sword! Thy suit is won! _Hervor._