Sons of Arngrim! Much harm doing, Much have you The mould increased, As no one Of the sons of Eyfura Will speak to me At Munarvag. Hjörvard! Hervard! Hrani! Angantyr! So be the mind Of you all As if you were rotting In an ant-hill Unless ye yield The sword forged by Dvalin; It is not fit for ghosts Costly weapons to hide. _Angantyr._ Hervör, my daughter! Why callest thou thus Full of baneful words; Thou art going to fare badly; Mad hast thou become And out of thy senses, Mind-bewildered, As thou awakenest the dead. Neither father buried me Nor other kinsmen; The two who lived Kept _Tyrfing_; Although at last One became its owner. _Hervör._ Thou dost not tell me truth; The As shall leave thee Unharmed in the grave-mound If thou hast not Tyrfing; Thou art unwilling To give the heritage To thy only child. Then the mound opened and looked as if it were all on fire and flame. Angantyr sang: Ajar is the gate of Hel; The mounds are opening, All the island-coast Looks as if on fire; Outside all Is awful to behold; Hasten thee, maiden, if thou canst, To thy ships. _Hervör._ Ye can not light Such a flame at night That I would Fear your fires; The _mind-town_ of thought[204] Of the maid does not quail Though she sees a ghost Standing in the door. _Angantyr._ I will tell thee, Hervör, Listen the while, Wise daughter, What will happen; This _Tyrfing_ will, If thou canst believe it, All thy kin, Maiden, destroy.