Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/103



Ay, gaze on its large hilt, One wedge of red gold; But doat on its blade, gilt With blood of the bold. The hilt is right seemly, But nobler the blade, That swart Velint's hammer With cunning spells made; I call it the Adder, Death lurks in its bite, Through bone and proof-harness It scatters pale light. Fair Daughter of Einar, Deem high of the fate That makes thee, like this blade, Proud Egill's loved mate! So Jarl Egill bore off Torf Einar's bright daughter.