Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 2).djvu/138

 showering woes unstinted over Örnulf's world-way.

Weak are now my weapons. But, were god-might given me, one thing would I strive for— on the Norn to venge me!

One thing would I toil for— down to death to hurl thee, Norn, that now hast left me nought but yonder grave-mound.

Nought, I said? Nay, truly, somewhat still is Örnulf's, since of Suttung's mead-horn he betimes drank deeply.

[With rising enthusiasm.

Though she stripped me sonless, one great gift she gave me— songcraft's mighty secret, skill to sing my sorrows,

On my lips she laid it, goodly gift of songcraft; loud, then, let my lay sound, e'en where they are lying!

Hail, my stout sons seven! Hail, as homeward ride ye! Songcraft's glorious god-gift stauncheth woe and wailing.

[He draws a deep breath, throws back the hair from his brow, and says calmly:

So—so; now is Örnulf sound and strong again.