"This is no wraith,
This is not World's Doom
Though a dead man rides,
Though he pricks with spurs,
Leave I have homeward to fare."
And then he cries aloud, so that Sigrun hears him, and looks up,
listening--
"Ha, come thou forth, Sigrun of Sevafell!
Here is thy lord
If thou wouldst see him;
The cairn is open,
Helgi is here
With the sword-wounds bleeding--staunch thou the blood!
For I must ride soon
The reddening roads,
My good horse climb
The ways of the air;
West of the sky-bridge
Needs I must be
Before the grey cock cry to the sun."
Sigrun is up now, and at the door. She pants as she pulls at the
bobbin of the latch. Her eyes are on fire with eagerness. But the
maid cries to her--
"Go not, go not,
Sigrun of Sevafell,
Sister of kings,
Seek not the house of the dead!
For the night is abroad
When the dead are mighty;
Await bright dawn, thou shalt be stronger."
But Sigrun is out in the moonlight, and Helgi is upon his feet. Now
she has him in her arms; now she holds his pale face between her hands
and speaks to him close--
"The hawks of Odin
Greet not the Storm-lord,
Scenting the slain, their smoking quarry,
Not more eagerly
Cry they the dawn dew
Than I cry thee, dead King Helgi.
Now I kiss thee, dead King Helgi,
Ere thou castest
Thy blood-clutter'd mail-shirt.
Bloody the dew
On thy dauntless body,
Heavy the rime
On thy raven love-locks;
Cold are thy hands, Helgi, my king's son,
How shall I loose thee, lover and lord?"