THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

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Poured from a horn of silver
Fine mead flowed for the horde;
Quips sounded, merry jesting
Around the festive board.
Then Helge made his entry:
“Dear Father! Sure enough
I’ve found a playmate yonder
Up by the wooded bluff.”
Up leapt both king and warriors:
“Help, Asathor and Tyr!
Why, it’s the bear’s young offspring,
A cub whelped this last year!”
“Be this the bear’s young offspring,
This creature I hold here,
Then all my pains are wasted,
`Twas never my idea.
“I never dreamt its mother
Could be a bear, I own,
Though for a cat, I grant you
She did seem overgrown.
“She grumbled and she grunted
Yes, tried to use her claw,
A cuff behind the ear though
Soon calmed her down once more.”
“Now hear me” Sigmund answered,
Half angry, half with pride,
“If you’ve fetched single-handed
A bear cub from its hide,
“You could as well have minded
To topple from his throne
Your liege-lord, thereby making
His sovereignty your own.
“So for your better guidance
You, Helge, I assign
To Hagal, who’s my kinsman,
Born of a warrior line.
“Take as a gift my weapon,
My old and trusty sword,
It often flashed in battle, —
You merit the award.”