do there? Nay, I will
to my sons.

DAGNY (with pain). Father!

ORNULF (raises his head). Go in and let me sit here; when the storm
has played with me for a night or two, the game will be over, I ween.

SIGURD. Thou canst not think to deal thus with thyself.

ORNULF. Dost marvel that I fain would rest? My day's work is done;
I have laid my sons in their grave. (Vehemently.) Go from me!--Go, go!

(He hides his face.)

SIGURD (softly, to DAGNY, who rises). Let him sit yet a while.

DAGNY. Nay, I have one rede yet untried;--I know him. (To Ornulf.)
Thy day's work done, say'st thou? Nay, that it is not. Thou hast laid
thy sons in the grave;--but art thou not a skald? It is meet that thou
should'st sing their memory.

ORNULF (shaking his head). Sing? Nay, nay; yesterday I could sing;
I am too old to-day.

DAGNY. But needs must thou; honourable men were thy sons, one and
all; a song must be made of them, and that can none of our kin but
thou.

ORNULF (looks inquiringly at SIGURD). To sing? What thinkest
_thou_, Sigurd?

SIGURD. Meseems it is but meet; thou must e'en do as she says.

DAGNY. Thy neighbours in Iceland will deem it ill done when the
grave-ale is drunk over Ornulf's children, and there is no song
to sing with it. Thou hast ever time enough to follow thy sons.

ORNULF. Well well, I will try it; and thou, Dagny, give heed, that
afterwards thou may'st carve the song on staves.

(The men approach with the torches, forming a group around him;
he is silent for a time, reflecting; then he says:)

Bragi's[1] gift is bitter
when the heart is broken;
sorrow-laden singer,
singing, suffers sorely.

Natheless, since the Skald-god
gave me skill in song-craft,
in a lay loud-ringing
be my loss lamented!

(Rises.)

Ruthless Norn[2] and wrathful
wrecked my life and ravaged,
wiled away my welfare,
wasted Ornulf's treasure.

Sons had Ornulf seven,
by the great gods granted;--
lonely now and life-sick
goes the greybeard, sonless.

Seven sons so stately,
bred among the sword-blades,
made a mighty bulwark
round the snow-locked sea-king.

Levelled lies the bulwark,
dead my swordsmen seven;
gone the greybeard's gladness,
desolate his dwelling.

Thor