"
"O far have I wander'd, renown'd is my name,
The heroes I conquer'd wherever I came:
"Han Elland, 't is true, long disputed the ground,
But yet he receiv'd from my hand his death-wound."
Sir Erik then alter'd his countenance quite,
And out hurried he, in the gloom of the night.
"Fill high, little Kirstin, my best drinking cup,
And be the brown liquor with poison mixt up."
She gave him the draught, and returning with speed,
"Young gallant," said he, "thou must taste my old mead."
Sir Fridleif unbuckled his helmet and drank;
Sweat sprung from his forehead--his features grew blank.
"I never have drain'd, since the day I was born,
A bitterer draught, from a costlier horn:
"My course is completed, my life is summ'd up,
For treason I smell in the dregs of the cup."
Sir Erik then said, while he stamp'd on the ground,
"Young knight, 't is thy fortune to die like a hound.
"My best belov'd friend thou didst boast to have slain,
And I have aveng'd him by giving thee bane:
"Not Helga, but Hela, {f:1} shall now be thy bride;
Dark blue are her cheeks, and she looks stony-eyed.
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