The Rímur of Berthold the Englishman

The Rímur of Berthold the Englishman are a sixteen-ríma narrative poem composed by Jón Jónsson and first published at Akureyri in 1874 by B. M. Stephánsson's press Norðanfari. The cycle retells the story of Berthold, the son of a wealthy London merchant, whose restless nature and desire to see the world leads him to defy his dying father's warnings and set sail for the East Indies — only to be shipwrecked, cast upon a desert island, and ultimately redeemed through suffering, faith, and the providential hand of God.

The poem belongs to a tradition of moralistic rímur that flourished in nineteenth-century Iceland, blending the formal conventions of the rímur tradition — ferskeytt meter, mansöngvar, alliterative ornament — with Christian homiletic content. The story draws on the prodigal son archetype and the literature of shipwreck and conversion that was popular across Protestant Europe. The poet's mansöngvar are unusually personal and self-deprecating, offering a portrait of a humble craftsman of verse who struggles with his own restlessness even as he warns against it.

This is a Good Works Translation from the Icelandic source text, published at Akureyri in 1874. The print was digitized by the Internet Archive and is freely available. This is the first known English translation of this cycle.

Ríma I

The poet introduces himself and his modest skill. He tells of a wealthy London merchant whose son, Berthold, is gifted but restless — drawn to the sea and the wider world. Despite his father's warnings, Berthold writes to his kinsman Wolrat in Amsterdam and prepares to voyage to the East Indies. The father falls ill, delivers a final speech urging obedience and caution, and dies. Berthold briefly returns to his studies but soon breaks his promise, departs for Amsterdam, and boards ship.

Mansöngur

Though my learning is not wise
nor my phrasing artful,
I will try to compose a poem
from the story of Berthold.

Bold though the venture be for me —
I who may be called ignorant —
to climb the steep path of verse
and seek after refrains.

May fortune lend me aid
in the labour of song,
for I am unused
to work in the verse-smithy.

I find the ferskeytt meter
suits my mind best,
though it earns little fame —
at least on the first attempt.

Those who never received
the scroll of learning in their youth —
in the last decade of their years
their versecraft will be halting.

Well may the people say to me,
whispering in their hearts,
that it was a fool's errand
to take on such a task.

Often I blunder carelessly forward —
though my faults be plain to see,
I trust the people
will forgive the undertaking.

I have poorly kept
my parents' wholesome counsel,
and therefore throughout the world
have come to know sorrow now and then.

Though I gave little heed
to the shaping of my fortune,
I got too slack a rein
on the bridling of my urges.

I cannot therefore be angry
though I am long frail in nature —
let the people call me a sinner
if they dress me in such honour.

Often one's own desires
raise high the spirit's shame;
to avoid that, let others learn
from our Berthold's example.

He cast his father's wise counsel
to the wind while young —
yet quickly he wept for his sin,
like King David.

Hardship strikes many a man
who would unravel his own peace;
yet it shall serve as a signpost
to set them on the right road.

It is time for me to rise
from the swoon of stubbornness;
it is good to look to oneself —
let it be done in time.

We may know that well it can happen
we should take care of this:
the gracious season
draws near to its end.

Let us guard ourselves wisely, brothers,
against the world's vile temptations,
all wicked deeds,
words, and ponderings.

Though I may lament —
often with troubled thoughts —
the world's noise hinders me
from godly meditations.

Many a brave peril
seeks to turn us here;
it seems to me no easy thing
to dwell within this world.

Let us rejoice in moderation here,
in times of prosperity,
and not be downcast
when storms blow against us.

Many examples bear witness to this:
wariness is therefore counselled —
often when a man suspects it least,
danger is closest at hand.

The practice of prayer therefore befits us —
let us use it ever-wakefully,
so that within our hearts
a holy spirit may dwell.

With patience we must endure,
though the world brings many a chill,
that in the end we may attain
a blessed conclusion.

Here I end my mansöngur —
I shall set about the tale;
the subject itself I now find,
which begins in this fashion.

A Wealthy Man in London

A wealthy man on England's market,
in the days of old,
lived in London's city —
so the story tells.

He kept one house there
with his lawful wife;
their names are not
mentioned by the author.

They held their place in the better ranks,
clothed in honour's bloom,
and in cheerful love they lived,
practising pious conduct.

The Birth of Berthold

The couple raised that heir —
no finer boy was found —
who bore the name of Berthold,
though they had other children too.

He bore gifts of learning in abundance,
that young enjoyer of wealth —
at first beside his father
he was fostered there at home.

In all manner of play and sport
fortune kept him from harm,
yet even so he bore a temperament
forever restless.

The father's love for the young man
disciplined his frailty;
straightaway into the field of his heart
he sowed good counsel.

Deep into the boy's understanding
virtue and the best conduct
made trial and took root,
firmly and faithfully.

Schooling and Restlessness

After that, as early as could be,
the dark-browed young sapling
was set in school
to practise the art of learning.

So he began his book-studies —
Berthold adorned himself with knowledge —
yet his heart leaned outward,
for his nature obeyed itself.

A bold desire seized him —
he was therefore seldom glad —
he wanted most assuredly to become
a shipbuilder and timber-man.

He wished to steer the mast-horse
out past the halls of the sea;
his greatest longing was
to know the wide world.

So his mind took him this way and that,
drifting here and there in its restlessness —
light-minded, he did not regard
the weakness of fortune's wheel.

The young fire-tree of the waves
could not, though he wished it,
do other than study freely
at his father's command.

Yet he did not heed such words —
he followed his own will,
and taught himself instead
three foreign tongues.

He learned geography,
and likewise astronomy —
these worthy studies he pursued
with wisdom's finest care.

He threw himself into that learning
which is so essential
to seafarers, he said —
an indispensable art.

All this was his heart's aim:
if only fortune would allow,
he might fulfil his plan
in time to come.

Those desires he had spoken of
began to undermine his studies —
of sailors and their voyages
he could not stop thinking.

Wolrat of Amsterdam

He had a kinsman in Amsterdam,
a young shield-bearer,
who was accustomed
to India voyages.

In high esteem he sat there,
chosen among the honoured;
the people called him Wolrat,
born of a great house.

One time Wolrat came swiftly
to visit Berthold's father —
a cheerful, well-spoken man
who had just arrived from India.

He told his many kinsmen
of the sea's dangerous voyages —
that tree of the mistletoe spoke
of things most wondrous.

Berthold, with sweet eagerness,
bent his ear to listen;
his bold spirit was gladdened
to hear such tales.

Berthold's Plea

Then to his kinsman he began
to press these words:
"With you I wish to travel —
to go to India."

"I long to ride the wave-band
on the sea-horse's deck,
and build my fame and standing
across the wide world."

"I need your help in this —
this is the plea I raise:
obtain for me from my father
his leave to make the voyage."

"Joy overwhelms me fiercely —
the anguish melts away —
if only my intention
may find its way to fulfilment."

The Father's Warning

His father then learned
the plan so boldly declared;
not at all was he pleased
with his son's hasty desire.

From there the useful kinsman
was promptly sent away,
and Berthold received in full
his father's sharp rebuke.

Thus the father spoke
to his heir:
"Cast this wild scheme
far from your mind."

"If you do not obey,
misfortune will surely follow;
you would throw yourself
into palpable danger."

"The conduct that better suits
your own frailty
is that you practise book-learning
at my command."

Berthold then made plain
his promise of obedience;
he swore to follow his father's counsel
and never lose hold of it.

Back into the school-seat
he settled once more;
new instruction flowed freely
in the stream of learning.

Yet most of all he practised
the essential knowledge he prized —
that which he had always
intended to learn.

So things stood for a time,
the studying going on;
but his bold spirit longed
to indulge its freedom.

The Father's Deathbed

Some time later it came to pass —
a matter of sorrow:
his old father fell
into a heavy illness.

He sent for Berthold —
the warrior, worn by his trials,
spoke to him earnestly
words of deepest care.

He addressed his heir
in this fashion:
"Headstrong is your nature —
it is anguish to my spirit."

"Your own stubbornness
greatly deceives you;
you cast your father's counsel
into the sea of forgetfulness."

"You will not learn what I
had appointed for you;
all goes a different way
than my wisdom demanded."

"Across the wide world
your mind would wander;
fortune on those paths
will turn its back on you."

"Out on the steep and stormy sea
you would buy misery and torment
in exchange for peace and rest
in your fatherland."

"That thought is perilous —
though the danger wears a golden mask —
that fortune will chase you
to the ends of the earth."

"He who learned something useful
while growing up
may sit with honour and wisdom
in his own fatherland."

"A man can earn good bread with honour
and serve himself well,
be glad among friends,
in a quiet dwelling."

"Travellers often must endure more —
weary, they lose their worth;
yes, into sudden death they sometimes
headlong stumble."

"Let false temptation
be cleanly kicked away from you,
or else — though too late —
you will regret your desires."

"Do not despise your birthplace
and your homeland;
fortune will then along life's road
grant you its aid."

"Practise the learning that is needful,
that which I have set before you;
let all your conduct be found pious,
with righteous foresight."

"Guard yourself always
against idle luxury;
watch over your own thoughts —
let reason teach you."

"Death calls me away soon —
the body's strength is failing;
so mark well, my son,
this my final speech."

Berthold's Promise and the Father's Death

Into Berthold's breast it sank —
he bore a stricken spirit,
having heard the solemn words
of his dying father.

He promised to obey it all —
he who wished to choose rightly —
said he would now devote himself
to book-learning once more.

Heavy thoughts pressed upon him —
so crushed were they together;
his father's final farewell
he bore with grieving heart.

The burial was made for the dead man
with full and fitting honour;
the pious age mourned
this its blessed member.

Back to School

Berthold returned to his studies,
quickly back into the school;
but soon out of its refuge
the arrow of grief was loosed.

For some time things went on so —
the lad pursued his learning,
and in the row of schoolboys
he progressed quite well.

Every kind of pleasantness
was built up for the gold-tree;
soft was the time of comfort,
as full as it could be.

Yet at length it came to pass —
as the hours slipped by —
he gave the reins free rein
to his old cravings.

The ancient desire revived
in his wealthy mind,
so that he no longer
could bear to remain content.

He bore no trace of fear
that harm might come of it;
now he wished to explore
the new world in full.

The Letter to Wolrat

Therefore to Holland
he turned his eager thoughts;
he carefully composed a letter
to his kinsman Wolrat.

Berthold told the warrior
of his heart's desires —
he wished to know if the captain
was preparing a voyage to India.

Swiftly came the answer,
offering a ship's passage:
men were even now
preparing the journey there.

His kinsman wrote further
in his letter:
"Perhaps now you may attain
your heart's design."

"Hasten your departure —
I will wait for you here,
until you step aboard my ship;
the waves shall not cut us short."

"You are welcome here
into our fine company;
Wolfgang, my eldest son,
shall go along too."

"It is fitting for young men
to advance in noble deeds;
you two are equal in age
and both kinsmen."

The Departure

When Berthold received this news
his heart filled with joy;
his excitement ran beyond all bounds —
he could scarcely contain himself.

All his father's counsel was forgotten,
cast aside by disobedience;
likewise his own bright promises
were lost to the leaf-lord.

Now his spirit grew restless,
insatiable desire took hold;
he made ready for the journey
and bade his fatherland farewell.

The golden-field warrior did not cease
his travels
until he came to Amsterdam,
out to his kinsmen.

Father and son welcomed him
with fine and generous manners;
they prepared a great feast
to greet the bold young man.

Wine splashed across the cobbled streets —
the beloved people thronged;
all manner of the world's pleasures
fell into their hands.

Their ears were lent to instruments,
that enchanting sound;
there Berthold found
what he took for perfect bliss.

After the gleaming celebrations
and the thunder of the fire-lake,
they swiftly made themselves ready
to set out for the deep.

Then out upon the rolling steeds of the surf,
bold men went forth;
the wave's thin liquor rises up for me —
the first ríma falls silent.

Ríma II

The fleet sets sail. At the Cape of Good Hope, a cannon misfires and the powder magazine explodes, destroying the ship and killing nearly all aboard. Only Berthold and Wolfgang survive, hurled ashore half-dead. They are tended by the people of Cape Town and taken in by the burgomeister. Wolfgang returns to Holland; Berthold, penniless but restless, takes passage on another ship toward India.

Mansöngur

Now for a second time from the shores of verse
I lead my song forth —
let life quicken and blood grow warm.

Though I have planned and begun,
hammering together the southern frame,
the work will go slowly forward.

Often my poor gift for verse
wanders out through the desert
of forgetfulness — dressed in folly's bark.

Hindrances and wandering thoughts
confuse me in many ways —
mischief clings to such things.

Forward through crooked threads
the poem must wind its way —
I doubt whether I can manage it
through these varied troubles.

Often I am timid at the verse-forge;
I need not hide it —
I often lack the lucky words.

Onward I must hold in the labour of song,
though it cost me my wits —
let the use of it take its course.

If I turn away from the subject I have begun,
I shall be counted a fool —
that is surely madness.

Since I chose to entangle myself in this,
I must steel myself
and climb the stairs of eloquence.

It is worthwhile to compose
from the story of Berthold —
one may learn life's correction there
through reflection.

As far as I know, none has written
a poem on this subject
that might uplift the people.

The Voyage

To carry out his plans,
Berthold, all prepared for his venture,
would now employ the same resolve.

And I shall equip myself in the best wind
to follow him on the flood's course —
so long as the wave does not rise too heavy.

Though it will prove true
that the sea may grow rougher later,
it will not spare its mighty strength.

But I suspect something else
will first diminish the warriors' joy —
hasten now along the journey.

I pray that Berthold's fortune sustain him,
that blessings reach him —
so ends the preamble.

Setting Sail

I had lost my power of speech before,
where warriors went forth
and counted fame upon the rollers.

From the harbour they set out fully prepared —
all in an instant, it was —
alongside many other ships.

The men let their cargo-ship slide nimbly
over the sea-blood,
bold of heart — a fair wind stood from land.

In convoy many wave-riders,
splendid vessels,
surged forward on their gleaming timbers.

To the stout of spirit Berthold's fortune
seemed to smile upon him;
now he tasted a touch of joy.

In their hearts most pleasures played;
as yet nothing went amiss
beneath the wave-tree's shelter.

Seasickness

Except — both young kinsmen
learned the sea's sickness,
as often strikes the branches of the brand.

For a while they found that ailment;
their health and strength and cheer
they soon recovered, though.

The Cape of Good Hope

The laden vessels found the best course;
so things went well for the men —
all the way to the Cape of Good Hope.

The deck-horses were fastened to their moorings there;
the warriors on the harbour-mark
swiftly struck their sails.

Best of all it suited Berthold's gladness
that the voyage had gone well —
no disgrace had befallen anyone.

The Explosion

Yet his joy vanished suddenly;
within the hour aboard that ship,
all found bitter conditions.

As was the custom, the men upon the ships
fired their salutes upon the land
with shots from their cannons.

The metal-pure — one shot misfired;
the spark crept into the powder-house —
the roar flew skyward.

From that great blast the greatest wonders happened:
the ship was torn apart upon the flood,
its wreckage borne to the clouds.

Shipwreck

All men aboard the wave-field beast
sank into the deep,
broken apart, to death.

All save Berthold, though his fortune was curtailed,
and his swift kinsman Wolfgang —
they did not spring into death's claws.

It so happened for those skilled young men
that they stood at the outermost rail
when the dire need struck.

From the blast they were hurled to the shore,
wounded, burned, spent of strength,
flung toward death's door.

Branches of gold came to their aid —
from other wave-lions
they were pulled up from the sea.

They lay unconscious a long time after;
yet at last they woke,
only to find their sorrows greater.

Cape Town

The sick spear-wielders were carried
at once on a ship's deck
to the city of the Cape.

The custom practised in that place
was to rescue the sea-wrecked as best they could —
it speaks most to the goodness of their hearts.

Humble hands of mercy tended them;
their wounds were bound
and healing found for them.

Most of the people strove to show them kindness;
fitting rest was prepared
for the afflicted ones there.

After a few days it seemed likely
they would survive —
though still they could scarcely stir.

Yet that torment of suffering eased a little
after this, and at last
they found some measure of rest.

Berthold's Remorse

Still Berthold endured a very harsh trial of spirit —
night and day
he brooded upon his misery.

He began to repent his disobedience;
his father's wholesome counsel
he had scorned in his thoughts.

For this reason the warrior knew
that the wandering of misfortune had struck him —
the venture of his own vice.

Thus his conscience accused the guilty one;
already he saw fulfilled
the shield-tree's father's prophecy.

His heart's anguish caused him bitter grief;
it was too late now to dam the well —
that saying is known to men.

Before his soul's eye was painted
nothing but the misery
that grief bestows as its fruit.

He saw he could not maintain his learning
or serve himself a standing of honour —
yet he might at least return to his fatherland.

But the man had lost all his possessions —
the horse of the keel in the sea's embrace —
through the great disaster.

Most of all he mourned his best kinsman,
the dearest friend adorned with skill —
Wolrat, lost to death's maw.

Likewise his friends, most of the others,
had departed from the world;
he could get no help from them.

On the paths of the world he found no one
of good counsel to follow —
no willing man of kindness.

He, a foreigner among unknown people,
was afflicted by the pain of sickness
of both soul and body.

Wolfgang's Grief

Wolfgang too was in such straits —
the storm-red twig
had lost his dear father.

And with him his hope of inheritance,
a great loss he could reckon
across the seasons of many a life.

So they lay full of anxiety,
upon their beds of sickness,
brooding in perpetual dread.

That trial hardened Berthold most of all;
in the first days there
the sorrow was their burden.

Recovery

The people, though, served them very fittingly,
those helpless guests,
with the very finest care.

Soon from this they recovered enough
to be able to move again
and stir from their beds.

All the people there were eager to show
that everything needful be provided —
so that nothing was lacking.

Most pitied them greatly,
seeing what a heavy trial
had fallen upon ones so young.

The Fleet Departs

But when they found the people's goodwill shown to them,
the gold-boughs —
grief began to depart.

Away with its cannon the ship-fleet left,
the mast-halls
sailing on at that time toward India.

The time continued to pass;
the wounds healed upon the young men,
so that they found rest and health.

The Burgomeister

It so happened that the burgomeister himself
took the young warriors in,
increasing their comfort greatly.

He gave them food and clothing both;
of his own bodyguards,
he said, he made these two.

They attended faithfully to that office;
yet Wolfgang in his heart
could not be content with such conditions.

For that fellow had the fixed intention
to return home to Holland —
when the chance might come to him.

Wolfgang Departs

Far better it suited Berthold
to remain beside his master
and enjoy his fine friendship.

With generous love and cunning he drew him in,
the burgomeister's mild
and tested goodness of character.

Deck-ravens swam in the harbour —
by that time, with a cargo of wealth,
they hastened toward Holland.

Wolfgang seized well that opportunity;
he wished to find his foster-land
and parted from Berthold.

It was better for the bold sea-ember
to travel to his fatherland —
his kinsman there just as his.

Yet another stroke fell close:
such was the state of things —
none of it came to pass.

For Berthold found himself to be without means,
and perceived his own lot
unlike Wolfgang's fate.

For his kinsman, he knew, was not unpropertied —
some portion of his father's inheritance
gave him standing.

But Berthold, penniless, had no bread of his own —
nothing for his own support
henceforth in the world.

Yet he was loath to give himself into servitude,
for to the ring-bearer
it seemed a lowly condition.

Nor did he wish to seem a beggar —
that seemed to him the greatest diminishment —
and much he pondered on this.

The Old Desire Returns

When he had fully regained his health,
the bold one found within himself
a sharp and keen resolve.

Beside the spear-bender the old desire revived,
that ancient craving of his heart —
he could not resist it.

He thought to begin a new India voyage,
brave in spirit —
trusting in fortune.

Since he had already so firmly resolved it,
it seemed a bitter shame
to turn back from the middle of the road.

The famous shield-enjoyer thought
he must risk his life —
let fortune decide.

He wished to test her further
and see whether she might not
be kinder to him later than now.

That which he first wished to accomplish —
he did not flinch at the journey's danger —
he waited for a ship from Holland.

A New Ship

Before long, through the icy lanes,
some bold Hollanders
came running to that port.

The mild sea-beasts rested well upon the water
beneath the high headland
on which Berthold stood.

He was glad when he keenly looked
upon the gleaming ornament of the ship-fleet —
I understand his meaning well.

He asked the burgomeister for leave to depart —
to his own benefit still,
if the men would carry him.

He received his answer from the wealthy lord —
the young warrior of fire
prepared himself for the crew.

A place among the ship's company he obtained;
soon they granted his request,
on account of the city's governor.

His case was therefore well supported —
to the men that foreigner was excellent,
a lone man as he was.

So Berthold departed and bade the town-lord farewell,
the friend — for all the kindnesses
shown to him — he gave his thanks.

The man's goodwill the famous friend could see —
a bright token
of his happy fortune — he thinks well of the voyage.

The saga-string falters in the telling;
I would rest the peace of worth —
I must fall silent now for a while.

Ríma III

The poet resumes after a three-season silence. He reflects on free will and fate — how youth's restlessness leads men astray, and how God's providence guides those who stray back. The narrative continues: Berthold and the fleet set sail for India. After six weeks of fair wind, a sudden storm scatters the ships. Berthold's vessel is driven alone across the sea. A second, fiercer tempest strikes. The ship is wrecked upon a reef, the crew drowned. Berthold alone survives, clinging to a piece of the mast through the night, and is cast ashore at dawn. Exhausted and grief-stricken, he sleeps beneath an oak, where his dead father appears in a dream to rebuke and counsel him. He wakes, repents, and prays.

Mansöngur

I shall launch my verse-ship east
upon the waters of song,
test the playful winds,
and shape a new poem with vigour.

May the poems quicken my life
and gladden the many long;
may the fine harp dance with sound
and glory gleam upon the thread of wealth.

Berthold's saga has waited by me,
stored away for three seasons;
nothing was added to the verse then —
sorrow's chase drove me from it.

It has come time again
to turn to my craft;
I sit therefore at the table of song —
may all be set in proper order.

If I can manage it here
I will keep my promise;
cold winter has come —
I set the tap in the barrel of song.

If from there I could press
some liquid out,
I would offer the people that cup —
none could be better.

The chill of the mind drives forth courage,
especially when the verse goes well;
the flood of the ale-horn
long refreshes the thirsty folk.

Best to press onward,
though I know not where
my babbling verse may lead —
perhaps some life for the people's children here.

Free will, though fate was near,
drove me to act;
to the needless labour of verse
I let myself be lured too boldly.

This my mind would prove:
the greedy free will of men
can endlessly hinder
the purpose of fate.

Over our affairs here
the all-wise Lord rules;
he assigns our fates
and speaks the best for all.

Our Creator, who loves us
with every good gift,
gave us free will —
that we should handle it carefully.

It befits us to use wisdom
with the finest skill;
a worthy duty it is
that we should tend to this.

Most dangerous, most often,
is the youth-season of men —
we are easily drawn then
to stray from the path.

Such is the way of thought
of the free-spirited;
therefore restless youths
rush into the corridors of the world.

Heedless of caution, caring for nothing,
until upon the red sea of trials
they are driven, wretched,
down into sorrow's depth.

Temptation wins through carelessness
and often cuts short fortune;
I can scarcely describe in full
that peril of life and soul.

Young, I bore a merry nature
and feared nothing then;
I rushed to the company of idle fellows,
with dance and laughter many an hour.

That company has now grown weary
to my mind;
the dry crust beside it seems,
in truth, the better seat.

Kind fortune showed me, the youth,
abundance of delight,
but since then has often bridled
my wayward mind.

Well has the Lord watched over me
on life's road, and led me —
his grace, his might, and his clear goodness —
through danger and through need.

A thousandfold thanks to the almighty Father
I will humbly offer,
for the remainder
of my life.

Berthold's saga, very long,
waits by me unfinished;
now that the supply of verse comes to me,
I shall leave off the mansöngur.

The Voyage and the Storm

There waited in the harbour of silence
a vessel moored,
for Berthold, as was told,
had resolved to set sail.

The young man's new delight
and substance of his hope —
I reckon his free purpose —
was to voyage to the land of India.

Up from the sand the men then drew
the heavy anchors;
then they put out from land
upon the sea-horses' backs.

The bold ships surged forward
in fury, swift and fierce;
the dark sea-beasts round the vessel's side —
they bade the homeland farewell with a volley of guns.

The fleet prepared to depart
from the shore;
the waves broke foaming on the ocean's breast —
the cold sea-god coughed beneath them.

The masts stood upright,
rigged and white-folded;
the sails rushed fiercely forward,
the wind trampled into the canvas.

With a favourable swift wind
they held a straight course —
the sea-steeds of the whale's shore —
for a month and a half.

They thought they would soon
complete their voyage;
the calm seas led them to think
they would reach fine harbours.

But that glad hope they had been given
proved treacherous;
a sudden storm broke upon them sharply,
and the cold blasts brooked no resistance.

That terror which stirs
the fire of dread grew in the gleaming deep;
with furious sound of rage
the ocean's voices began to howl.

Endurance bent beneath the heavy trial;
the men were in mortal peril —
wind and sea wielded their strength,
and all fell out of order.

The thick, coiling cold sea
loosed the ships apart;
this fierce storm-council
lasted a full day and night.

Then reprieve came —
the surf eased wonderfully,
and with it the spirits of the men grew calm;
the weather subsided for a time.

The ship on which Berthold dwelt
was now alone,
driven out across the blue waves —
they could see nothing of the others.

That ship-stag was driven
far off course;
the compass could tell
the sword-wielders that much, this time.

The men tried again
to find the right course,
but that effort was not easily achieved —
misfortune's check caused them distress.

Pitch-black cold sea again soon
closed the whole sky;
the waves swelled once more
with the surf's thundering roar.

The beater of earth's heaths,
far greater than before —
the wind rose wailing,
crushing all things swiftly.

Most of the disaster
befell the crew —
that tumult of nature;
delight and peace fled away in that narrow surge.

The fire of the deep broke
beyond all measure then, surging fiercely forth;
no man could stir,
whether toward the masts or away.

What came next was wondrous;
the men then also heard
high, wrathful thunder there,
and saw the lightning scream.

Berthold's heart struggled within him,
bound by dread and anguish —
that all-black cloud of sorrow
pressed so boldly upon him.

He grew deathly pale,
confused in spirit;
he spoke words of agony
and torment of mind throughout that time.

In loud words he spoke there —
it seemed that all the great forces
of creation were blown up
against him in fury.

The great weariness of the former journey
had almost extinguished the fleet's fire;
both wind and sea now roused
wrath against them.

The Shipwreck

Berthold could fiercely gauge
the price of his own disobedience —
his conscience put to the test,
this storm of sorrow's retribution.

They thought they would all,
at any instant,
find their certain resting place
beneath the blue waves.

Then they became aware
of rocks and shoals near them
in the midst of the sea —
they thought their safety was spent.

The ship struck upon a reef,
became warped and sprang leaks;
the men set to work with their hands then —
each one pumped as fast as he could.

They strained their eyes toward land,
which they glimpsed very near;
they thought they could reach it
with the ship's boat — but now things went worst of all.

The foaming breakers struck so hard;
at last they prevailed —
the ship ran upon a rock at once,
split open, and broke with a great crash.

No hope of life seemed left,
though land was but a short way off;
the cries and wailing of the men grew wild —
the sea gaped into the vessel.

The flood's force overwhelmed the deck;
the vessel sank down there.
Then they piled into the ship's boat,
those who had the strength for it.

They wished to reach land,
as they had hoped,
but the boat capsized —
the strong waves swallowed the men.

Berthold seized a piece of the mast then
and clasped it with both arms;
he held himself fast upon it,
though he was flung hard to and fro.

There in the night's darkness
he was driven back and forth;
he endured the heaviest trial,
until he gained the gleam of daylight.

At dawn he perceived
that land was near;
this renewed his courage,
and he cried out to the Creator.

He begged Him to save him,
humbly committing himself to God;
little by little then the surf
and the wind's force bore him on.

Long he endured that battering of the deep,
Berthold in his distress,
until the cold current drove him —
dashed upon the land like a battered log.

He lay near bursting from the salt sea
he had unwittingly swallowed;
the man vomited all of it up,
yet long remained sick and faint.

Joy came to the castaway;
he marvelled at his deliverance,
fell reverently upon the earth,
and offered thanks to the Lord.

The flood of joy's tears
fell long from his eyes,
for his heart burned hot,
stirred toward goodness.

He rose then to his feet
and gazed out upon the sea,
carefully watching all,
thinking of many things.

There he sees the wrecked ship
held fast against a rock before him,
its decking still upright,
set not far from the shore.

Along the strand the lifeless bodies of men
floated all around;
such a sight beside the shore
filled him with the richest sorrow.

He hoped it might yet happen
that some of his companions,
like himself, still bore
the true mark of life.

Therefore he cried aloud,
asking if any lived there;
but none could answer —
then mighty grief seized him.

Berthold's Lament

With new wounding of the spirit he said:
"O my Lord!
I marvel that it has come to this —
I alone have escaped death.

"Gone from the thread of life,
the others are counted among the dead —
my companions, my comrades,
parted from me by affliction's torment.

"Hunger and need I must suffer here
against me,
and at last a wretched death —
oh, how the times grow hateful to me."

Worn out and strengthless,
there he stands alone —
hungry, uncomforted,
soaked through, and shivering.

The Father's Ghost

No rest at all had he found
for four days past;
therefore sleep came upon the castaway at once —
the sun shone there with pleasant brightness.

The fair sun-maiden's eye-gleam
sent down a hot warmth;
the gentle morning hour
warmed the earth's slopes.

The warrior woke from the overpowering heat;
swiftly he hastened away
and found a great thicket
of forest.

Dull with drowsiness beyond measure,
all his senses failing,
he lay down beside a great tree-trunk
and at once fell asleep again.

He received rest and gentle slumber
there in the wilderness;
the oak sheltered him for that hour,
the fire-sun's grove.

His father he saw standing beside him
then in a dream;
the old man does not come with a kind greeting —
he is stern in spirit.

Eager with heavy words and displeasure,
he spared nothing;
he found cause with his child and said:
"You wretched wretch.

"You obeyed not a word
of my counsel — therefore I shall
speak my piece at this skull-meeting;
dwell not near me, ugly wrath.

"Most of all you should have expected —
as I foretold —
that misfortune would turn against you,
just as it has now come to pass.

"If you chose to follow stubbornly
the demands of your desires —
most contrary to my mind —
then your deeds would be most unblessed.

"Your delight was my thought-grief,
heavy upon me;
foul is the horror of sin —
surely faithlessness has blinded you.

"You fled from the choice of peace
in your fatherland,
thinking to find higher goods;
therefore you have gained weariness, misery, and longing.

"Harsh is this revenge
for your foolish conduct;
now it gnaws at you,
since you have deceived me.

"Repent and pray to God
that he forgive your sins;
and that boldness free you —
swiftly he will grant you aid.

"I tell you the truth:
set your trust in the Lord —
he has enough ways,
and his help will never fail.

"Pure-hearted here in faith,
ever serve him;
if you do this now,
you shall become a man of fortune.

"I bid you change your ways —
do not deviate from this,
or else heavier trials you will know here —
trust me."

Repentance

Swiftly he rose and woke from slumber,
Berthold, stricken with dread;
he wished to greet his good father —
he reached out, but saw no one.

He understood then
that the wise vision had been a dream;
all those words spoken —
while he had lain on his bed of rest.

The groaning of grief
and relentless sorrow pressed hard upon him;
greatly did he heed that pure,
secret dream of the spirit.

He vowed obedience at once
in answer to this admonishment;
he counted it all for good,
and prayed long to the Lord.

A confession of pure faith he made,
with a broken heart —
but I cannot now relate
that finely wrought prayer.

To write out that whole speech here
would be too long;
the saga's teaching itself will show you —
that is the reason.

When he had set forth his prayer,
pure and rightly ordered,
his troubled thoughts began to ease —
a great lightening of grief he found.

The vigour of verse-labour fades;
I will beg for rest —
therefore shall the third ship of song
be led into the harbour of silence.

Ríma IV

The poet asks for the gods' ale-gift and reflects on how verse is both his sustenance and his trial. The narrative continues: Berthold wakes on the island, explores inland through forest, finds fruit and water. He discovers the wreck at low tide, salvages hardtack, wine, guns, money, and a Bible — which he clasps and kisses as his dearest companion. He hauls supplies ashore by boat, spends the night sheltered in the vessel, and wakes restored.

Mansöngur

I shall offer the people once more
the ale of the god of the Æsir;
hard upon me presses my mind
for the harp-strings of verse.

It gives me joy and profit of spirit,
hidden in the track of thought,
to tell what became of Berthold —
best that I should try.

Beside me the easing of mind's affliction,
the spirit's power of glory;
to waste time upon nothing —
I count that unendurable.

Therefore I have taken upon myself here
the mantle of the verse-ship's hall,
to fashion anew for myself
a use of free hours.

Yet I bear witness, though I say it,
that things go not quite rightly —
few are the free hours
that come to me beside the verse.

The fortune of ideas is often
hidden from men's minds;
I find various labours
forbid the work of song.

I am scarcely able
to bring forth poems with deed;
it is hard, beset by such matters,
to be beholden to others.

Each hour I scrape together here
to bind upon my rímur —
the last knot of the verse-work's urge —
is hidden from the clearing wind.

Yet my tender spirit chooses well
widely upon Iceland's land
to praise the Lord's grace and counsel
with fitting glory.

Our helper and our defence is he
when we ourselves cannot;
Berthold there groped his way
through all his trials.

Men of high daring
must not put the Lord to the test;
yet blessed is every man
who is willing to trust in him.

Though we suffer hardships of delight,
no shield of fear need we bear;
in the end, to the lands of life
his gentle mercy guides us.

Friends of verse, here I wish you
a season of good things;
the mansöngur-speech is ended —
now the ríma is born.

The Island Morning

Out of frost's season
into the current's rowing,
Berthold waited in the forest clearing,
his prayer risen from the good dawn.

The budding trees bore their burden that time —
nowhere did he see a settlement;
the land he had come upon
he wished to explore.

Into the forest he hastened,
afflicted by the gleaming dark;
a knife he held in his hands,
strapped to his side from before.

He cut branches here and there,
notching them as trail-marks,
so that he might find his way
back along the same path.

Hunger and thirst pressed upon him then,
driving hard against the bush-warrior;
yet he saw no food
that he could eat.

For a long time he searched about,
until at last the keen one came
upon oaks here and there
bearing various fruits.

On several oaks he saw
apples growing on the branch —
golden as they were, he then
began to eat them.

He dared to eat that fruit,
doubting in his mind
whether remedy or death
he might receive from such fare.

To the palate that unfamiliar gift
yielded a good taste;
yet the warrior dared not
indulge too greatly of it.

When he had eaten somewhat
of the food described,
both satisfaction and refreshment came —
that meal sustained the bush-dweller.

The Birds and the Apes

Many-coloured flocks of birds
flew there, swift and shy,
thickly feathered with glinting plumage —
each one wary of the spear-man.

The warrior wished to catch some,
famed for his skill,
but could not manage it —
up they flew, startled, in a flock.

He walked on for two hours,
soot-blackened and weary,
treading the same path back
to the edge of the shoreline.

Then upon the seaweed-strand
he spread his gleaming lids;
quickly he saw that the tide was out,
the surf's bright warmth subsiding.

He looked then in that moment
upon the dry land there:
against a rock lay the split ship,
wedged in the fine sand.

Salvaging the Wreck

Thither the spear-wielder hastened straight,
swift in his eagerness,
caring nothing that the shallow water
should soak him as he waded.

He climbed upon the rock there,
with his spirit's determination;
fortune smiles — he finds himself
inside the ship's hold.

He searched the broken ship —
now the labour began;
soon he found the bodies of men there
and set about clearing them away.

But first from the dead
he drew their clothing —
he would not waste such wealth
out into the sea's flood.

Some provisions he found next,
trying his skills;
in a ship's chest he found an axe —
the treasure-elf of the mistletoe.

With it he struck open
the caskets, unrelenting;
the poorly locked ones that he found —
and there lay hidden treasure.

He searched within,
the clever sword-wielder;
he found hardtack bread —
he could well be glad of that.

Now rejoicing, he ate —
misery's harm diminished;
all manner of wine-stores
the warden of the prow could find.

The Wine and the Bible

The thirsty one turned the tap
and the fine juice ran;
he drank a measure then,
the wine-god's warrior — a draught of brandy.

From that liquor Berthold
grew very fresh and glad;
such a seat and such a feast —
let every man bless it.

The shutters of his thoughts were washed
clean with that friendship;
to have been beside him there —
I should have found it sport.

Wine makes men merry,
though it may harm desire's friends;
a man must steer it well,
not let it steer him.

It is a shield in many a trial,
it is the tamer of strife,
it drives away melancholy —
it is life and spirit.

Yet often wine is dangerous
to the friend of men;
unless with wakeful sense
we steer it well.

To blame it is an offence of mine —
let each man judge for himself;
I know many things besides wine
misused no less.

My pleasure and my mood
would most be gladdened
if I could find the right measure —
my fortune might improve.

Berthold, as is told here,
by Bacchus's side,
struck upon the proper measure
and found the bliss of prosperity.

Next the arrow-wielder found
fresh water there,
and felt no further sting
from the pains of his affliction.

He found there a great leather pouch,
the gleaming warrior;
in it were heavy things —
these he set about examining.

Powder, lead, and shot
the sword-bearer could see;
when he opened that purse,
he wished to make good use of its contents.

He fastened the money-pouch to his side,
secured with firm resolve;
two muskets he managed to take —
the tree of battle strips the branches.

An officer's chest he found there —
he pried it open;
quickly he saw there, the treasure-lord,
a sum of money.

He spoke and laughed at that:
"I care not to examine
what the purse of pennies
can do for me now, so adorned."

He found a Bible lying there beside it —
fortune reached its fullest;
the receiver of the glossed jewel
accepted a new joy.

He took that noble thing
into his hand at once;
the metal-branch weighed that book,
cherished it, and kissed it.

Thus he spoke to his own heart:
"Since my faith does not forsake you,
you alone are my delight now,
my only word-friend in the world."

Loading the Boat

He tied a great bundle then,
the bold man of the fire-wave;
up onto the high reef he hauled it —
the load began to wear on him.

He longed to carry his burden to land,
fierce though it was;
before the sea's flood should rise
and gird the reef with ocean.

Then with wondrous care
his eyes roved about;
quickly he saw the ship's boat,
not far off in the sand.

He set his bundle on the rock,
the cunning warrior;
he managed to reach it then —
thought drove his journey.

The boat of the shore-plover, swift,
the timber of the wave-strand,
he found standing whole,
pressed down into the sand.

He began to work the boat free at once,
the stiff spear-wielder;
he dragged the keel hard over the gravel
and ripped the bottom upward.

Sometimes he heaved the bow,
the iron-earth warrior,
bearing the flood-skin forth —
yet it proved a heavy task.

He sweated and strained from that heavy work,
vexed by heat and exhaustion;
long he lathered in the toil,
the worker's fists clenching.

Berthold with his boat in hand
broke through in keen spirit,
tough, until he reached the rock
and managed his good fortune.

The swift branch of the hand-blade
fitted side and gable;
fast against the reef he knotted her there
and reckoned he could manage more.

After that hard struggle
he found the joy of peace;
out upon the vessel's hull
the guardian of the prow now rowed.

Back he wished to go
and count the fine-won wealth;
he searched every corner round about,
filling it all with goods.

Turkish grain in a bulging sack
he quickly found, the grim one;
salted meat he likewise saw —
the keen one of the palate-feast was glad.

He found provisions there enough
to last a long time;
from the well-stocked vessel's fame
the mask of sorrow vanished.

He opened up the cupboards now
and searched yet more;
he found cloths, garments, goods,
soft rags, and more besides.

Up onto the uppermost deck-boards,
the storm-keen warrior,
he swiftly carried all the wealth —
wonderfully fast he was.

He wished to have the work well done,
desire hardened the lad to it,
before the flooding tide rose up
against the strong-hearted one.

The wise man of the sea-plain knew —
and it was the safer for it —
that when the sea's flood came,
he had prepared that store against it.

It went well — the shield-stream did not
fail the plan he had set;
the sea's thick flood filled the hold
just after he had finished.

He looked then upon the land,
the keen one of the spear,
and saw the strand was all
flooded with the giant's blood-wave.

The weariness of his labour eased at last;
from the vessel to land
he turned his mind
to finding a way ashore.

Each thing of the solar warrior
he saved from the flood's reach,
carrying it up onto the reef
and loading it into the boat.

He sat himself down there
as was his easy custom;
he pushed the boat free from the rock
and reached the land at last.

Evening

At once upon the earth, having stepped ashore,
the fire-stream warrior
offered his highest prayer of praise
to the guardian of all good things.

He set about his work and labour,
walking under the sun;
seeking where he might find
shelter and a place to rest.

He was wearied by the day's work
and wished to hasten to rest;
yet he did not think it wise
to sleep there on the open ground.

He judged it might happen
if he slept too quickly there
that evil creatures and wild beasts
might bring about his death.

To rest among the high oaks
seemed scarcely safer;
he might perhaps fall from them
down to the ground.

Then he bethought himself to lie down
and rest in the boat;
he pushed off from the shallows
and rowed the calm bay's lane.

The warrior of the wave-keel found
a bed upon the water;
he commended himself and all he had
to the almighty's keeping.

He rocked gently through that night —
no sorrow wearied him;
he slept till morning, sweetly and still,
the sleep-hall's keeper.

When dawn broke he woke,
the warrior wrapped in glory;
he felt within himself returning
strength and vigour, fine and good.

The sun's warm brightness, adorned,
gave him joy and ease;
to land therefore he ferried himself
from the sea-giantess's bed.

For his noble freedom
he offered a pure sacrifice of thanks
to the good healer of all ills,
the guardian of treasures on the wave.

He set about arranging his boat,
the best he knew how;
the fire-wave warrior
would now explore the land more fully.

He strapped two pistols to his belt,
the warrior keen and ready;
he carried a gleaming axe and musket too,
in case trouble should come to the fjords.

Exploration

The tree of arms set out,
all in cunning order,
up along the other side
from where he had gone the day before.

Many a gleaming branch on birch
gave a good and useful brightness;
yet all looked like
an untrodden wilderness.

He had to hew himself a path,
wielding the forest-blade;
though he suffered weariness of limb,
he plied his craft with skill.

He pressed forward through the land,
stiff of foot and hand,
until at last the band-tree
found a running stream.

His breast refreshed, the thirsty one drank there
as deeply as he could;
the weapon-laden man of sense
valued that water above all things.

Before this he had found no water
in that strange country;
he could well imagine
he would soon have come to distress.

The warrior's spirit brightened then
with a fire of joy untold,
in the deepest of his soul's recesses —
beyond all speech.

Weary, he rested in that place,
giving thanks as duty bade;
and so he commended himself
to the Lord's almighty grace.

The Creature at the Stream

Then as he considers such things,
a living creature stirs;
it seems to look like a man —
it comes to the water quickly.

He seized his musket swiftly,
the fierce serpent-warrior;
he crept in quietly beside the stream,
his skills alert to this.

In that place where it sat waiting,
the warrior now again perceived it:
like a man it lay beside the stream
and stealthily drank.

He called out then with a loud voice,
the guardian of the rocky peak;
quickly the one that lay by the stream
looked up with a startled face.

He saw then the Japanese warrior of the plain —
and it was no trial of valour:
it was an ape, strong and great,
bristling and gaping.

After this he saw yet more —
troops of apes in number;
the smooth one did not fear them,
those fierce snarling beasts.

The apes saw the man there
and retreated;
up into the high oaks
they all climbed at once.

He went on beside the stream,
the ring-wielder walking,
until he saw an enclosure ahead —
the clever lad.

The Enclosure

The sword-wielder came to a halt,
driven by sharp dread;
when he looked at that stockade closely,
something seemed strange about it.

He saw that it was the work of men —
he could recognize the handiwork;
thither he sent his voice
loudly from his throat.

The echo of his sounds
rang through the hall;
he received no answer in return —
the warrior chose another course.

At last courage rose in him,
the serpent-coil warrior;
he fired his pistol off —
a hollow thunderclap in the hills.

All the wild creatures there were startled,
terror spoiling their peace;
every bird in frenzy flew,
seized by the madness of fear.

Each one frightened by the other's noise —
din, wailing, and shrieking;
the apes clawed at the tree-tops,
chattering shrill.

The whole forest shuddered at the sound,
dreading the harsh assault;
that uproar crushed all peace —
the very foundations of the earth shook.

The man himself was startled by it,
the quick-fingered wielder of ice;
from that beast-place he turned about
and hastened back the way he came.

The midday heat drew strength from him,
the worker's sweating lord;
the ruddy colour of the moorland
streamed with the flood of sweat.

He retraced his former path,
his weary feet enduring,
until he reached the broad bright shore —
the thorn-tree warrior.

He came to his boat then,
halting there at once;
very hungry, he wished for food —
as suits many a man quite well.

He sat upon the sea-goddess's edge,
eating properly of his provisions;
the stirrings of his thoughts
kept him busy at this time.

The warrior, from what lay before him,
saw on the blind-fold wife's face
new trials forming —
the lack of a dwelling.

That day he intended
to visit his vessel
and carry his lawful goods
to the shore upon the maiden of the wave.

But this time it did not come to pass —
the grim serpent of fate;
he hastily made himself ready
to seek a dwelling place.

The healing-wave warrior saw
he would gain a season of good things;
I steal away from the ríma —
the zeal of the verse grows faint.

Ríma V

The poet picks a quarrel with Odin over the mead of poetry and resolves to rely instead on God's grace. The narrative continues: Berthold arms himself and returns to the enclosure he discovered, finding it to be a fortified compound of four houses built by Portuguese castaways. Inside the last house he discovers a dead man — sun-dried and long departed — holding a manuscript in Portuguese that tells the story of Walmandara, shipwrecked here twelve years ago with three companions, all now dead and buried beside the garden. Berthold reads a funeral service, buries the body, and claims the compound as his new home. He furnishes it, ferries his provisions from the boat, and sleeps his first night under a roof. In the days that follow, he salvages the last of the ship's treasure before a storm breaks the wreck apart. He plants a garden, fishes, hunts, keeps the Sabbath, finds pen and paper, and begins a journal — settling into a solitary life on the island.

Mansöngur

The north-ship from the harbour of silence —
long enough it stood still;
I shall draw it again on the sea of stories
and earn the victory-prize for the people.

I must endure a heavy rowing,
patient on the sluggish craft;
and speed my failing strength
to reach the halls of the gods.

In my heart dwells a beggar's spirit;
I beg him for a draught
of the precious mead for my hands —
many who drank it received wisdom.

Yet I suspect the lord I speak of
will scarcely find me worthy of such things;
he will be, as before,
decked out in pride's full array.

For last winter I went
to visit him and beg for a taste;
it went no better afterward —
it went badly between us then.

Very perversely he spoke thus,
puffing up his fury's frown:
"You have, about the brain-hall,
rather little room for wisdom."

"Of my drink you are unworthy,"
said he;
"you cannot fathom the depth of your own foolishness —
ignorance suits you better."

I could endure those harsh words
in silence no longer;
"All of this is your stolen plunder,
though you swindled Gunnlöð for it."

"You are no nobleman, Odin,
to come seeking me out;
as far as I know your like,
your step lands on the salt ocean."

"You are a wretched fox of cunning —
such things befit no king;
the evil examples that you set
and deceive the world with."

"Shall I proclaim your knavery and shame
openly far and wide?
My own song's wound you salve,
and you deny me the wave-drink."

We traded words, each finding the other hard,
speech upon the hill of spirit in fury;
scorn and reproach on both sides,
bold in the uproar of strife.

At last the ruler said to me:
"No taste of wine shall you get from me";
he added, for good measure:
"Do not let me see you here."

This answer I then gave
openly to the mighty prince:
"I shall come less often on my travels
for the likes of you."

Thereupon necessity drove me,
need among the verse-fools;
to lap up what Odin spat
on his way home from Hnitbjörg.

Swiftly from there I sped my journey,
though little came of the farewells;
beyond what trouble I caused
the king of the god-garth.

Most of all I feared
the owner of the hammer of Mjölnir;
sent swiftly from the herd of the storm
to strike upon my skull.

Yet I escaped and never rested
until I dragged myself home;
and then I could praise my fortune —
though the lord's wine I got not.

Berthold's saga was luckier,
not getting a worse poet than me;
some fellow to compose a poem
about him, in the winter season.

Most of the people still urge me —
let the verse advance further;
therefore I drop the prologue
and the story continues.

Return to the Enclosure

The bird of dawn flew there
as was its custom;
the gleaming warrior set out
to explore the island more fully.

Two pistols he took with him,
as many stout muskets;
an axe he hid at his belt —
the famed one bore those weapons.

So the tree of the sword walked on,
keeping the same course;
he wished to hasten thither
where he had seen the enclosure before.

He pressed on through the thicket,
straining hard and sweating;
at last when he arrived
he was certain he had seen aright.

There with wonder and with sorrow he saw
such craftsmanship, and marvelled;
a steadily built, strong, and tall
place, handsomely fashioned.

On the mind's ground of the rocky peak,
the watcher keenly perceived:
with great labour this had been
wrought by the hands of men.

Beauty glowed on the green timbers,
and the sight gave cunning pleasure;
a wall stood there, high, with gates,
surrounding the homestead all around.

The swift branch of the blazing fire
circled the house about;
to examine that work was his art —
his curiosity grew.

He found the door hard-locked,
and asked himself there:
what wonder of wonders,
what apparition was this?

Breaking In

He beat upon the bolted door,
the shield-wielder striking the timbers;
stout and unrelenting, he spared no strength
and stood still, listening.

No one came to the door
who might open it;
his heart's desire then urged him further —
he resorted to other means.

He began to call, the wine-diminisher,
in four different tongues;
clear and loud he raised his voice —
not a soul answered him then.

The weapon-elf, bold in his work,
now saw there the heavy stuff;
he opened the entrance himself,
with the axe he bore in hand.

Cross-bars were set within,
strong against the door;
he could see the great marks
of skilful craftsmanship there.

He managed to loose the wooden clamps
that held the drawbars fast;
it went well for the clever warrior —
undaunted, ingenious.

He lowered those cross-beams
and thereby got the door to open;
the arrow-bearer with fresh spirit
strode in boldly — none to question him.

The Four Houses

Quickly the warrior of the serpent-staff
looked upon four rooms there;
he could pass from one to another —
many fine furnishings he saw.

He came first to a kitchen,
seeing kettles and an ancient hearth;
the steel-shaker halted,
amazed for a moment.

He searched further with care,
finding a cellar beneath the floor;
the keen and cunning one
hastened down into it.

There he saw lamps, pots, and pans,
the pearl-stand's watcher;
washtubs and other vessels,
all manner of things here and there.

Full of sand, dust, and rust,
everything lay in disorder;
it seemed to the fire-warrior
none of it had been recently used.

He climbed the stairs back up
and found a second room adjoining;
the leaf-branch went thither,
eager of mind, and examined it.

The Bedchamber and the Storehouse

He saw four sleeping-places there,
filled with dried leaves and moss;
the roofing above looked shabby —
yet fortune smiled upon the man.

Into the third house he went then —
it lay further in than the others;
many things of value he found there:
clothing and such articles.

A storehouse he judged it must have been,
what it had served as before;
the helm-warrior looked about
in this place.

Coats of mail, weapons, and armour,
well kept in racks there;
various ironwork and wool-bales,
axes, swords, muskets.

All manner of vessels he saw there,
and the clothing of sailors;
locked chests stood by,
handy with their cargo.

Four small cannon likewise
he found, of middling size;
such tools and such wealth
the ring-god marvelled at.

Shot and powder enough he found,
the serpent-field warrior saw;
proudly he spoke thus:
"Who may have dominion here?"

All the houses with their skilful work,
handsomely arranged he saw;
built upon strong pillars,
roofed on top with palm-fronds.

Of the forest's green timbers
all the housing was wrought, true;
with skilful craftsmanship and handwork
the building testified.

He saw at once that dwelling
was the best shelter in cold weather;
there one could well defend oneself
against both water and the sun's heat.

Excellent for defence and fortification —
one could hold it best;
though enemies should press an attack,
with strength and cunning and most stratagems.

The Dead Man

The fourth house he now explored —
he went there at once;
straightaway the tree of arms found
that it was hard-locked from within.

He let blows rain heavy on the door,
bold in that hour;
he asked that entry be not refused him —
if anyone were within.

The eagle-nest warrior paused,
setting his ears keenly;
it grieved him that no one answered
or sprang the locks.

He took matters into his own hands,
hewing the door open with his axe;
and with a half step inside he peered —
the wind of fear, yet he did not flee.

The sword-wielder began to think;
a cause for dread he found there:
a man he saw lying on a board,
as if in heavy sleep.

The blind-fold's warrior appeared
large-bodied, with a long beard;
his skin was black as pitch,
brow and cheek scarcely smooth.

He seized his musket then, in case of need,
taking it up for his defence;
if the one who slept within should wake
and become a danger to him.

He wished to rouse the sleeper from his torpor,
the warrior calling loudly;
the one he thought was sleeping
he raised his voice to long and hard.

All that noise and commotion
did not stir the other at all;
the sea-fire warrior grew bolder
and gathered his courage then.

At last he let himself enter
into the house there;
when he touched the spear-man's limb, he found
he had been long dead.

Sun-dried, all hardened from the heat,
tough and shrivelled he lay there;
the warrior's mood grew sorrowful
and heavy of heart then.

"O my Lord! I see before me
the very same that awaits myself;
cut off from the delight of men,
alone I must dwell and die here."

The Manuscript

The friend of fame added to this —
it was a swift comfort to his mind —
he could be well content,
were he under God's own grace.

"Perhaps the merciful Lord may see
that solitude best suits me;
therefore I shall show him obedience
every day that I may live."

"I will give myself to God's power,
and lean my trust upon it;
his help one must never doubt,
whatever need may press a man."

"He shall be my only delight,
all the time of my life's journey;
he is the healer of all ills —
therefore I shall fear nothing."

"Better to enter God's kingdom
from a wilderness
than to stand among the people, decked in glory,
and lose one's soul."

When these words and more besides
Berthold had spoken there,
he grew half again in spirit
and found his mind-grief lightened.

After the long speaking ended,
he raised his eyes then;
he saw a great dark cord,
twisted, lying upon the board.

There with his hands he began to feel it,
wishing to examine that find;
then he pulled it apart —
the treasure-lord — the little bundle.

He saw there a leaf, the skilful one,
written with a worn pen;
in place of ink the dye was blue —
Berthold could read the language.

Walmandara's Letter

He read the dying man's letter —
it was pure Portuguese;
he came to know the substance of it,
and in our tongue it runs thus:

"My name — the witnesses confirm it —
is Walmandara, I must say;
I was counted noble among men;
my dwelling was in Portugal."

"On a voyage in a fierce storm
I was once caught;
the mighty daughters of the sea
flung me hither on the serpent-wave."

"The ship was broken on a reef;
the wave changed many a man's fortune;
strength and courage failed —
death's arrow flew at the crew."

"Of the wave-fire, none endured
after that, no more;
except three men, and I the fourth —
all from the same land."

"Upon this blessed island
the sea washed us ashore;
we forgot the cold and cheered our spirits
and praised the noble Creator."

"Since then we have lived here
in good prosperity for a full twelve years;
we found that the earth grew,
bearing fruit and fine orchards."

"With bitter sweat we have ourselves
built up this stronghold;
to ward off any foe,
we made its defences stout."

"Yet there was no need of such things —
no effort to handle;
on this delightful island
we never saw a single man."

"Three of my companions are now gone,
departed from me here;
they are placed in graves for keeping
beside my garden plot."

"So I marked each one's resting-place —
I set down a wooden cross;
I stand now at the end of life's course —
no man on earth helps me."

"Soon the line of my life ends;
the bonds of sorrow loosen;
I commend my suffering soul
into God the Father's hand."

"If anyone should come hither,
whom misfortune weighs upon,
or who comes to this ring of destruction,
or ever from any fortune —"

"To him my prayer goes out with kindness,
borne from the arrow-tree's waves:
let him bury me here beside
the three others' bodies."

"If any man could manage
to work my burial in the earth,
he shall well find the reward
of his labours, as is his due."

"Whoever reads this line-letter
and acts upon it —
if he sets his trust in God rightly,
new fortune shall be given him."

The Burial

After this exhausted reading,
the warrior found all things remarkable;
he set down his weapons, restored in spirit,
and walked about there with reverence.

Berthold examined everything well,
looking within the inner dwelling;
he could appreciate much
what four men had wrought.

He walked about in every direction,
fortune ever aiding him;
he marvelled how ingeniously
everything here had been arranged.

The weapon-shaker — what he least expected —
eager there and full of wonder —
found leading out to the orchard and garden
a secret passage from the house.

After this the treasure-elf
reached the outer door;
three wooden crosses he saw standing
beside the garden described.

From this he judged, the spear-warden,
that the others were buried there;
he could see and discover much more
near and far, for his inspection.

Skilled and worthy, Berthold determined —
that act was full of love —
that his first work should be
to bury Walmandara's body.

He went into the storehouse
and found fit tools for digging;
the worthy lad put them to use,
bound in the labour of duty.

A deep grave he dug there,
beside the others' resting-place;
the arrow-warrior, famed in glory,
went about it with fitting ceremony.

Then in a linen cloth he wrapped
Walmandara's body;
upon his shoulders he raised it
and bore it into the grave's chamber.

Earth he heaped and sealed it well,
the ring-bearer's resting-place;
he wished to honour the grave —
that funeral was a dignified one.

Neatly done, he finished the work,
the sword-wielder then;
he prepared a mark of honour and raised
a wooden cross upon the grave.

He found all things most fitting,
the golden warrior,
for the burial;
he read a long and heartfelt
funeral sermon over it.

He sang, the honour-loving warrior,
psalms befitting the occasion;
as if a multitude of people were there,
he followed the rites in full.

At last with words of prayer
that noble act bore the mark of devotion;
in patient silence and in stillness
my poor work shall rest there too.

Ríma VI

Mansöngur

Now shall the craft begin again —
let the best powers work in my favour;
at this labour grant me aid,
and let fortune steady my purpose.

Though I hammer song together,
the people find little amusement;
my word-craft, I reckon,
proves of the smallest worth.

My talent reaches not so far —
may I find the temper of wisdom;
the path straight to Mímir's well
is entirely unknown to me.

I begged of Odin there beside him
one cool draught for myself;
he answers me forever the same —
never was it worth the telling.

His soul is hard as hammered steel —
I hold him turned to iron now;
he deigns to see nothing at all,
nor shifts his ill-temper away.

Little stands between us two —
something spoils things for me;
I have small desire to honour him,
that great billy-goat of the Warlord.

That I break his laws upon him —
about that the wretch complains much;
since I will not serve him,
he found less cause to trouble with me.

In former times he counted
the simple folk as his own,
bidding them believe in him alone
and turn down the path of error.

Since he lost most of his power,
the race of men sits in peace;
the worst of tricks before his eyes —
the found-out schemes of the Deceiver.

Though it weighs upon me now,
I would least of all build my faith
upon that falsehood-teaching Odin —
no guilt shall touch me from that.

Let the holy spirit grant me
the care to tend a pure faith,
so that upon life's ground I may
thread the true path of fortune.

May the Lord strengthen all of us,
mightily we witness faith's treasure;
let us live glad and God-fearing,
and guard ourselves until life's end.

Nothing higher can be said
than to know the Creator
and follow his will as best one can —
that is the foremost duty.

To use the time of grace well
I count a needful thing for all;
here my mind comes to rest,
and so I end the mansöngur.

Settling the Compound

The storm-hardened warrior waited there
after Berthold finished the funeral;
with honour for the departed,
he resolved to keep the Christian rite.

Into the dwelling he turned again,
the wave-famed moon-warrior;
he examined the well-built house
and judged the homestead most convenient.

Without delay he thought to himself
that this place had been chosen for him
by the Lord's holy grace,
whose wisdom counsels all good things.

He praised his good fortune —
the household pleased him well;
all things fell together there
for the thunder-snow-blue warrior.

He thought now about his situation —
he said he would dwell there in peace
all the days of his life
if Providence so willed it.

He fastened the hatches as before,
secured and arranged things well;
upon the doors of the house
he could lower the drawbridge.

He set everything as it was before,
all in its proper order there;
the thought-glad thane found
this place safe for himself.

Cleaning and Furnishing

His mind turned toward
how to manage his provisions,
to get the best he could
and help himself for a while.

Eager to sweep, polish, and clean,
he went through the houses then;
from the beds he stripped everything —
old dust and withered leaves.

New things he laid in their place,
hurrying about it all;
over them he drew the cloth-covers,
and made himself a soft bed.

Every nook and cranny there,
the branch-of-tears-of-Mardöll —
the careful one searched within —
he found remarkable wealth.

Salvaging the Ship

When all this was done, he set off,
the spear-ground warrior, to the boat;
to fetch food and wine for himself,
as sunlight faded and evening came.

The ring-keeper on his shoulders
carried the load homeward then;
the journey was easy and direct —
he took the shortest path now.

That evening he ate his first meal,
the warrior tasting it with skill,
free from the troubles of anguish
in those new dwelling-places.

Great was the feat he showed —
it may well be called praiseworthy;
many a grown man did less work
than a man his full size.

When he had eaten his fill,
he drank in moderation;
tired from the day's labour,
he turned at once to rest.

To God — the worthy gold-wise one —
he gave an offering of evening thanks
for such a place of peace,
for Providence's riches and every good thing.

Then he caught a sweet slumber,
the bridge-of-waves warrior,
through the hours of the night;
he rested there free and unburdened,
hidden in the mantle of mercy.

From his bed at dawn, the door-tree,
at the bright shine of the day's sun —
the brother-of-death steals away,
the light of the brow-fortress kindles.

The sun lit up the sleeping-house
as the man's pleasure rose within him;
with fair voices the birds
delighted Berthold's spirit greatly.

He found it pleasing to dwell there —
he offered thanks and brought
his highest offering to the Supreme Being
with all his heart and his best effort.

Fortune had been lent to him —
in cheerful spirits he dressed;
he polished the house and swept his own,
every fine household thing.

He found grain and more things there,
the old man's provisions;
various fruits of the earth
which Berthold tested well.

What was still good he took away
for his own use;
what had rotted he cast out,
the warrior-of-the-storm clearing round about.

Full of vigour he carried it all,
the cargo bit by bit;
from the boat to the homestead,
the warrior wrapped in fortune and treasure.

In addition, the wealth-spender —
out on the shattered wreck of the ship —
had a great store of goods yet saved,
and set about fetching it.

He could float it on the tide,
the plank-fellow brought it neatly there;
he used whatever chance he got —
the honour-loving one pursues his work.

He carried it thus — free as he was —
the wave-plain's cargo to his land;
the boat served him well
in the best and most profitable way.

The Wreck Destroyed

He inspected the ship's hulk once more,
the flash-warrior, yet again;
more than before he found there
riches in great store.

Silver, gold, and precious things
the spear-wolf found there;
the sum was beyond reckoning —
from less than this a farm was often built.

Yet he judged it all at once —
none of it would serve him
in his exile on this island,
neither acres nor coins.

Unless at some future time,
as the mind demands,
straight across the wide healing-sea
he might reach the lands of men.

The treasure-offerer declared then
that these goods would serve him well —
an excellent find, the warrior-woman-of-the-storm —
that wealth would prove its worth.

This treasure he bore to the boat,
straight to the shore he carried it,
along with everything else of value he found;
he stacked the old cargo together.

He worked at this useful task
every single day;
whenever the weather allowed,
it all went prosperously.

The keen healing-storm warrior
managed it in the space of a month —
the ship's hull was mostly emptied,
the goods inventoried and well stored.

Then the friend of fire rose up,
the yawning corpse-swallower opened wide;
the sea-cauldron began to seethe,
raging and howling at that hour.

The terrible storm-weather
a short while later
broke the ship's hull apart with a crack,
and drove it away in splinters.

The heaven-gleaming one swallowed
that broken sea-fellow;
the ice-canopy-fire-traveller
was never seen again.

Standing in that exile,
he was well pleased at this —
by good fortune he had already
salvaged the best of the cargo.

The Garden and the Solitude

He carried home to the house
all his useful goods and supplies;
many a heavy load he bore —
this was baking-material too.

He gathered fair treasure in his house —
he feared no hunger now;
he had a storehouse rich in food
for a long time to come.

The industrious wealth-warrior
was like an old farmer;
he set everything down in order,
with discipline and cleverness.

Though he was still young,
the prudent one managed well;
the growth of his good fortune increased —
he began the work of tilling.

Indian figs he found
planted there in the garden;
the sour and sweet lemons,
and also the fine oranges.

Many such things of the old men
he found of that sort;
set down in good order,
this pleased the warrior's spirit.

Though wild now from neglect,
one may well trust it could happen —
how long? who knows that? —
no one can say for certain.

The ring-warrior set things right again —
soon it came back into shape;
now the harvest of prosperity began,
and his garden bore its fruit.

His fields also bore
the clear growth of apples;
among sundry fruits
in the fertile seed-beds.

The shore-serpent-warrior was not lacking —
he never wanted for work;
he need fear nothing then —
he rested content with this prospect.

His food-store was fully stocked —
what he could not get from the ship,
various wines also —
on those he refreshed himself long.

The earth also yielded bread
to the blaze-wealth-hall-warrior;
the fruit of his own labour
he found there multiplied.

Often with all devotion
he gave thanks to the highest Lord
who had laid mercy upon him through hardship
and wrapped fortune around him.

The First Year

At first the spear-warrior found
the solitude hard to bear;
yet he grew accustomed to that life,
and a steady calm of mind served him well.

Best with useful toil, the steel-worker
shortened his days for himself;
diligence ever fosters
contentment, prosperity, fortune, and honour.

Every seventh holy day
he kept with firm discipline;
to the sun-land's prince he rendered
his service, the best he could.

The flash-branch found writing-tools
in one of the ship's chests —
ink, pens, and paper together;
he tested them — fortune lent him that too.

He could keep a count of time,
the twice-blind-tree-of-the-storm-hall;
he wrote down beside himself
everything that drove over him.

The metal-warrior, the famous one,
spent many an hour
travelling about that island,
everywhere, to and fro.

Many a new meal he had —
for very often he shot birds;
there was no shortage of those,
forest-thrushes of many kinds.

Often he rowed out to sea
and drew up fish for himself;
now most things pleased the warrior's spirit —
fortune came ever more to hand.

The tree-of-brands had more food
than his needs required;
he disposed himself in greatest peace,
with the best and finest provisions.

Free he was from danger and want
as that first year passed;
the land he called, most fair and pleasant,
his Island of Good Fortune.

The Odin-falcon lends no aid —
to sing a song I am unfit;
the ríma's pattern is ended now,
and the wind of ages comes to rest.

Ríma VII

Mansöngur

I shall push the dwarf-craft onward still,
away from the land of oblivion;
out upon the reef of song at once,
lest the gap stand idle.

This undertaking calls for
the work of sound judgment;
whether I hit the right mark —
fortune alone may decide.

Whether I stay free of blind rocks
I cannot say against it;
it is perilous to be tossed about
in the world's sea-turmoil.

Though I have little craft-fortune here,
fine in the ways of verse,
at longest I must let myself
be content with my own luck.

Idle garments waste one's peace
as they flutter into the mind;
yet most of all I ought to fear
my own carelessness.

I choose to tend well to my wit,
lest my courage fail;
I will entrust all my counsel
to the Almighty Lord.

Often my spirit met with harm —
the greedy malice struggled;
but out of all, the gentle grace
of the All-ruler has made things right.

The founder of life I ought to praise,
who gives fortune and learning;
many a pleasant hour
He has gently lent to me.

The Lord of heaven's hall I may
honour in the purest ground;
for I have felt His touch
through the answer to constant prayer.

The reason God gave me,
I must not let it be harmed;
wiser from now onward
I ought to become.

Since I cast from my mind
the ill-will of certain men —
much sin befalls a man
when he wanders in solitude.

As for what touches me,
it would suit me well enough
to dwell content like Berthold,
alone and far from the crowd.

The metal-tree, the famous one,
tended well to his learning;
good manners and the fear of God
the gifted man advanced.

Had that warrior found
the company of the world to join,
I count it uncertain
he would mind his ways as well.

The unwary can fall —
heavy sins are caused
when a man leaps headlong
into the rabble of the world's fools.

Little harm can touch me
if such people lead me not;
heedless folk enough there are
upon the world's broad road.

They who fill that crowd the worst
carry falsehood among their wares;
above all I wish to still myself
and not stray with such a pack.

I know that some customs are sins
far worse than verse-tales tell;
my mansöngur's thread
shall end right here.

The Second Year

Shorter grew the chronicle of learning,
though fierce and without chill;
there where Berthold alone, upon his
Island of Good Fortune, dwelt.

The second year of his existence
began there upon that place;
the wealth-holder's clear contentment
dwelt in the warmth of the fire.

The Storm Season

Winter clouds across the sky-dome
stirred up rain and storms;
for nine to nearly twelve weeks
the time was a punishment of serpents.

This was counted as the season
that brought damage and distress;
against every shield-warrior
it drove and battered that land.

Late it was before summer came —
but when it did, joy multiplied;
in February the thaw began,
and the earth set about its growing.

Not until then could the weapon-worker,
the keen-minded one, discover
when the best time might be
for the season of the homestead.

He got the earth's seed sown,
planted there in due time;
and so the storm-warrior
gained a good and fruitful harvest.

The clear warm summer-winds
were calm and even there;
the fields bore their fruit
and swelled the great stores.

In that place the mild weather
never cooled for that reason —
the gentle sea-breeze tempered
the sun's mighty heat.

The flash-bender found his pleasure
in the fair forest-blossoming;
in November the summer's warmth
at last came to its end.

The Vineyard

On the island's other side
he found fruits growing everywhere,
many and fair about the middle of the land,
adorning the slopes of the hills.

About this — so I have been told —
he found wine-grapes there,
pomegranates and golden apples —
an abundance of good fortune for a long time.

The branch-of-spears found the apples,
quickly tasting the bright ones;
he discovered clearly that they bore
a most excellent flavour.

These fine new apples
he found there upon the land;
in an empty wooden bowl he pressed them,
the juniper-grove warrior.

From this he poured the juice,
letting it flow into a vat;
that drink, well brewed,
the warrior declared was fine.

The famous thane then declared —
that was a comfort to his mind —
"Oh, what good things I have here,
unworthy though I am to enjoy them!"

The treasure-purifier said his contentment
desired nothing else —
if only he might have
one single human being beside him.

He recalled no greater lack
in all his long endurance;
all else seemed to the elm-warrior
nearly provided for.

Taming the Apes

He saw the ape-troop often there,
the brow-of-battle's fencer;
he wondered whether he might not
handle them and tame them.

He thought perhaps by that means
he could shorten his idle hours,
and likewise find some help
in his labour at the last.

Many great apes were mixed in with them,
strong and powerful;
there were, far across the land,
wild and frenzied creatures.

He aimed at one — the ape was shot
in the foot, by design;
so crazed it could not run,
the warrior caught it swiftly.

The unharmed part of it he bound
in a taming-rope;
so that no harm could come from it,
neither from claws nor the teeth of its jaw.

The arrow-warrior dragged it home at once,
this quarry of his next;
he bandaged the sore foot,
the clever friend of the strange.

The ape's hunger grew —
the warrior reckoned the creature's need;
he gave it Turkish corn then,
and let it eat its fill.

The cloth-wielder treated it well,
the best wisdom at his command;
for this is their proper food,
the very finest for them.

With this he stilled its hunger,
using firm discipline;
and between times he gave it
both blows and strokes.

The ape — the thunder-spear's stubborn one —
needed both taming and feeding;
at the same time one must
beat and heal the creature.

But when it found its foot was healed,
the one that had suffered before,
and found itself well fed by the treasure-tree,
the ape grew calm at last.

Finally the seed-rook warrior
got it so well trained
that the ape followed after him
like an obedient dog.

Then its paw obeyed a little —
though it understood speech poorly —
it carried things across the birch-field,
wherever the steel-warrior wished.

He gave it apple-juice to drink,
his ape-kitten, often;
deep from a great bowl
the Trinidadian drank.

This one grew so merry on the drink
that it was wrapped in pleasure;
hopping about with comical style,
it had the funniest manner.

The spear-destroyer found around the house
no greater amusement;
from this he had the most entertainment
and the best shortening of his days.

The Twelve Apes

To train this one — what a success! —
that was his greatest skill;
his desire grew still further:
he wished to handle more.

The first ape he had tamed
was an old one;
younger ones, he craved
with the fortune-hunter's hope,
would prove easier.

The keen-spirited, quick and sharp one
set cunning traps all around;
for those apes out there
the thane prepared the finest nets.

Upon the wave-field it worked well for the warrior —
he caught such prey with ease;
twelve of them he took,
and tamed them also.

All together those apes
lodged beside the treasure-warrior,
weary-tamed, far more obedient
than the first one.

Work was laid upon them —
the wise-borne creatures did it:
some to guard the fields,
others to carry the corn home.

Before the leaf-lifters there
the light ones did the reckoning of their toil;
these dull servants
could handle heavy loads.

The rope-bearer of strife
freed himself from the hardest work,
setting his thrall-band
to endure the heavy labour.

Against their master nowhere did they
diminish their rich obedience;
many a worse metal-warrior
would be found in such a thing.

The thunder-cord's strong-minded one,
to this way of life
had now grown fully accustomed,
and tended well to the order of his days.

The Parrot

So that second year passed —
nothing more was heard of;
but fortune, for the sword-wielder,
was handling more than this.

The one who knew the island well,
the branch-of-hand-band warrior,
could now travel confidently
over every part of it.

The third year began there —
most things fell into place;
Berthold bore a sharp eye
for the management of his estate.

So the sun-slope warrior
mused, giving answer freely:
"A fine land I hold entire beneath me —
fortune favours me."

The fame-rich one declares himself further,
the flame-clothed one of swords:
"Oh, what a lord I have
become here!"

"I find now, having tried it all,
that fortune nobly serves me;
all things draw themselves
to my own heart's desire."

"My perfect wish and longing
is for the company of men;
in place of my speechless
many servants."

"My joy would be the world's own height
if my mind could be turned —
if among Christians I might have
human beings to live with."

"If I could have that," so the elm-warrior
declared, the worthy one,
"of the world's goods he would wish
for nothing more."

He walked about constantly in this thought,
the sea-eyed, the familiar one,
after every fierce storm.

If upon the rocky reefs a ship
might chance to pass nearby,
against the yawning cliff of cold
the branch-warrior held it in his mind.

If men in distress there needed help,
the thane resolved to save them;
but nothing of the sort could he see,
the swallowing-wave's warrior.

When the weather was clear and bright,
the brand-polisher gazed out;
far across the sea-roads to the west
he was certain he could see a land.

Yet he dared not venture there,
the bow-swinger, to that place;
across the storm-path on a vessel
he would not risk the voyage.

Often the thought came to him,
the elf of burdens and branches:
if there were savages there,
they would surely be his death.

The Fourth Year

So that third year passed,
filling the right measure of growth;
the fourth dawned upon the border-warrior
as the sun gilded the sphere.

The well-spoken sword-warrior
now felt the anguish keenly;
more than before he went seeking,
pressing hard against his loneliness.

Without doubt it weighed upon the thane,
a mighty compulsion;
he begged God to forgive him
for such a troubled state of mind.

Accusations he often cast
against himself in his own spirit;
the Lord's provisions —
how lightly he bore them beside his joy.

One day he caught a bird there,
a beautiful one, taken alive;
it bore a speckled plumage,
marvellously adorned and shining.

A high crest it had upon its head,
that fair creature;
like a peacock it appeared,
with no small beauty.

Nothing more beautifully made
had he seen of birdkind there;
it came next to a parrot,
the cuckoo-friend declared.

It is said that bird can speak,
as was next reported;
among the joy-storm warriors
it was counted the greatest amusement.

The bird — the weapon-bender
fed it well there;
if he could manage it at all,
he wished to teach it to speak.

He loosened the bonds upon its tongue,
with his own fortune among his hopes;
the wisdom-coiled wave-of-brands
shortened its wings.

Then the bird could not
fly fiercely after that;
it followed the warrior with gentleness,
and received its proper food.

When Berthold whistled,
shaping a sound from his lips,
the bird came running eagerly,
the obedient flash-warrior.

Teaching the Parrot

The tar-destroyer spoke then —
no lack of wisdom had he;
he set the greatest value
on the Portuguese language.

Before his bird he worked at it,
quick in the craft of fortune;
very often he practised those words
and laid the greatest effort upon it.

He stood over it long and often,
the furnace-mind's watcher;
but the bird gave out no sound,
not yet — the bird was still.

It listened long, though, to the sound,
in the greatest silence and calm;
it tilted its head this way and that,
attending to the treasure-keeper's lesson.

A full half-year he held to this,
one thing, with faithful devotion;
yet nothing came of it
this time around.

His patience began to wear away —
because nothing happened, he gave it up;
he found it a waste of time
to carry on any longer.

Berthold found it more fitting
to attend to his own work;
he thought less about the bird
and let it slumber indoors.

The next day, all day long,
he worked in the orchard;
the greatest profit from this
the thunder-battle warrior found.

He ate his meal at midday there,
the moss-pillow guardian;
no other food he brought along —
he forgot about his bird.

Skjönkopp Speaks

At evening he came home,
and lively joy awoke;
right there before the warrior
the bird began to speak.

It perched up high with a hop,
the tree beside the serpent-stillness:
it said: "Master, give Skjönkopp —
give the starving one something now!"

No greater joy could the ring-branch
have found than this;
delight shot through him —
one may well imagine it.

He fed his Skjönkopp plentifully,
giving it the fullest satisfaction;
into its trough he poured
the very best of everything.

Throughout the house the spear-warrior
lost his heavy sorrows;
the bird spoke more and more,
the words growing clear.

That bird would not have been for sale —
most people will now agree —
not against thousands upon thousands
of minted ducats.

The fourth year passed away,
the flower of fortune swelling;
no thought of sorrow weighs upon
the thunder-gleam warrior.

So here into a gathering wind
the iron-keeler sails;
I tie the rope of oblivion to it,
upon the skerry of speech's rest.

Source Text — Ríma VI

Sjölla rima.

1. Nú skal aptur byrja brag, beztu kraptar mjer
   Í hag, við þá iðju Jjái lið, lukkan styðji áformið.

2. þó jeg saman lemji ljóð, lítið gaman finn-
   ur þjóð; mín orðsnilld jeg meina því minnsta gildi
   reynist Í.

3. Langt svo ná ei lán vill mitt, lynd jeg fái
   Vísdóms hitt; Mýmis- beint að - brunni er, brautin
   hreint ókunnug mjer.

4. Eg þó fali Óðni hjá, einn mjer svaladrykk
   að fá; hann mjer svarar ætíð eins, aldrei var það
   Sagns til neins.

5. Hans er sálin harðbarinn, held jeg stáli nú
   Orðinn; engu tímir af að sjá, ólund rýmir sjer
   €i frá.

6, Fátt á milli okkar er, eitthvað spillir fyrir
mjer; lítt jeg nenni heiðra hann, herjans þennann
Stórbokkann.

7. Að jeg brjóti á sjer lög, um sá þrjótur
   kvartar mjög; þar jeg hann ei þjera vil, þrávalt
   fann sjer minna til.

8. Fyrr á tíðum taldi hann, til þess lýðinn ein-
   faldann; á að trúa einan sig, og á snúa villustig.

9. Síðan völd hann missti mest, manna öld í
   friði sjest; vjelum flestum fyrir hans, fundna vesta
   Þrakkarans. á

10. Mjer þó liggi mjög á nú, mína byggja sízt
    Vil trú; flærðarkenndum Óðni á, engan hendi glæp-
    ur sá.

li. Trú að vanda hreina bjer, helgur andi

48

veiti mjer; lífs á svæði svo að jeg, sannan þræði
lukkuveg.

12. Styrki Drottinn alla oss, öflugt vottum trú-
    ar hnoss; lifum glaðir, guðræknir; geymdum að
    vors lífs endir.

13. Segjast ekkert æðra kann, enn að þekkja
    skaparann; og að vild hans breyta bezt; ber þá
    skyldu rækja mest.

14. Náðartíð að nota vel, nauðsyn lýð eg öll-
    um tel; hjer við lendir hugur minn, hlýt svo enda
    mansönginn.

15. Bíða fjekk þar blindviðsknör, Berthold
    gekk frá jarðarför; hins framliðna heiðri með,
    halda siðnum kristna rjeð.

16. Inn í bæinn aptur snýr, unnar- frægi mána-
    týr, skoðar betur byggðan rann, bústað metur hag-
    kvæmann.

17. Hann án dvalar þenkti það, þann útvalið
    hefði stað; honum Drottins heilög náð, hvers allt
    gott er vísdóms ráð.

18. Heppni sinni hrósa rjeð, húsakynni vel í
    geð; öll því falla þessi þar, þundimjalla-blárastar.

19. Hugsa nú um hag sinn fór, hann þar búa
    sagðist rór; allan skyldi aldur sinn, ef það vildi
    forsjónin.

20. Klampa frá sem fyrri sló, festi þá og vel
    um bjó; húss við dyr á hurðunum, hleypt gat
    fyrir slagbryggjum.

21. Eins til setti? og áður var, allt í rjettar
    skorður þar; þankaglaður þegninn fann, þennan
    stað sjer óhultann.

25, Hans þar stefnir hugur að, hvernig efnum

49

til hagað; sínum fái bezt sem ber, bjargar þá til
hota sjer.

25. Sópa, prýða' og fægja fús, fór hann síðan
    bæjarhús; út úr:rúmum reif gjörvallt, ryk og skún-
    að lauf gamalt.

26. Aptur nýtt ljet í þess stað, öllu flýtti hann
    sjer að; ofan á það dúka dró, dýnu þá sjer mjúka.
    bjó.

27. Allar krár og króka þar, kvistur- tára-
    Mardallar, inni kannar aðgætinn, auðinn fann þar
    Sagnmikinn.

28. Að svo gjörðu gekk af stað, geiranjörður
    bátnum að; mat og vín að sækja sjer, sólskin dvín
    Og kvölda fer.

29. Baugahirðir herðum á, heim með byrði
    skundar þá; ferðin sú var framhalds greið, fór
    hann nú þá skemmstu leið.

30. Á því kvöldi fæðu fyrst, fjekk þá höldur
    neytt með list; angurs frí af árásum, í þeim nýju
    híbýlum.

29, Afrek mikið sýndi sá, sem að þykja hrós-
Vert má; margur dagsverk minna vann, maður
vaxinn eins og hann.

30. Mettast þegar hafði hann, hófsamlega
    drekka vann; þreyttur dags af vinnu var, veik svo
    Strax til hvílunnar.,

31. Guði — mætur gullsviður, — galt þakk-
    lætis kvöldoffur; fyrir slíkan friðarstað, forsjón ríka?
    og gott sjerhvað.

32, Síðan fangar sætan blund, svegir-spanga'

4

|

50

um næturstund; hvíldar naut þar frjáls og frí, fal-
in skauti værðar Í. |

33. Draums úr bóli dörs- frá- hlyn, dags við
    sólar bjarta skin ; bróðir-dauða burt laumast, brúna-
    hauðurs ljós tendrast.

34. Sól upplýsir svefnhúsið, sem af rís manns
    inndælið; fögrum röðdum fuglar með, frekt þá
    glöddu Bertholds geð.

35. Unan búa þótti þar, þakkar nú fram {off-
    ur bar, æðstri veru" af alhug mest, iðju sjer þá
    tamdi bezt.

36. Honum ljeð var hamingjan, hress í geði
    klæðast vann; prýðir hús og sópar sín, svo öll
    búsáhöldin fín.

37. Korn hann fann og fleiri þar, fornmann-
    anna vistirnar; ýmsa foldar ávexti, er Berthold vel *
    prófaði.

38. Til nytsemdar þar af þá, það óskemmda
    tók hann frá; en því fúna útkastar, yggs- á - frúna
    kringum þar.

39. Fullröskur svo flytja vann farangurinn smá-
    saman; bátnum af til bæjar heim, beimur vafinn
    láni' og seim.

40. þar að auki eyðir fjes, út á hauki brotnum
    trjes; átti stóran auð geymdan, iðka fór að sækja
    hann.

41. Gat með sjáfar flóði fleytt, fjalamági þang-
    að greitt; notað tækifærin fær, framkvæmd rækir
    ærukær.

42. Flutti þannin frjáls er má, fjáraflann sinn

51

landið á; gjörði gagna bátur beim, bezt í hagn-
aðs máta þeim.

45. Skipsflakinu skoðar í, skjómahlynur enn á
    ný; fleiri en áður fjeríkar, finna náði hirzlur þar.

46. Silfur, gull og gersemar, geira-ullur hitti þar;
    Var ógrynni summa sú, sjezt af minna reist opt bú.

47. Hann þó dæmir undir eins, ei sjer kæmu
    Sagns til neins; í útlegð sinni“ á eyju þar, ekrur-
    lynna' og peningar.

48. Nema ef hann eitthvert sinn, eins og kref-
    ur hugurinn; beint um græðisibreiðan hyl, byggðra
    Mæði landa til.

49. Seimabjóður svo nam tjá, sjer að góðum
    hotum þá, ágæt fundin yggs- á frú, auðlegð mundi
    Verða sú.

50. Þennan auð á bátinn bar, beint á hauður
    Ílutti þar, öðru með sem fjemætt fann, fyrna hleð-
    ur byng saman.

51. Iðkar þarfur þá í hag, þetta starf um sjer-
    hvern dag; veður þegar fært hann fjekk, farsæl-
    lega það allt gekk.

52. Græðisbrímagautur snar, gat á tíma mán-
    aðar; skips- að mestu - skrokkinn tæmt, skráð var
    lest það góz hagkvæmt.

53. Elds þá vinur upp þýtur, opnar ginið hræ-
    Svelgur; ægisjóðin tóku til, tryllt að hljóða um
    það bil.

54. Ógnar stríða stormviðrið, stundu síðar
    Skipsflakið, sundur hraðast braut með brak, burt
    Svo það í flekum rak.

53, Himinglæfa gleypti þann, gotann-sæfar

a 4*

52

brytjaðan; salamjaldurs-funafreir, fjekk nú aldrei
sjeð hann meir.

54, þeirri staddur útlegð í, allvel gladdist hann
af því; happ það áður hlaut mesta, hafði náð því
fje bezta.

55. Bæjar- flytur heim í- hús, hann sín nyt-
    söm föngin bús; marga þjetta byrði bar, bakverks
    þetta efni var.

56. Safnar fríðum seim í rann, sulti kvíðir ei
    því hann; á matfanga auðugt bú, yfir langa tíma nú.

57. Iðjusamur auðsbaldur, er sem gamall bú-
    maður; öllu niður raða rjeð, reglu og sniðugheit-
    um með. í

58. Ungur þó að enn væri, yfir bjó hann for-
    sjálni; efling sinnar auðnu jók, akurvinnu byrja tók.

59. Fýkjur Indíaniskar, innt er finndi" í garði
    þar; límonberin súr og sæt, svo pómeranseplin
    mæ,

60. Fornu manna menjarnar, margar fann hann

þess háttar; niður raðað reglu með, rekknum það
vel fjell í geð.

Gl. Villt þó nú af vanrækt sje, vel má trúa
kynni ske; hversu lengi hver veit það, hvílíkt eng-
inn fær vitnað.

62. Baugaraptur bezt í hag, brátt því aptur
    kom í lag; hófst nú arður hagsældar, hans þá
    garður ávöxt bar.

63. Einnig báru akrar hans, epla kláran gróða

fanns; ýmsum meður aldinum, í sáðbeðum frjóf-

sömum.
(64, Hauðurslinna-hlyni lýst, hann atvinnu skorti

53
sizt; kvíða mundi þurfa þá, þessa undi við
hugspá. -

65. Fulit sitt matar forðabúr, fengið gat hann
    Skipi úr; og vínföngin ýmislig, á þeim löngum
    hressti sig.

66. Líka brauði bítti jörð, blossauðuns-hallar-
    Mjörð; íðju sinnar ávöxt hann, á því finnur marg-
    faldann.

67. Opt hann lotning allri með, æðstum Drottni
    Þakka rjeð; lagt sjer hefði líkn með þraut, lukku
    Vefði sig í skaut.

68. Til þess meiðir-fleina fann, fyrst nam ieið-
    ást einveran; við þann lifnað vandist þó, vel svo
    Þrifna bar hugró.

69. Bezt með starfi stálagrjer, stytti þarfur
    dægur sjer; efla plagar iðjusemd, yndi, hagsæld
    lán og fremd.

70. Hvern sjöunda helgan dag, hjelt við bund-
    inn reglulag; sólarlanda-þengli þá, þjónkan vand-
    ar bezt er má

T1. Skjómakvistur skrifæri, skips- í - kistu fann
einni; blekið, penna! og pappir með, prófar enn
þar happið ljeð.

12. Gæta kunni tíma tals, tvíblindsrunnur-
    brímasals; jafnótt skrifar hjá sjer hann, hvað sig
    Yfir drífa vann.

13. Málmaþundur mjög frægi, mörgum stund-
    um til varði; um að fara eyju þá, alstaðar þar til
    Og frá, E

74, Marga nýja máltíð hlaut, mjög opt því hann

fugla skaut; til var nóg af þessum þar, þrestir
skógar margskonar.

15. Opt hann rjeri út á sjó, upp þá sjer þar
    fiska dró; ljek nú flest í lyndi rekk, lánið mest
    að höndum gekk.

16. Matföng hafði meiðir-brands, meir' en
    krafði nauðþurft hans; sig í mestu ró því rjeð,
    rjettum beztu kræsa með.

Ti. Frí var hann við fár og neyð, fyrsta þann-
in árið leið; fold þá allvel inndælu, eyju- kallar -
Farsælu.

78, Óðins-valur lið ei ljær, ljóð að gala við ó-
fær; rímumyndin enduð er, Ýmuvindur lendir bjer.

Source Text — Ríma VII

Sjöunda rima.

1. Dvergagnoð jeg ýti enn, óminnis frá landi;
   út á boða sónar senn, svo ei gisin standi.

2. Áform þetta útkrefst við, athöfn mannvits-
   dáða; hvort á rjett jeg hitti mið, hamingjan má
   ráða,

3. Við blindsker hvort verð jeg frí, veit eg
   svar ei móti; voði er að velkjast í, veraldar sjóróti.

4. þó eg lítil hafi hjer, höpp með bragi fína;
   lengst jeg hlýt að láta mjer lukku nægja mína.

5. Úttaslæður eyða ró, inn sem flana' í muna;
   mest jeg hræðast mætti þó, mína vangæzluna.

6. Kýs jeg vel mín geta gáð, geðs ei dugur
   þrottni; eg vil fela allt mitt ráð, almáttugum
   Drottni.

7. Opt fjekk sefa minum mætt, meina gráðið
   stríða; úr því hefur öllu bætt, alvalds náðin blíða.

8. Lífs höfund þann lofa ber, lán og mennt
   sem gefur; yndis stund því marga mjer, mildur
   ljent sá hefur.

9. Himnaranns- jeg - herran má, heiðra! í rænt

55

grunni; því jeg hans hef þreifað á, þrávallt bæn-
heyrzlunni.

10. Skynsemi sem Guð mjer gaf, grand ei
    mætti eg skerða; hyggnari nú hjeðan af, heldur
    ætti? að verða.

ll. Sízt jeg hrindi úr sinni mjer, sumra mein-
Ingunni; marga synd á mis við fer, maður í ein-
Verunni.

12. Hvað mig snertir mundi mjer, mjög vel
    falla lengi; eins og Berthold undi sjer, einsamall
    frá mengi.

13. Málmaviður mjög frægi, menntirnar sjer
    tamdi; góða siði og Guð rækni, gáfna snar vel
    framdi.

14. Hefði selskap heims við sá, halur náð sjer
    blanda; honum tel jeg óvíst á, eins vel ráð sitt
    Vanda.

15. það ógáðum getur skeð, glæpum þungum
    Olli; hver í ráð sem hleypur með, heims gárunga
    Solli.

16. Vinna grand ei mikið mjer, mig því leiða
    eigi; óhlutvandir ýmsir hjer, á heims breiða vegi.

17. þann upp fylla flokk er vest, fals ber
    milli vara; um það stilla mig vil mest, með þeim
    Villast skara.

18. Hygg jeg vani sumra sje, sið þeim eigi
    breyta: náunganum spott og spje, spjátrungsleg-
    ir veita,

19. Veit jeg meiri sumt er synd, en sögubrags
    til venda; tals um reita mansöngs mynd, mín
    Skal strax hjer enda.

20. Fyrri skertist fræðaskrá, frekrar þó án
    kælu; þar sem Berthold aleinn á, eyju- bjó . Far-
    Sælu.

21. Sinnar veru annað ár, upp þar byrja náði;
    auðs- hjá - gjer hvar unan klár, í bjó hyrjugráði.

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29, Vetrar ský um veðrahólf, vöktu regn og
storma; vikur nýu til nær tólf, tíð var hegning
orma.

23. Þetta taldist tími sá, tjóni var ollandi;
    hverjum skjalda-hlynur á, hraktist þar að landi.

24. Seint inn gekk ei sumar þar, sæld er
    gjörði þróa; Þyrjast fjekk í febrúar fór þá jörð
    að gróa.

25. Fyrr enn þá ei vita vann, vopnagrjer hug-
    svinni; hvenær. sá í hauðurs rann, hentast vera
    kynni.

26. Fjekk nú jarðar sæði sáð, settum þar á
    tíma; gat því arði góðum náð, gauturmararbríma.

27. Hita kláru heinviðrin, hæg og jöfn þar
    vóru; akrar báru ávöxtinn, efldu söfnin stóru.

28. Í þeim stað var árgæzkan, engan kól þess
    vegna; hæg tempraði hafkyljan, hitan sólar megna.

29. í Skjómabendir skemmtan ljer, skógárbrum-
    ið fríða; náði enda' í nóvember, nefnd þar sum-
    blíða.

30. Aðra síðu eyjar við, aldinin fann víða;
    mörg og fríð um foldarmið, fægir lynnahlíða.

31. Um það hjer svo hermt jeg finn, hann vín-
    þrúgur fengi; granater og guleplin, gæfu drjúgur
    lengi.

32. Eplin kvistur fleina fjekk, fljótt prófað hin

kláru; hann einn listilegan smekk, ljóst fann að

þau báru.

38. Eplin þessi ágæt ný, á þar fundin láði;
    tómri pressa trjeskál í, tyrvingslundur náði.

34, Vökva mestum hjer úr hann, hella í ker

öl

eitt rjeði; drykk þann bezta bruggaðan, beimur
Vera tjeði,

93. þegnin frægi þá svo tjer, það var hug til
    bóta: ó, hvað fæ jeg alls góðs hjer, óverðugur
    njóta!

94. Auðs- kvaðst - reinir ánægju, aðra þrá ei
    skyldi; með sjer eina manneskju, mætti? hann fá
    sem vildi.

95. Hann ei gimntist hafa meir, hlaut það lengi
    bera; annað virtist álmafreir, allt nær fengið vera.

96. Apaketti opt þar sá, yggur- bráinsfenja;
    hugsar þetta hvort ei má, höndla þá og venja.

97. Hugði kynni helzt með því, hann sjer
    stundir skerða; líka vinnu ljettir í loks þar mundi
    verða.

98. Margir stórir með í bland, máttar gildir
    apar; til þar vóru vítt um land, villu trylltir gapar.

99. Á það freistar apa skaut, einn í fót með
    ráði; mjög svo geist ei hlaupa hlaut, honum fljót-
    ur náði.

42, Óskaddaða hina hann, hramma' í bindur
dróma; með ei skaða knár svo kann, klóm nje
tindum góma.

43. Örvanjótur heim dró hratt, hjernæst þenn-
    an fanga; svo um fótin sára batt, sviðan grennir
    Slranga.

44. Hungrið jók nú apans á, eymd svo rekk-
    ar meta; kornið tók hann tyrkneskt þá, tjeðum
    fjekk að jeta.

45. Vel það klæða- valdi grjer, viti búinn mesta;
    því að fæða þeirra er, þetta sú hin hezta.

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46, Hungrið stilla hjer með vann, hörðum lög-
um beitti; þess á milli honum hann, högg og
slög því veitti.

41. Apan þráa þundur-fleins, þúrfti temja og
    fæða; þennan má hann undir eins, ýmist lemja og
    græða.

42. En sem græddan fann sinn fót, fyrr sá
    kvilla þáði; og sig fæddan auðs- af njót, apinn
    stillast náði.

49.. Loks þann svona siðað fjekk, sáðakraka-
lundur; eptir honum apinn gekk, eins og spakur
hundur.

50. Hans þá eitthvað löpp í ljet, lítt þó mál-
    ið skildi; bar það greitt um bjarkaflet, bör hvert
    stála vildi.

51. Vökvan gaf hann epla opt, apa- sínum
    ketti; drjúgt þar af í digran hvoft, drakk hinn
    trínisgretti.

52. þessum brá svo þann við drykk, þægri
    vafðist kæti; hoppar þá með skoplegt skikk, skrít-
    in hafði læti.

53. Geiralestir geðs- um rann, gaman hitti ei
    þægra; skemmtan mestu hjer af hann, hafði? og
    stytting dægra.

54. Venja þennan vel hvað tókst, var sú snild
    hans meiri; honum enn þá hugur jókst, höndla
    vildi fleiri.

55. Einn var gamall api sá, er nú tamið hafði;
    aðra framar yngri? að fá, auðnusamur krafði.

56. Hugði þar að happasnjall, hygginn þundur
    sverða; auðveldari en afgamall, yngri mundu verða.

ö9

57. Kænn í skapi snörur snar, sniðugt víða
    setti; fyrir apa þessa þar, þegninn prýði netti.

5Dð. Vals- um - gólf það vel tókst rekk, veiði
ná í slíka; hann því tólf af tjeðum fjekk, tamdi
þá og líka,

59. Allir saman apar þeir, auðs- hjá - hlyni
    gista; leiðitamir, margfalt meir, metnir hinum
    fyrsta.

60, Verk það lagt þeim var uppá, viti bornir
gera; ýmsir vakta akra þá, aðrir korn heim bera.

61. Fyrir laufalyftir þar, ljettir taldan unnu;
    þessir daufu þjenarar, þungu valda kunnu.

62. Streitu- fríast- verkin við , veitir-linna-
    tanga, beitir því á þræla lið, að þreyta vinnu
    stranga,

63. Við sinn herra hvergi þeir, hlíðni ríka
    skerða; margur verri málmafreir, mun í slíku verða.

64. þundur-korða þreklyndur, þessum lifnaðs-
    hætti; var nú orðinn alvanur, umgangs þrifnaðs
    gætti.

65. þar svo annað árið leið, ei bar meir til
    frjetta; hamingjan þó hjörs- við - meið, höndlar
    fleira? en þetta.

66. þar má kalla kunnugann, kvistinn-handar-
    skara; treystist alla eyju hann, um blindandi fara.

67. Byrjast árið þriðja þar, þá gekk flest í
    haginn; útsjón knár því Berthold bar, búskap sjezt
    við laginn.

68. Svo nam grunda svör óveilt, sunnuhrann-
    ar-viður: land frítt undir hef jeg heilt, hamingjan
    mig styður.

(9)

69. Frægðaríkur framar tjer, Íleygir- tjáður -
    sverða: Ó, hvílíkur herra hjer, hef jeg náð að
    verða.

70. Eg fæ það nú alprófað, auðnan gild mjer
    dugar; hlutir laðast allir að, eiginn vild míns hugar.

{1. Fýsn er það mín fullkomna, fylgd mjer
ljenist manna; minna' í staðinn mállausra mörgu
þjenaranna.

72. Mundi gleði heimsins há, huganum að
    snúa; kristnum með ef mætti eg fá, manneskj-
    um að búa.

73. Ef því næði, opt svo tjer, álmafreir hinn
    gildi; af heimsgæðum óska sjer, einskis meir hann
    vildi.

TA. Náði ganga þrávalt því, þar með sjónum
kunnur; eptir stranga stormagný, stjörnulónarunnur.
"75. Ef á stranda skerjum skip, skammt frá
landi kynni; við gínandi kólguklip, kvisti branda' í
minni.

76. Nauðum frá ef þyrfti þá, þegnum bjarga
    hyggur; ekkert náir svoddan sjá, svoldargargans-
    y8gur.

TI. Heiðskírt þegar veður var, virtist branda-
fægir; hafs um vega vestur þar, víst hann land
eitt sæi.

18. Gefa sig ei þorði þó, þangað sveigirboga;
    brims um stig á borðajó, byrjar ei það voga.

19. Opt hugrenning um það bar, álfur-byrð-
    argrana; villumenn ef væru þar, víst sjer yrðu' að
    bana. ;

20. Árið þanninn þriðja leið, þroska rjettann

61

fyllir; fjórða rann upp !randameið, röðull hnettí
gyllir.

81. Hlaut nú tjáður hjörfaþór, hugarneyð þá
    kanna; meir enn áður finna fór, frekt til leiðind-
    anna.

82. Bjó án efa þegni það, þvingun meginríka;
    fyrirgefa Guð sjer bað, geðstilhneging slíka

83. Ásakanir veita vann, víst sjer títt í lyndi;
    ráðstafanir herrans hann, hvað svo ljett við yndi.

84. Eitt sinn fjekk hann fugl einn þar, fagran
    Veitt lifandi; þessi flekkótt fiðrið bar, furðu skreytt
    gljáandi.

85. Topp einn háann höfði á, hafði sá hinn
    fríði; eins og páfugl er að sjá, ei með smáa prýði.

86. Fannst ei skapað fallegra, fuglakyn þar
    áður; gekk næst papagoja, gaukavinur tjáður.

87. Kann að tala sagt er sá, sem var næst um
    getið; góinsbala-gautum hjá, gaman stærsta metið.

88. Fuglinn mæta vel þar vann, vopnaspennir
    ala; ef það gæti helzt vill hann, honum kenna að
    tala.

89. Leysti tungu haptið hans, happ með sitt
    í vonum; vizkuslunginn veifirbrands, vængi stytti
    á honum.

90. Gat þá ekki fuglinn frekt, flogið eptir þetta;
    fylgja rekk svo fór með spekt, fæðu hreppti rjetta.

91. þegar Berthold blístrandi, bjó til hljóm af
    munni ; hinn kom spertur hlaupandi, hlíðinn skjóma-
    runni.

92. Tjörgulestir talar þá, til ei skorti vizku;
    hafði mestar mætur á máli portugisku,

62

93. Fyrir sínum fugli hann, frár í happabragði;
    mjög opt brýna mál það vann; mest þar kapp á
    lagði.

94, Yfir lengi opt því stóð, ofnershuglar-gæt-
ir; gaf þó engin af sjer hljóð, enn þá fuglinn
mæli,

95. Hlustar löngum þó á það. þögn og kyrrð
    í mestri; hallar vöngum ýmsum að, auðarhirðirs-
    lestri.

96. Heilt missiri hjer við eitt, hjelt með trú-
    rækninni; það kom fyrir þó ei neitt, þessu nú að
    sinni.

97. Biðlund vann að fyrnast fríð, frá því hann
    svo gengur; ónýtt fann að eyða tíð, illa þannin
    lengur.

98. Berthold finnur sæmra sjer, sína vinnu
    stunda; hugsa minna' um fuglinn fer, fær sá inni
    blunda.

99. Næsta daginn allann í, aldingarði vinnur;
    stærsta haginn þetta því, þundur-barða finnur.

100. Mat sinn snæðir miðdags þar, móinsdýnu-
     geymir; aðra fæðu fram ei bar, fugli sínum gleymir.

101. Koma nam að kvöldi heim, kviknar valin
     gleði; rjett þá framan fyrir beim, fuglinn tala rjeði.

102. Upp sig sperrir hátt með hopp, hlyn við
     naðurstúna; greindi: herra, gef Skjönkopp, glor-
     hungruðum núna.

103. Aðra baugakvistur kann, kæti fá ei stærri;
     gleðin flaug í gegnum hann, geta má því nærri.

104. Skjönkopp sínum fæðu föng, færði nægju
     mesta; í hans tínir yðragöng, allt af tægi bezta.

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105. Geðs um salinn geirafreir, glatar meinum
     lrega; fuglinn talar meir og meir, málið greinilega.

106. Fugl ei mundi falur sá, flestir nú það
     sanna; mót þúsunda mergðum þá, myntar dúcat-
     anna.

107. Fjórða gengur árið út, eflast blóma kjör-
     in; þvíngar engin þanka sút, þunarljóma - bör-
     inn.

108. Svo hjer inn í syrpuvind, sigli járakneri;
     Síreng ómynnis með hann bind, málhvíldar á skeri.

Ríma VIII

The fifth year on the island. Berthold discovers wreckage and bodies washed ashore from a recent shipwreck. He builds a signal fire. While exploring, he hears voices — and discovers six cannibals torturing three white captives. He opens fire, kills the attackers, and rescues a Portuguese woman named Hippóliti, wounded in the foot by his own shot. He tends her wounds, gives her food and shelter, and imprisons the surviving cannibal.

Mansöngur

Now the eighth frost-fleeing bark
drives forward into the storm's domain;
though the fine verse-maid is not found,
still the gold-grove's warrior makes his offering.

This poem's scroll tells forth
of the gold-sun's fiery lord;
when the fair flood-bride's passion stirs,
life flows hot into the blood.

It shortens the evening watch
to smooth the thin horn-plain of the dim-sighted;
it gladdens the sun-servant's joy
to sing of the wave's bright ground.

Berthold won the freedom of a fair woman,
famed for glorious deeds;
that was good fortune for them both —
a joy that stood the length of their lives.

It is the nature of many
to choose a mate for themselves;
"There seems to me a duty here,
we must everywhere take care.

Dear friends, let us be mindful,
and make use of the wisdom given us;
let us drive bodily desire away —
its nature cannot be ruled.

A deed of fortune gives us most
if we let God guide us best;
let us shun the greedy west of desire,
the displeasure of the spirit bound to it.

It is good to be well married —
such fortune I count a blessing,
delight here in the thought-hall,
though it may bring its share of toil.

Better never to marry at all
than to be stripped of honour here;
that seems to me a matter of great weight —
no greater loss can be borne.

My musings must now turn away
from this matter for the time being;
I find the story's continuation —
and here I end the mansöngur.

Narrative

Where last our tale rested,
the world-blessed dwelling stood;
the wave-lord wandered everywhere,
alone as a pilgrim.

The fifth year now begins;
the fortune-blessed man is industrious,
everything arranged in better order
by his own capable hand.

Three weeks of winter lay upon the land,
longer than was usual;
the dread that such a thing might cause
stole Berthold's happiness away.

The fierce winds and the blizzards
vanished at last from that place;
then the brave sea-lord set out
toward the shore of the promontory.

He surveyed the shell-strewn strand
and saw the wreckage of many ships;
he found a multitude of dead men
and stared at the castaway remains.

With tears he gazed upon it all,
the wave-lord trembling;
four years before he had seen
such dreadful mortal peril.

"Who may have been wrecked here,
driven to the wave-foam's course,
plunged deep into death's book,
and lost their fortune from them?"

He set his boat upon the sea,
the sorrow-grown one wished to go;
if anything more might be seen,
to row before the high cliffs.

He pulled oars across the open water,
along the shore he sailed;
if any living soul remained,
he might find them standing in distress.

He nearly lost his bright eyes
staring from his head;
yet he could not see, though he searched,
what his heart most desired.

The fortune-lord turned back
with what he had achieved;
the brave one rowed across the inlet
and beached the boat on the shore.

He gathered drifting timbers then,
heaping the wreckage together;
the nest-dragon warrior swiftly
built great piles of them there.

He set them alight with fire
as daylight faded;
the bright blaze would be seen
if any ship were on the sea.

Thus they might mark it —
if men were watching for such —
that folk had dwellings on this shore,
and be directed from the danger.

It warns seafarers of the risk,
so harm will not come by chance;
for in the vicinity of the reefs
many a blind skerry stands.

The dead men of the storm he buried
in mounds there beside his dwelling;
the tireless one then went home,
thinking over the troubles he had endured.

He gave himself quickly to rest,
the sword-staff, gentle though not calm;
yet he did not sleep that night,
silently bearing his thoughts.

The man rose early the next day
and went straight to field-work;
the apes he trained to useful tasks
and found profit in their labour.

At midday he prepared his meal,
the gold-lord went home to himself;
while apes guarded the fields,
they drove the small corn-thieves away.

The clothing-lord, learned and quick,
while he ate in peace,
the apes rushed home in wonder,
those dangerous ones running wild.

Their strange cries then —
something must have caused this;
the sword-lord started at the sound
and leapt quickly to his feet.

The brave man swiftly seized
his muskets and his pistols;
he went out among the apes,
each of them fleeing in every direction.

He called four apes to follow him
across the open field;
all showed obedience here,
as cleverly as one could ask.

He set his other apes
to watch over the crop-grounds;
thus the business of guarding
was arranged in proper fashion.

The famed warrior then walked on,
straight across the land, and halted;
where the apes had been guarding before,
they could now tend his fields.

He stopped and listened in wonder
to voices — many human voices;
he walked toward the sound,
thinking to discover what it was.

The quick wave-lord headed west
away from his dwelling;
he called upon the Lord for help,
He who teaches all good things.

He came upon a little rise at last,
and waited there among the trees;
he saw a boat and six black men
very near, on the dark shore.

Three naked white men there —
the thunder-bright one gazed upon them;
the dark ones drove them forward,
showing them not the slightest mercy.

Thus the black ones' cruel art
drove them fiercely onward;
he pitied them with a sudden pang,
the wretched ones crying without restraint.

He could not understand their speech,
for a great distance lay between;
the cunning one crept ashore
and hid behind the oaks.

The dark ones chose their food at once,
committing frenzy with high savagery;
the blood and the raw flesh
of the others they ate with merry spirit.

Burned alive and still living,
seared in life's suffering;
the rope-thundering ones groaning,
tortured as they wailed.

All made ready now,
two of the dark ones dead and done;
one still waited at death's door,
sorrowful, dreading the ordeal before him.

The strong dark one in adversity
spoke in Portuguese;
the grief-stricken one cried aloud,
calling on the Creator for deliverance.

The villains bore to the death-bed
the two whose lives had ended;
something more was seen there —
let the folk hear this with gladness.

Berthold, the swift and fortunate,
was then in the best shooting range;
quick as lightning he moved,
though he could see no multitude.

The hail-wielding storm-warrior
delivered his greeting to those four;
he shot three savages there
and sent them running to hell.

From the apes he seized another gun,
always a fine marksman;
two more who were tormenting the white man
he shot to their deaths.

One savage still remained,
who had taken no harm;
he sprang to the boat at once —
that seemed the way to save his life.

The swift one seized a third musket,
the thunder-spear in a hawk's grip;
that handiwork struck its mark —
the shot tore into his foot.

He fell on the sand of the shore,
suffering torment and anguish;
groaning with cries so loud,
he lay there trembling and wretched.

The keen Berthold then suspected —
he clearly marked that the shot's thunder
had struck the white man too —
though he had not wished it at all.

The wounded one lay there pitifully,
sorrow-naked and in pain;
he went at once to find them,
as fast as the path would carry him.

Looking upon the figure he saw there
that this was a woman;
shame-laden she bore her nakedness —
Berthold pondered this well.

His jacket he immediately stripped off,
the star-lord covered her;
the terror gripped her then
when she saw the fearsome man.

His beard and hair were beyond measure,
the shepherd of golden tears;
his face was disfigured,
all grey and shaggy.

The ape-litter she also saw —
a frightful sight she beheld —
all of this she feared,
her inmost spirit trembling.

In Portuguese he spoke
and thus addressed the fair one:
"Whose hands have brought me here,
to this dwelling-place of the world?"

The sword-lord gave his answer:
"You have come, sore-tried,
your grief and sorrow's torment ended,
into the good hands of a Christian man."

The unwilling one said she had
wrought wrong against the silk-band;
the apologizing one made great excuse
for the harm she had suffered.

The bright elf examined
the shot-wound's pain;
six pellets from her calf
he himself drew out.

The fierce fire-lord
sent his apes home with orders;
for the wound's soothing he brought
a line of silk and a flask of wine.

The heathens he went to visit,
leaving the woman for that time;
those he found not yet dead
he drove into death's hall.

Next the spear-lord attended to
the one who had taken the foot-wound,
finding last the one he had shot —
that one bore the agony of the ordeal.

He bound the savage dark man
with his musket's strings;
his fortune would not fade, he saw —
his spirit boasted of a fine victory.

The arrow-lord was not still then;
he went where the maiden waited before;
the great apes had returned —
their strength had come back.

He took the wine-flask from the apes
and tended the woman;
this brought her comfort,
and she began to recover.

With tearful wine he washed
and cleaned her wounds with care;
the foot-wound of the fair one
lessened its fierce burning.

He wrapped a cloth about the wound
as necessity required;
he did not delay in easing her suffering,
untying the knot of anguish.

He raised the lady to her feet
and led her along the path,
through to his dwelling;
and he set an ape to guard the savage.

He led her into his bedchamber,
the honoured fair-minded maiden;
her distress vanished, and peace and rest
were what she gratefully accepted.

The prudent man spoke to her
of his household's resources;
"Accept these mercies now —
enough that you have been afflicted."

The ring-sun he comforted
with the finest skill of words;
the best that his mouth could pour
in gentle spirit and warmth.

The wheat-lord then went out,
walking swiftly from home;
he went to check on the savage —
it would not do if he escaped.

The ring-lord quickly found
the savage one he sought;
under the apes' guard was he,
bound tightly still.

The heathen fears
when the ring-lord returns;
he thought his life was forfeit
like the others who were slain.

He wailed with loud cries
where he lay in his fetters;
with great noise the fortune-lord
released him then.

From his feet the sword-lord
swiftly drew the pellets;
this was a sure remedy for the savage —
he bore wine to the ugly wounds.

The man's spirit softened there;
he bowed his head and hands to the ground —
the gold-lord measured this as
the mark of submission.

At Berthold's feet then
he fell and kissed them;
the spirit's grief he might thus soothe —
receiving healing and the gift of life.

The bright-browed wave-lord
beckoned him to follow;
he rose to his feet at once,
swiftly showing obedience.

Before the apes had been sent
by the cunning serpent-lord;
he had them carry there
spades and the digging-rakes.

He signed to the savage to dig a grave,
then gave the quiet ring-lord his orders;
the villains' bodies into death's keeping,
buried in mounds by the shore.

Another grave he dug himself,
the diligent spear-lord;
deep in the earth the industrious one
made a resting-place for the dead.

The Portuguese he buried there,
the gold-bright earth-lord;
a man of excellent nature,
of enterprise and accomplishment.

Thus it was quickly done;
with his musket's strings
he led the savage,
the stubborn one, bound on the tiger-bed.

After all this he commanded
the ape-litter to take the savage,
carrying the fettered one quickly
straight home to the dwelling.

The linen-lord placed that captive
down in the cellar;
he locked the entrance there —
the man's anguish of spirit subsided.

It softened his torment greatly
to be in a Christian's keeping;
to live beside her in contentment —
he praised his fortune.

The joy that sprouted from this deed
was when he found his prayer answered;
he thought good thoughts in his heart
and honoured the Lord's mercy most.

He went quickly to find his maiden,
the ring-fire lord;
he nursed and tended the ring-line,
bringing the finest strength he could.

"How do you fare?" — that was his question,
asked without delay;
the jewel of the bright-born one
sent her answer from speaking.

"Well enough it goes with me now,"
the star-bright one said;
"God be praised for this freedom here —
for His kindness I give thanks."

The sun-lady said she was, though,
without clothing, hungry and thirsty;
the ring-branch begged him now
to help her first of all.

Sailors' clothes he gave her straight,
the wave-lord with his deed;
the hand-warmth of the kinder land —
she could dress herself well then.

Before her he brought
the best food he had;
she ate hungrily there
and thanked the gift of goodness well.

Wine from the apple-groves of the island,
the tree-lord poured for the plank-bride;
she was glad of that drink from him —
refreshment she said was good for a person.

The good-hearted worthy man
the thought-track maiden perceived;
that honey-sweet thunder
she found so swiftly true.

The guardian-lady then told
of the shining serpent-bride;
how she had come upon this island,
driven there by bitter hardship.

"Five years I have dwelt here alone —
I tell you now more openly;
until that fortune was granted me,
that you, noble lady, have arrived."

The fire-land lady of the island
marvelled at the hearing of his tale;
what had happened by the Creator's will,
she clearly spoke of man's destiny.

"Long shall you be honoured —
a guardian angel sent to me;
so that I might find freedom here,"
the fair jewel-lady said.

"As long as my life endures,"
spoke the ring-lady from her lips,
"I shall surely with sweet skill
give praise to the Lord Christ."

Then the drawn serpent-bride
told of her own circumstances —
her story she then related,
that graceless verse-scroll.

The bound tale fades and passes;
the empty reef of the yawning one is found;
my mind grows weary in me —
the glory of the eighth ríma fades here.

Ríma IX

The poet reflects on his craft and digresses at length on the proper rearing of children — discipline with love, not violence. Hippóliti then tells her story: she is Hippóliti, daughter of a Portuguese merchant, shipwrecked on the ship Phoenix; her father and brother were killed and eaten by cannibals; Berthold rescued her. Time passes; Berthold falls gravely ill from concealed love; Hippóliti discovers the cause. He confesses and proposes marriage. She raises practical objections about children and exile; he answers with faith and shows her his wealth. She accepts.

Mansöngur

From the hall of forgetfulness the shutter
now is pushed aside;
the nail-handled ship of counsel crawls forth
from the reef of rest.

My son's verse must sail the sea
of the victory-lord's hunt,
fitted out with yard and rigging —
I ask the gods to smooth his journey.

Whether it may find again
the harbour it was heading for,
all is now unclear to me —
often hope deceives a man.

If the folk grow weary
of the pleasure of my poem,
I have said how slowly it goes with me,
how long I keep the story.

The manifold cares of the world
forbid me from composing,
as they encircle the mind's senses
and darken the eye of thought.

I desire the happiness
that fortune would send me,
that I might end these rímur
before I depart the world.

It would not do
to leave the tale unfinished;
my verse's poor complexion —
few would build the boat.

If I should fall halfway
through Berthold's whole life-story,
one might afterwards call it
a widow left behind.

From her I depart, defenceless,
with necessity compelling me;
therefore my courage, wisdom, boldness,
and spirit's strength increase.

After me, on hope's uncertain field,
it is worst if she should fare —
it is best I spare no strength
while I dwell upon this earth.

The poet then digresses for thirty stanzas on the rearing of children — discipline must be measured to the child's temperament, never administered in fury; parents who beat their children in rage do more harm than good; those who spoil their children after punishing them undo the lesson; the finest inheritance is good habits, not gold. This passage has been rendered below in condensed form.

To her I pledged my troth
as one who is betrothed;
I became glad of heart to her —
I may be called a married man.

There is one thing no one gains
by arguing about:
with her I have settled in good understanding —
I have begotten eight children.

It is now expected
that there will soon be a ninth;
the increase of my living ones —
a tenth might yet be born.

I do not fret over these
appointed noisy children;
none of them would trouble me
even if there were one more.

Some have other children
badly mannered,
who practise every kind of mischief
and stand in people's hair.

It is a great duty to raise
the young ones well,
with sense and good habits —
some forget to cultivate this.

More is needed than to feed
and clothe the children;
it is more to educate them
for their spiritual good.

Early one must root out
disobedience from the young;
let the correction be more or less
measured to their temperament.

Some children cry and complain
without restraint,
answering back with full throat —
what is uglier than that?

Therefore one should discipline
those who are quickly disobedient;
it goes worst, I know well,
when one shouts and bickers.

That stiffens their spirit
and breeds stubbornness;
they obey no better for it —
such a method is displeasing.

Some pour malice into themselves
with ugly foolishness,
pushing and striking the young,
letting their fists fly.

These do not care a jot
where the blows may land;
they send them back and forth with their toes
as if tossing a rag.

Such is a dangerous folly,
I must swear to this —
to beat out blows in rage
and bruise the children's flesh.

All who have authority
over children must take care,
guard against the method described,
and still their hasty temper.

One should accustom the young
to fear and love —
first toward God and their parents,
and the commandments given them.

Let no one long delay
any task of training;
most things are won with patience —
let the people shun the whip.

To discipline full-grown children
will be too late;
the stubbornness of the untamed will hardly fade —
little fruit comes of it.

On this depends above all else:
to accustom them from the youngest age
away from crying and wailing,
and from needless complaint.

Some take regret after disciplining children,
pitying them and blaming themselves
for having caused them sorrow.

It most often happens when
the young ones hear this —
they begin to cry much more,
claiming injury and worse.

Then comes the hug and the soft pat,
comforting the sorrow-sick child;
so much must be applied to this end.

Everything is done to yield to them,
and in every way to stop them
from crying — whatever it costs.

The children note this well
and with stubborn persistence,
often for a wondrous long time,
they make others dance to their tune.

All correction is made useless
by that method described;
worse than none at all, I would say —
the children surely pay for it later.

They grow ever bolder
following their childhood nature,
becoming all the more fearless
and accustomed to this pattern.

Some praise their children
so they hear it,
boasting about them to others
as if they were the finest creatures.

That oversight, so often seen,
bears this fruit:
it nourishes pride and vanity in them —
from this the foolish often boast.

The most precious thing to be gained
after one's parents, I say,
is the best inheritance for heirs:
the gift of good habits.

Here time scarcely permits me
to speak on this longer;
I let my mansöngur fall —
for I hear the story calling.

Narrative

She now began the tale
left off before;
as the fire-oak of the sun-flood
spoke of her circumstances.

"My name is Hippóliti,"
she began to tell;
"the joy of my youthful days
fell well into my lap.

My dear father was a man
of honour and good learning,
adorned with dignity and noble-minded —
a Portuguese merchant.

That jewel-lord was well accustomed
to voyages at sea;
on the homeward voyage from the Indies
I was last with him.

On that ship which once was called
the Phoenix by name,
fair winds served us well through the channels —
but fate made it otherwise.

A storm came on with monstrous speed
and violent force;
nearly all were driven to the depths,
the waves swallowed the crooked hawk.

Every soul aboard was drowned,
weary of their trials,
save for three upon the sea's paths —
my father, my brother, and myself.

We clung to the ship's boat
in our desperate straits;
on the swelling ocean waves
it leapt, driven by the storm's power.

Land appeared to us
lying to the west;
we were driven there upon the wave-hound —
the heart was well content.

As soon as we stepped upon
that unknown shore,
we gave thanks to God
who turned our lives from danger.

We had not rested for several nights —
nothing at all;
we felt unsafe and did not linger,
demanding our mercies be taken.

There in the shadow of the forest trees
we quickly fell asleep;
we welcomed rest and peace —
but woke with a start from an evil dream.

Savages found us unaware
and ringed us where we rested;
they stripped our clothes and carried us here,
seizing us naked, wretched, and bound.

Here the greedy ones thought
to fill their gullets
with our flesh to sate their hunger —
such was the horrid delusion.

They killed and devoured my father
and my noble brother;
that was the greatest horror to me —
my voice was raw and silent.

The villains were not suffered
to take my life;
you came then to my rescue
and plucked me from the wolves' claws.

Here, moreover, you avenged
with firm severity
the murderers of my kin,
and let me experience your kindness.

Wondrously the merciful Lord
heard my prayer;
therefore I wish the witness of my gratitude
to spring up beside me.

I am bound for all my life
to show you, in sorrow and in joy,
the devoted goodwill of a true heart."

"I ask you to have mercy
on me in my affliction;
henceforth with virtuous deeds,
let me have a little say at first.

I ask that you preserve my honour
as your own;
do not change your ways of chastity;
deny the demands of the flesh."

"I think that in our exile
such things are not fitting —
though I do not fear it,
for I have proven your manly honour."

Berthold spoke: "Since God
first sent you to me,
you need not fear, dear woman,
any ill from my hand.

My Creator has mercifully
heard my prayer;
He who gives all good things everywhere
wraps me in contentment of spirit."

"In all my exile here
I came to know above all else
the longing in my mind's chambers
for the pleasant company of others.

Should I then be the most ungrateful
of all men in the world,
to so forget God
that punishment should flow to me?"

She gazed at the man in wonder —
here the opportunity came —
how devout his heart was
beneath the fearsome shape he bore.

The sharp-one asked at evening
whether in her own room
she would sleep,
or in another place where she might rest
secure and comfortable.

The wise woman weighed the offer
and judged it fitting,
for she marked in her mind
his honest character.

The sword-lord answers the wave-bride:
she said she would gladly accept
whatever corner might be offered her.

He went to check on the savage,
for he could not forget the duty —
the apes were guarding the bound man.

Berthold released the dark man,
who carried himself ill;
his foot-wound's sting
made the burnt one's comfort fail.

His wound he now bound anew,
the skillful rope-lord;
he spared him from the pain of the sore
and brought him food to eat.

The savage was unaccustomed
to prepared food;
the captive could not eat it,
though he was starving to death.

A good portion of rye then
the spear-master gave;
to the savage that came easy —
he devoured it greedily.

He then gorged himself enormously
on blue water;
I think thirst and hunger subsided
and the effects of the burning somewhat eased.

So he locked his cellar,
the branch-wielder went to take his rest,
longing to catch gentle sleep.

Yet wakefulness and worry
ruled him on his bed,
thinking of what had happened
on the day just passed.

His greatest torment of mind was over Hippóliti;
he thought something must be meant
by the fact that she alone had lived.

He believed that the merciful Lord
must surely, without doubt,
not have sent her to him for nothing —
that honourable plank-rafter.

Otherwise the other two might have
kept their lives as well,
just as she on the ocean's course
was saved from death's strife.

This the sprouted one judged a token
of wise counsel;
for all good things he had received,
he gave thanks to the Lord's mercy.

A prayer from his heart he offered forth,
the shepherd of fire-deeps;
he asked God to spare him from sin
and not to commit transgressions henceforth.

The daughter of the wave-lord withdrew herself,
but the worthy one returned at once,
well accustomed to his labour.

Early she dressed, the ring-lady,
about her household;
she too wished to find
something useful to do.

She asked whether he had
any needles in his possession —
the ring-runner confirmed it wisely.

There was a chest left by the old
island-dweller; he brought it to the plank-bride —
she found scissors and needles in abundance.

The silk-lord said he had
no sewing thread;
the linen-lady said she could
draw the supple thread from the cloth.

He took the ring-line to the storehouse
and she marvelled in her mind
at the abundance of fine goods she saw there.

Clothing, linen, cloths and fabrics
she could see;
the guardian allowed her
to make use of whatever she wished.

He then visited the savage,
bringing him raw food to eat,
and tended to his wound to heal it.

After that he went out to field-work,
locking the dwelling with care,
and took two apes leaping with him.

The clever maiden cut and sewed at home
all through the day,
making garments for herself in good order —
she was skilled in such crafts.

When Berthold came home at evening
he could scarcely recognise
the fair lady of the hand,
so finely dressed throughout.

He praised her great skill;
this pleased him very well,
for now most things fell
into their proper place.

Soon after she made garments
for the ring-man too,
the branch of the fingertips —
she did not lack for materials.

He had not been well dressed before,
the weapon-lord;
the old clothes were worn to rags —
one could see the many holes, a wonder.

I do not marvel much
that his clothes were torn and tattered;
he had been long without service —
it was time he found it.

He repaid her service honestly
with the coin of devotion,
leaping toward the certainty of the future —
that was more than mere boasting.

But the story tells in detail
what happened later on;
it is too early for anyone
to spell out everything in full.

She took over all the housework now,
and cooked according to their needs,
everything with skill and finest manners.

Berthold often hunted birds
and caught fish;
the gold-lady prepared the food
just as his spirit wished.

She greatly admired in her breast
the fine handiwork of the ring-lord
and his accomplished skill at all things.

From all this he conceived
a burning love for her;
his thoughts circled around her,
and he could no longer sleep.

In her absence the temptation
of desire tormented him,
and he suppressed it even more
when the two were together.

Many a whole night he lay awake now,
though before, with comfort and peace,
he slept well — that never failed.

She did not see what lay hidden
in his heartstrings;
once the oak-ring lady
made sport about his great beard.

When she jested about this
the warrior laughed;
he rushed off and seized the scissors,
shaving the beard from himself at once.

After the stiff chin-hair was gone,
the spear-tree of war
found it a greater discomfort still;
he could not leave it so.

The sword-tree then seized
a sailor's dull knife;
neatly he shaped it into a razor,
sharpened it well on a whetstone.

So with the keen-edged blade
he shaved himself clean;
though little accustomed to the task,
his dry skin burned and stung.

This he bore badly,
though I do not wonder;
he even cut himself in places —
the chin-place ran with blood.

Next before Hippóliti he went;
greatly the woman marvelled
at how suddenly the man was changed.

She showed with loving warmth
how she rejoiced to see
how well it pleased her spirit
that he strove in everything.

The bright lord now had
much to occupy his time;
he often went to visit
the savage, taming him.

He laboured long at taming him,
but first the swift spear-lord
healed his foot-wound.

To accustom him to civilised food
was not easily accomplished;
but after a long struggle,
it was at last achieved.

The Portuguese language, clear and glad,
he laboured hard to teach the savage;
the rope-lord did not rest with him.

After two months' time
it was accomplished;
the savage understood various words
the man had spoken.

He then treated this one as a servant —
the thunder of rings —
for his own uses henceforth,
and for many errands.

Their household now settled
into its accustomed course,
except that his love for the woman
was not easy for the gold-lord.

He concealed this as long as he could,
the leaf-destroyer;
though it greatly oppressed his spirit —
the ring-lady knew nothing.

Time passed and little else
worth reporting occurred,
except that the savage
was happily being educated.

The lady was eager to teach him
to understand the language
and to speak it now at his own will.

Most pleasing it seemed
to know his soul was freed from error,
opening his understanding on many things —
the gold-line and the guardian of weapons.

They both taught him with devotion
and the witness of love,
to know the Lord then,
and the duties that spring from that.

Good fruit grew in his character's field,
touching his own advantage;
the wholesome counsel
taught him there.

With uplifted hands he bore
the joy of his heart,
now freed from delusion —
he praised his Creator well.

And shown to such a good place
where he could make himself learned,
he found the highest growth of fortune.

Some time later it happened
that the famed Berthold
fell suddenly ill,
overcome by sickness.

His inward anguish of mind
was what caused the illness;
the strong love he bore
in secret for the woman brought this on.

He had become gaunt and wholly powerless,
dreading that the earth-lord
would be crushed unto death.

Urgently the oak-lady asked,
the branch-tester,
what weighed so heavily in his secret mind
and caused him such affliction.

He told her nothing of this,
the guardian of swords,
until it pressed so fiercely
that he began to fall gravely ill.

From this the ring-eyed maiden
suffered great anguish,
thinking the man would die
and she would remain alone in the world.

"In the name of the highest Being,"
the twisting one implored,
she begged him to confess with honesty
the cause of his sickness.

Sorrowfully he looked at her,
though grief was on his lips,
and said: "Know this one thing,
O my dear Hippóliti.

I had resolved never to reveal
my sickness's cause —
never to open it
to the giver of rings.

Yes, and rather let my life go —
I held that sweet oath
in such high honour
that I thought it must be kept.

Yet I see that after my days are done
your situation here would suffer,
dragging you into miserable hardship.

Therefore I must confess to you
what cuts my spirit so sorely
and seems too heavy to bear.

This fire-hot love it is that rules me,
that I harbour for you,
and shall never forget
until I sleep away from this world.

From our very first meeting
I felt the spark of love —
that honest, vigorous spark —
overwhelming the mind's trial.

Before this I have not proclaimed it,
hoping in this expectation
that I might overcome
that inclination.

But I could not now succeed
in quenching this fire —
the unquenchable flame of love —
after such a long time.

Therefore I ask the seed-island's maiden
whether you will take me
as your wedded husband —
or let love put me to death, sick as I am."

"Such a suit seems to me sinless;
no obstacle can prevent
the making of the bond of marriage.

Our parents are not living,
and we stand in fortune unmarried,
both of us ruling ourselves.

Therefore I promise to show you
the love of my heart
and hold you with steadfast devotion
as my own husband.

Whether we remain here forever
or one day succeed
in reaching the European lands."

"I ask you now for your answer,"
the linden-lord said;
the wave-bride's cheeks
changed colour with a blush.

His speech then the wave-storm answered —
and there the exhausted ríma halts,
accepting its rest.

Ríma X

The wedding on the island. Berthold's illness breaks at Hippóliti's acceptance. They exchange vows under the open sky in a solemn ceremony, with no priest but God as witness. Domestic bliss follows — she learns English and Dutch, he hunts and farms. In the eighth year, the apes dig up gold dust beneath the house. Berthold builds a fortification and arms it with four cannon. The ninth year passes in prosperity.

Mansöngur

It is time again to set the verse right,
for it may be delayed no longer;
soon the folk will hear
the freest wedding held.

The fire-hot love does much
when it ignites in a man's breast;
its marks may often be seen —
the strength quickens the mind's halls.

The blaze of love grown too great
ceaselessly brings trouble;
from this the soul's chamber
burns hottest within.

If it is not quenched in time,
that swelling flame of love,
it grows magnified in pain's course
and destroys a man's life.

Here we have a clear example,
one close at hand:
love tormented Berthold's breast
and sickened him with burning force.

Let everyone in the world know
that had she not attended him with skill,
Hippóliti healing the man,
he would have lost his life.

The strife of love caused his affliction,
the wound-knife of the one described;
but a balm of life did not fail —
the wife's gentle remedy.

Most things that are found can mend;
the blast of adversity fades
where love is fastened to love —
that is the blast of life's delight.

In the world now it seems to me
the warmth of love grows cold;
yet much else proceeds apace —
fame is won crookedly in many things.

If many hundred years from now
our world still stands,
the age will see with wonder
the strange new paths of custom.

Though science may advance,
and lords of power sit in parliament,
the costs will not decrease —
the common folk will see the signs.

On the world's evening of its life,
of this I have a sure suspicion;
the multitude of tolls to count —
they will hardly be got through in haste.

Here I think it best to cease
this chatter for the present,
and having said the least about the most,
I find the mansöngur complete.

Narrative

Where last the little verse-boat waited,
battered, shallow, narrow,
there the wise ring-maiden
Hippóliti began to blush.

"Healing-ground, I certainly thought
the fire was in your mind's acre;
you would surely never seek me out
in exile — the least of all."

"Well might you see and know
how it goes," the jewel-lady says;
"if we should have children
and die far from them here,

they would certainly become
the most miserable creatures in the world —
the wildest, most helpless,
lawless wretches.

Before the Lord we would need
to give good account of their souls;
carelessness in that would be
a game of ruin driven upon us.

And even if we should somehow
reach Europe,
bitter poverty, I fear,
would accompany and torment us.

On so uncertain a hope,
we with our children there —
that would be an anguish of thought,
heavy as a millstone."

"For I lost all my wealth,
my great riches, into the ocean;
the probabilities of ruin are clear —
and you too are destitute."

"The perilous voyages of youth —
you have endured them;
your beauty therefore,
all of it, lies buried deep in the sea.

With the eyes of the mind's own judgment
I can see clearly —
in no way can I see
how this would improve our fortunes."

Berthold spoke then with wisdom,
pure in his answers:
"Let us not grieve so fiercely
over things yet to come.

Above all else we should,
as befits Christians always,
commit all that is unknown
to God the highest here.

Think of what is nearest at hand —
for from a holy cause
God's supreme providence
made our meeting happen.

The Almighty's will cannot be concealed —
so that we may now bind
the bond of marriage together
here without sin, that is my faith.

What is your worry
about worldly means?
The all-wise ancient Father
can provide for us.

Even if we should one day
succeed in reaching Europe,
I think the worry needless —
to dread poverty then."

"I possess a great and fair fortune,
left by those who dwelt here;
therefore we need not fear want —
all of it shall be yours.

All in good standing it seems to me,
and this is the Lord's counsel —
you are heir to these lands,
for His grace gives all good things.

Enter my storehouse —
there you may see the treasures;
I give you leave, eager for the truth,
to test it quickly."

"I have enough of my own still
from the ship that broke
and was crushed in the storm-sea."

"All of this you may see,
stored in my cellar,
whether my words speak truth,"
the silk-line said.

"I have not revealed this before,
nor informed you of it,
because on this island
money is useless."

"Wife, will you accept my wish —
weigh well what it means —
or let your love slowly
kill me, sick as I am?"

The ring-strand then took
Berthold's hand
and tenderly spoke thus:
"Far be it from me
to drive this displeasure upon you.

If your health you may
recover once again,
I pledge my faithfulness here —
you shall surely enjoy it.

I wish, with the Lord's will,
to give myself to you
and gently pledge my loving spirit,
and walk the path of marriage.

If you maintain your wedded troth
with me through all time,
here, and if we find our way
some day to Europe.

Always hold me as your own true wife,
as dear as always,
and grant me gentle kindness
through all the course of life."

He kissed the ring-line's hands,
the helm-lord then spoke:
"My promise I shall keep and end —
you may place your trust in that."

She then addressed the man:
"May the heavenly smith grant
swiftly from His heights
His aid — and strengthen your health and might."

"Long before this I loved you here,
for in my spirit I perceived
how devotedly you practise
honour, virtue, and piety."

When the jewel-strand had spoken thus,
the shining steel-lord
felt life and spirit revive —
and walked into happiness.

Her speech was for him
better than all the world's medicines;
his health must needs improve —
the bright veil-tree's word.

She made ready fresh provisions,
the finest the world's island could offer,
and brought the newly-cooked delights
to the world's best treasure.

He slept soundly through the night;
now care no longer troubled him;
he rose quickly to his feet
marvellously early in the morning.

He showed her all his wealth,
his betrothed;
the ring-line found this praiseworthy —
she saw there the greatest riches.

The garment-lord explained
that if they reached Christian lands,
"We shall find no want of treasure."

Joy now filled their spirits,
a new beginning for them both;
the fifth year thus ended,
and the fortune-lord was well again.

The sixth year now entered
upon Berthold's island sojourn;
the couple prepared
and hastened toward their wedding.

They began to prepare the feast;
the time came for the appointed wedding;
the man and the ring-maiden
had a fine selection of provisions.

Berthold then led forth his bride
upon a level field;
their exchange of vows was fine,
well-prepared and heart-stirring.

He took her hand and then
raised his eyes to heaven:
"Holy Trinity," he spoke,
"send me help in Thy best will.

The jewel-lady whom I love here,
let her be my own wife;
I marry her first of all
before Thy presence now.

I shall show my wedded faith,
always to her as is right —
all my love and virtue;
this precious oath I swear.

Hippóliti, upon this
I now give you my hand,"
the wise one then answered,
the noble fire-log-bride:

"Lord, be Thou witness here,
as the mind of man is known to Thee;
I take Berthold the worthy
for my husband.

My promise also," the lily-bride
spoke gently,
"is to be true and faithful to him,
loving him through all my life."

Berthold then tenderly
embraced his bride
and let the love-light shine
that he had found beside him.

Well his speech was composed,
choosing thus these fair words:
"May the gentle Lord bless
and care for us both through life.

And if God grants us
the fruit of this marriage-bond,
then may He well give us wisdom
to raise them as the Creator requires.

If it please the Lord of Heaven,
from this dwelling of verse,
to let us reach Europe
at some appointed time —"

When the wise one had spoken so,
the tale's burden filled the hall;
Hippóliti then said her "Amen"
three times over.

They began to sing a psalm,
both of them devout;
the ceremony was not wrong —
it healed the joy of the bridal pair.

They feasted in their hall,
each leading the other by the hand;
peacefully they ate their wedding meal,
dispensing their bounty there.

After the meal was done,
they prepared their evening devotion;
with skilful art they offered
their praise to Christ.

The couple then retired
to rest in one another's arms,
with love and joy in abundance —
I shall say the least about this.

Beneath the sheet beside his bride,
Berthold now had his wish;
the greatest happiness the high world offers
entered his breast.

Let the honourable pair
sleep well and peacefully;
now my tenth ríma's glory
departs from its memorial paths.

Ríma XI

The newly married couple settle into life on the island. Hippóliti keeps house while Berthold works the fields with the apes and the tamed savage. They hunt and fish, observe the Sabbath, and teach the savage Christian ways. He is baptized Wolfgang after Berthold's lost kinsman. In the eighth year they celebrate a jubilee. While the couple walk in the sunshine, the apes discover a burrowing creature called a Morgos and tear up the bedroom floor in pursuit. Hippóliti discovers gold dust beneath the floorboards. Berthold digs up a fortune — a hundred full pounds of gold sand. He rewards the apes with maize and apple wine. Reflecting on the old letter of Walmandara, Berthold recognizes God's providence in his fortune.

Mansöngur

Now rises up the precious day —
Mjörva's daughter flees away —
and so a new poem begins,
brightening the lamps of verse.

When the proud old age has settled
and the cold of evening thunders,
I would entertain the folk
through the long evening vigil.

Often I found myself on this world's ground
bound to the joy of being;
the glad temper given to men —
its blessings are fleeting things.

So it goes, as ever it does —
I take little heed of what is told;
I have received both the gentle
and the hard in this world.

Often in the world's given course
joy proves itself a wanderer;
manifold are a man's fortunes
while the spirit endures.

Many a day presses on me
with weariness and fatigue,
yet the Lord is pleased to grant me
rest in His own season.

I scarcely long for what I know —
to change the customs of the faith;
I choose instead the peaceful way,
tranquility and peace.

That fellowship I count as blessed
where peace makes its dwelling;
in that place I receive contentment,
and the mind is troubled less.

Berthold gained the joy of blessing
after many a trial;
with the soul's contentment he enjoyed
the good man's portion, never cold.

Such is the lot that falls to the fortunate —
it sustains the memory of men:
satisfaction, blessing, and peace —
it is good to rest content with these.

Now I press my verse-scroll forward;
often I would seek a glimpse of light.
I must turn from the mansöngur
and bend now to the ríma.

The Story

The newlyweds found no sorrow,
each burning with love for the other.

Through the first nights of bliss
their joy of marriage flourished;
the happy household was well made.

In the bright morning she rose,
both of them refreshed;
he worked the fields outside
with the apes and the tamed man,
while the wife managed the household within.

She hunted birds and fish
and prepared good food;
each day he went about his tasks
and each brought their earnings home.

Together most things now were gathered
to give them pleasure;
the happiness and the honour
that is called the world's finest were found.

The gold-lady learned English
from her husband,
and Dutch besides, the wise woman —
learning does not diminish a wife.

So that if they should one day
reach those lands,
she would be gladly and well dressed
for the shore of the clever ones.

The gold-lady fixed her spirit
on useful things;
she most desired to visit
her husband's fatherland.

In Europe, wives of rank
enjoy honour and distinction;
she therefore yearned
to enjoy the same.

He told her then:
she learned for her part
that in Portugal, she knew,
women are well honoured.

They lived thus in prosperity,
performing their labours,
and served God and dignity
no less faithfully.

Every seventh day they kept as holy,
singing beautifully,
practising the reading of God's word,
their tongues in graceful order.

Most gladly they made this their joy,
in the groves of the spirit;
the savage too was doing well,
drawn to their manners.

He learned their teaching there,
his thoughts in quiet composure;
above all he strove
to remain no longer lost.

O, how that one was transformed now,
known to be glad-hearted;
he went about with gentle skill,
just like a Christian man.

His thoughts turned then to this:
he wished to seek it quickly,
to be baptised soon —
Berthold granted this.

The victory-lord took into his arms
the one described, the branch-warrior;
he baptised him with the name Wolfgang —
the garments of anguish vanished.

The rope-wielder rejoiced greatly
at making this one Christian;
the name of his own dear kinsman he found —
fame belonged to that man.

He was worthy of a Christian name,
careful and virtuous;
he proved himself well-mannered,
ever-gentle and kind.

Joy ruled the spirit's midst
of the pious sword-tree,
who had a small household
with its Christian customs.

The seventh year then truly passed;
the fine eighth now entered,
fruitful and mild.

A jubilee celebration
the couple held, the saga tells —
such was the custom of those days.

After devotional services
they both went out,
for the weather was warm and gentle
in that tropical land.

In the clear sunshine
they enjoyed their freedom,
receiving the warm rays
of spiritual joy.

But meanwhile the apes within
were left inside;
those gaping ones, it is reported,
lost all composure.

They all became agitated,
aware of something in the earth;
a creature called a morgos,
burrowing hard with scraping sounds.

Like a mole it rolled and turned,
scarcely able to stay still;
this gave a sharp alarm
to the foolish, jumping apes.

They dug a great hole
down through the floor;
they wanted to reach it —
a furious, stubborn contest.

Under the bedchamber they
would not stop reaching;
they loosened the foundation,
tearing the floor apart.

Everything there was displaced,
all filled with dust;
a table set on boards
fell with the greatest crash.

They ripped up the golden sand,
exhausting their bodies;
they did not spare themselves at all,
spending their allotted strength.

Unwearying at the hunt,
they dug well and strong,
but they could not catch
the creature, though they thought they had.

When the couple came home at evening,
they could see all the wreckage —
the aftermath of the stubbornness.

Berthold struck the apes at once,
stiffly, without delay;
the foolish ones had to cease
their digging frenzy.

He set about putting much to rights,
working cleverly;
then something happened, named in verse,
that suddenly eased their troubles.

The jewel-lady found the sand
and wished to test it;
it seemed wonderfully heavy,
weighed in the hand.

It was dark inside, so she went outside;
the lady thus hid her errand;
gladly and freely she recognised
that this was pure gold sand.

She asked her husband
where this treasure might come from;
he answered that he did not know —
the island itself must bear it.

He said he had never seen
this sand before;
her eyes lit upon the woman again
and she spoke once more.

"Gold sand I have often seen —
I took note of it;
just as in Peru, this island
has the finest quality."

"My father valued above all treasure,"
she told,
"the yellow riches, stored and saved —
gold sand carried on ships."

He found this most intriguing,
the bright-browed island lord,
when the serpent-wave-bride
finished her report.

He lifted more floorboards next,
in the other rooms of the house;
the man dug into the floor
and found yet more gold sand.

The couple then for a time
weighed it with fine measures;
they found a full hundred pounds
beneath their very feet.

They put the sand into sacks —
such things should not be forgotten;
the joy that came to them
made their spirits dance.

"It is a wonder," the faithful wife said,
"how you have now rewarded
the apes for their work."

Berthold laughed and smoothly said,
soothing her playful worry,
that all was well and safe —
they would be satisfied.

He then gave his apes
maize and other good things;
he also gave them apple-wine —
the fine ones began to dance.

That custom, unusual for them,
to receive wine,
made them lurch and stagger
from side to side — a comical sight.

The couple long enjoyed the feast;
the hard work had been well rewarded,
and no punishment was remembered.

He then turned to his ring-bride
and spoke of serious matters:
"If we should reach Europe,
we would be called prosperous."

"My thoughts foretell to me,"
his answer was confirmed,
"that few men there
would become richer than we."

"What falls from his lips is true,"
she said, "I am surely not poor;
better than sea-shore sand —
such wealth appeals to me."

"All the fruits and produce
that I possess with dignity —
they are more necessary to me
here on this island."

"I note well now," he said,
in the groves of his spirit,
"what Walmandara wisely wrote
in the old days.

That if anyone should dwell here,
the arrow-lord might find,
it would not be fruitless
in the world for him.

And if one keeps the fear of God,
that good man,
he shall receive fortune and treasure,
glad in the world's hall."

Berthold found that he had indeed
mastered the secret of fortune;
he rejoiced therefore in his spirit's hall,
granting the blessings of true fortune.

The fragment of verse now fades;
little more I say about it;
the power of poetry leaves me —
it is time to rest.

Ríma XII

The poet invokes the mead of poetry for the twelfth time, quarrelling with Odin in the traditional manner. Berthold, having won Hippóliti, has conquered fortune. The story turns: Hippóliti falls ill — not with disease but with pregnancy. Berthold prays to God, and she delivers a baby boy. He is baptized Gotthlíf. After six weeks, Hippóliti nurses the child herself. One day while Berthold is out hunting, Wolfgang rushes in to report that cannibals have returned — ten or more, with a black captive they are butchering. Berthold arms himself with four muskets and two pistols. He and Wolfgang creep through the oaks, fire into the cannibals, kill six, and chase the survivors. Wolfgang calls to the last fleeing cannibal in his mother-tongue and discovers the man is his own brother. The brother falls at Berthold's feet; he is taken in, and the dead are buried. Berthold inspects the cannibals' canoe, hauls it around the island, and returns home. Hippóliti, who has been terrified, embraces her husband with joy. The new servant proves loyal. Berthold teaches him and his brother marksmanship, though the brother is terrified of the musket. The island lord now considers the threat of further raids and builds a small redoubt armed with four cannon. Wolfgang stands watch each night. The ninth year begins.

Mansöngur

I push out from the harbour now
for the twelfth time;
upon the broad sea of verse
the timber-ship's keel lies within.

I let it run
to the spoils of the hair-silver —
if it goes well as I wish,
may a fair ring-interval be granted.

Surely there dwells in my mind
the fine daughter of Suttungr;
she drives me onward here —
though I am too poor for the task.

Rati's auger may bore through the mountain
when Baugi draws near;
if it avails me, I would slip
inside through the opening.

Overboldness may seize me often here —
such is its way;
beneath the birch-paths it lies hidden,
how Gunnlöð receives me.

I seek to bring home the glory,
the fame of the Rock of Hnitbjörg;
if my will is well served,
no one shall deceive me with tricks.

It is said that the treasure-linden
once kept there in store
three full casks of wisdom's wine —
to visit them is my purpose here.

If by chance it were allowed,
Odin had in the old days
let himself inside
and stirred the desire of the flesh.

The mighty Even-High with women's company
drained the tear of the wine;
cunning upon the treacherous skins,
three nights he lay in deceit.

I shall never be like him,
skilled at the labours of love;
yet what hardens me most it can —
the jewel-maker grants me little.

Skill and measure must be used
with the proud giver of Thjazi's gifts;
little enough shall content me
if I receive a foaming Son's-cup.

From that something may be dispensed,
if things go well;
I choose, beside the dark rings,
the gentle pleasure of the mind.

The people kindly ask me here
to add to my troubles;
when the verse urges me onward,
I often go singing.

The favour of the woman grants me joy,
the linden of the swimming light;
the ill-temper of the one is washed away —
this sometimes proves to be true.

The Story

Berthold the wise walked the path of fortune
at last in the end;
when he won Hippóliti,
his grief was severed from the man.

The gentle ring-sun received
the best that was his due;
the treasure-bearer was therefore most
her remedy there.

Many a man has laboured for less
to win a maiden's favour;
from death he won her —
freeing the wave-fire's goddess.

The lovely island, furnished with virtue —
let me not conceal the fortune;
longer I may not draw out my mansöngur —
I cannot do so this time.

As before, the tale was left:
the famed young couple
enjoyed their fortunate lot
and the gold-fair contentment.

The story tells that so it happened
some time later:
the treasure-giving woman fell ill —
a cause of sorrow for Berthold.

Her ease was forbidden;
the body began to swell;
upon all food the woman
found a great distaste within herself.

This weighed upon his mind;
he bore a heavy anxiety:
it would become dropsy,
the weapon-lord thought.

No human remedy he found
to heal that woman's sickness;
trembling, in his mind,
he cried aloud to the Creator.

He prayed that the illness might be turned
away from his wife,
and that help be sent to her in time —
the sword-bender was granted this.

She was healed — new happiness;
the cure of health she received;
the honour-blessed treasure-ground
gave birth to a baby boy.

Berthold took the child in his arms,
gently embraced and kissed it;
a new moment of rejoicing came —
beside the spear-lord joy increased.

The father undertook to foster
the fair child;
as long as the mother
could not lend her strength.

He raised the boy well,
that elm-tree of desire;
he did not long leave him,
the little boy, unbaptized.

The spear-wielder thus decreed:
he baptized the child Gotthlíf,
attesting thereby a deed of wisdom,
desiring the Lord's help and grace.

For six weeks the wife enjoyed
her health returned;
then she nursed her son Gotthlíf,
herself attending, resolute of spirit.

Berthold did not stay at home that day —
so it happened one morning —
he went out to hunt birds,
that serpent-heath warrior.

The valiant Wolfgang returned
from the field;
he cried out to his master,
hurrying then as fast as he could.

Running, he brought the man his clothes
where he might be found;
he rushed with weapons —
and spoke these words to him:

"Our troubles now grow heavy —
I tell you plainly:
more of them have come here,
those wretched savages.

The yellow hateful ones I know well —
my old countrymen;
their other enemies
they are killing and butchering alive.

Black men, those corrupters,
they have with them in their party;
the cruel ones are cutting them
into pieces eagerly.

It is told they number
ten or more,
set upon the shore in the same place
where I was cast up before."

Berthold's spirit was gripped with dread
at the arrival of so many guests;
at once he sent for
two muskets to be fetched home.

Little then restrained his feet;
he made his way swiftly;
the brand-breaker kept pace
with the master's orders.

The housewife, in her mind,
found great fear;
the woman knew well
that company of savages.

The warrior locked the gates fast,
seized the tools before him;
then swiftly with haste —
Berthold, the daring one, set forth.

The resolute man there
prepared for hard blows;
he rammed the bullets and the shot,
firmly into the powder-horns.

Four muskets those warriors bore,
and two pistols besides;
and so they went forward, the two of them,
wasting no more time.

Berthold quickly then
crept behind the oaks;
he saw five and three with spirit —
those spear-bearers very close by.

Some of the yellow fools still
went about their work;
with cruelty some of them were
hacking a black man to pieces.

They roasted themselves — so it is told —
the eager eaters of wolf's-meat;
some kindled fire with skill,
and there they roasted game.

The island-lord chose to draw nearer,
cunning there at his task;
he pressed forward until he came
within musket-range of them.

He fired off one musket —
this created uproar;
three were cast down by fortune's gift,
those villains flung into death's abyss.

He grabbed and loaded the other gun,
the loaded one he seized;
two more he found alive,
and shot the life from them.

Three brave ones remained still —
those savages who fled;
onward the terror drove them —
they gained little from their spoils.

Berthold pursued them then;
the third he held at the musket;
he fired upon one of them —
and that one tumbled from the world.

The two who remained, as might be expected,
wished to save their lives;
afraid, they ran onward —
they thought to reach the canoe.

Wolfgang guarded the boat from them,
standing with musket ready;
the other he struck down dead —
that struck one bid the world farewell.

The last one who remained —
Berthold did not trust himself to catch;
he called on swift Wolfgang
to seize that savage.

The steel-wielder thought nothing
of holding back;
that one would run, the quick one,
like a hunting hound that springs at one.

Over the fields of life's goddess
his feet grew weary,
until at last he saw the man from afar,
exhausted there with terror.

In their mother-tongue
the iron-rider called;
the other stood and listened —
he expected nothing good.

Wolfgang drew near now
to the named savage;
so he spoke: "Hear me, you —
take heart and do not flee.

There is no escape for you now,
neither standing nor running;
if your life is dear to you,
you shall stretch it far here.

Your fate is sealed,
and your companions
have walked the road to Hel;
now you may consider your fortunes.

It is best for you to surrender,
gently and with sweetness;
then you shall gain the most,
and cheerfully win fortune.

A generous master here
fortune grants you;
follow me and find him —
quickly you shall make that choice."

Though uncertain and unsure,
the savage hesitated long,
unsure of what to decide —
fear tormented his mind.

"How is it that you," the man replied,
"came here before me?
I begin to recognize you clearly —
you bear your life intact."

Wolfgang stood and stared at him;
he studied the man before him;
there he recognized his brother —
and was glad at the news.

He confessed at once to him
that they were brothers;
he bade him come home with him,
sending fear's traces away.

"You shall have good days
beside my lord;
into your hands then passes
fine fortune and high contentment."

Gladly they went homeward,
and found Berthold;
Wolfgang waited, and soon gave speech —
so he spoke to the steel-tree:

"News of bounty I find
to bring before you:
listen, good master —
here is my younger brother.

Fortune first guided him
to arrive here;
let him lodge here in your protection,
and make him a Christian too."

Berthold smiled and began to laugh,
the ring-bearer, at this:
"God still grants me
the grace to let this be."

Before Berthold's feet there
fell the savage,
marking the spirit of humility —
fear touched his mind.

"Here now," said the master,
looking toward Wolfgang,
the worthy man spoke:
"raise your brother to his feet."

The ring-bearer obeyed at once
and spoke fair words of praise;
the other quickly took heart —
there he could be content.

Berthold told the two brothers
to bury the dead;
they did not hesitate to obey —
he was glad to lighten their burden.

The captain himself then went
to inspect the captured canoe;
the spear-lord thought
it both fine and large.

Around the island the men then rowed
in that vessel;
on the other side they fastened it,
and the craft was hauled up on shore.

Berthold walked home to the farm,
having finished that labour;
the ground of the sea-fire received him —
she embraced her man joyfully.

The woman had borne a bitter fear
for her husband
while he was at his labour
against that band of savages.

She rescued from peril the gentle one,
her dear husband;
that gladdened him in skill —
he had gained a new servant.

The weaving-woman marvelled
at Wolfgang's loyalty:
his own countryman, the first he saw,
yet he did not aid that band.

Often she was bound by fear
lest, should they find their way here,
those men might come
to their kinsman's aid.

Berthold cheerfully said
she need not worry about that;
the thorn-ground woman agreed —
it was among the best of comforts.

The happiness that blessed the couple
continued to prosper;
the treasure-tree had come —
Wolfgang home with his brother.

So it happened, told in verse,
that Berthold taught Wolfgang
to train the savage well
in a new way of life.

Gladly he then began
to teach his brother,
with that industry and diligence
that delighted his gentle spirit.

He taught him the arts of bookish learning,
explaining them to him;
the man made swift progress —
this increased the couple's joy.

Berthold taught Wolfgang too
to shoot a musket well;
the sword-spinner found at first
a fright within him.

But his brother had no desire
to look upon the gun;
the fire's glow sent him flying
as though rushing headlong into terror.

He looked upon the fate of his countrymen,
his own people;
therefore he was, above all measure,
seized with fear at the sight of a musket.

The island-lord considered
the threat of more savages;
if a great band should land there,
coming with warlike violence.

Quickly he chose to establish
a defence on the height,
selecting for that purpose
the most suitable spot on the ground.

Foresight requires a man
to advance his plans;
now the grim brand-wielder
built a small redoubt.

Swiftly it was done that time,
the undertaking;
four cannon he brought there,
the spear-grove lord.

The spear-rider prepared them —
the weapons of death were readied;
and he loaded them with round
shot, bullets, and balls.

Though of little use for a household,
the warriors had them nonetheless;
and nearby a small watch-house —
the eager shepherd-knight built.

Berthold's worthy servants
followed him bravely;
very daring in their valour,
they worked there obediently.

The work was quickly carried out,
performed with full completion;
faithful upon the watch with strength,
Wolfgang stood there every night.

He was to keep guard
against any attack of savages,
watching the island's shores —
no one might pass unseen.

Before any man might approach
the woman of the fair strand,
they could shoot countless men
down to the ground.

By the end of the eighth year
all this was fully done;
the ninth year then entered,
useful with its harvest.

The people here, fair as they are,
bring me no praise to offer;
my verses are but small —
Odin's cup runs out of wine.

Ríma XIII

The poet delivers his most personal and lengthy mansöngur — twenty-one stanzas on the trials of verse-making, the envy and quarrels of his neighbours, the noise of the world, and his longing for the peace of the Fortunate Island. The narrative resumes: the ninth year opens. Hippóliti is again with child. The couple pray for rescue — a Christian ship to carry them home. A daughter is born and baptized Kristíana. Wolfgang's brother settles in, is baptized Joseph on New Year's Day. The brothers are taught marksmanship, though Joseph is terrified of the guns. Hippóliti gives birth to twins, but both die. Guards are posted on the heights — Wolfgang and Joseph keep watch from opposite sides of the island. One night Wolfgang fires a signal cannon. Berthold rushes to the redoubt. Cannon fire echoes from the sea — it is no cannibal raid but a European ship in distress. Berthold sends the brothers by boat to guide the ship to a safe harbour, with strict orders: no one may land without the island-lord's permission. The brothers deliver the message. The ship is Dutch, blown off course from Batavia. Berthold goes in disguise to meet the captain — and discovers it is his own cousin Wolfgang, now a prosperous ship's master. The cousins embrace. Berthold offers provisions, ship repair, and passage home. Joy fills the island.

Mansöngur

The cock of Herjann crows aloud,
giving voice with a new note;
flown out from the hall of the gods,
he would give entertainment to the people.

Long has the nation thirsted,
yearning to taste the mead upon the lake;
if they get from me what they seek first,
they promise they will give their thanks.

The worst of it is that I have
nothing but dregs to offer;
the refuse thrown from Odin —
from that comes the hindrance of my verse.

Little remarkable do I find
to tighten the string of poetry;
for the effort and my will,
I ask the wise people to forgive me.

The people will always find
occasion to complain of me;
if my crooked verse
travels the country in disrepair.

My poetry — I ask the people still
to mend it with indulgence;
then I shall show them
my gratitude through all my days.

I have never before composed a poem
in this new style;
it may be thought that little art
the untamed hand can show.

Then I set out to compose
a poem from the story of Berthold;
many a season's interval,
many a trouble, dragged at me.

Various verses I have been asked for
and often pressed to write;
much has hindered me
from the accustomed stave of rímur.

Rough blasts sometimes blow against me —
the foul old noise of the world;
the chase of ill-temper often runs,
and seldom does peace prevail.

Fellowship's peace is spoiled —
Fama kindles discontent;
among the people, many changes —
men's peace is flung to the wind.

Harsh words and taunts fly,
curses and imprecations thunder;
when the attack comes,
the cauldron of malice boils and bubbles.

Up with blows sometimes erupts
wild glee and roaring laughter;
wolf-frenzy often rises from this —
out of quarrels comes weeping.

It chills the restless spirit
and binds the small fortune to itself;
all whose talk is ugly
drive the good spirit from them.

With such manners in the household
I find companions where I live;
the pain of ill-tempered discord,
though many places are not so.

Where I am this year,
I often think peace falters;
commotion rises high,
and the bloom of joy decays.

The common folk have most often practised
the methods I have described;
the worst time to waste
is when God's grace is given us.

Through the uproar of the world,
how shall I draw forth my verse?
Swiftly I cannot manage it,
and the story may suffer for it.

More peaceful in the old days
was life on the Fortunate Island;
there I would like to be
and turn the tale into verse.

Yet I cannot reach it —
the peril of life prevents me;
unsteady is the ship in winter's sea —
most likely it would founder.

With this my mansöngur
I may waste no more time;
may gladness come to us —
the people desire the ríma to arrive.

The Story

Before my ship's course was cut short,
I now return to the tale;
over Berthold there bloomed
the ninth year's opening.

The precious one, the dear and valued —
the lady Hippóliti grew heavy;
now she was with child for the second time —
I believe Berthold knew of it.

Both now prayed to the Lord
to send a Christian ship to them soon,
so that they might leave the island
and depart with it at once.

In both their hearts
that rich longing dwelt:
to reach Europe again —
and this they later gained as well.

The time came when the twin-sun
took a birth-sickness upon her bed;
she bore a fair daughter —
this increased Berthold's joy.

He took the child in his arms
and swiftly baptized her;
the pure maid, bright and small,
was given the name Kristíana.

Wolfgang's brother grew accustomed
to abandoning his wild ways;
he received good instruction
and underwent a change of manners.

At first, while the spear-lord
knew little of household tasks,
it is told that the foster-father Gotthlíf
lovingly cared for the boy.

Likewise the said man was charged
with carrying little Kristíana;
with her, for her comfort,
the sword-branch was appointed to serve.

Though accustomed to the fostering of children
he may perhaps not have been,
the work was done well —
no doubt was found in his loyalty.

Once when he was outdoors,
carrying the tiny girl,
he saw a bird flying there
and wished to catch it alive.

Berthold had tamed some others of the kind
inside the garden;
he had clipped their wings,
which greatly hindered their flight.

These birds bred and multiplied,
and laid eggs like hens;
this was both useful and entertaining,
and good to add to the table.

The savage desired eagerly
to bring that bird to Berthold;
he left behind upon the ground
the baby girl — hurrying rashly.

He was not slow to give chase,
pursuing the bird onward;
meanwhile a large wild ape
seized the baby girl.

It climbed with her up into an oak,
a tall one standing there;
a sly trick had occurred —
the brute would not be outdone.

The parents heard
their daughter's cries from within;
coming out, they saw everything —
finding little protection against anguish.

Then the savage came running back,
driven by fear and dread,
greatly exhausting his strength —
having caught less than he hoped.

Berthold threatened him then,
in his wrath about to shoot,
if from that wretched ape
he did not retrieve the child at once.

The tree-runner feared
the anger that now pursued him;
he brought a full basket of maize —
the greatest trial of his wits.

He brought it swiftly to the apes
and bade all the others withdraw;
he himself sat down quietly in hiding,
not letting his plan fall.

The apes then began to eat —
the servant fed them the raw food;
and the large one, seeing this,
climbed down from the tall tree.

Together with the others he ate,
and laid the child beside himself;
the rascal made no stir —
it happened all of a sudden.

Now the brand-breaker snatched up
the child from that peril;
the apes tore at his flesh —
quickly he could not get away.

Berthold watched it all closely
and fired a blind shot into the pack;
they scattered at this —
and the wounded one ran off.

He brought the rescued girl
to her parents — the savage;
they were glad of this —
everyone there was content.

The couple then gave thanks
for the Lord's good mercy,
who had willed to save
the young child from harm.

From that time onward
the savage hated all apes;
he plotted against them freely,
wanting them destroyed — the heavy-hearted one.

For both his children there
Berthold had eggs enough;
nourishing food it surely was,
providing growth as need required.

Yet another worry
curtailed the treasure-tree's joy:
how to obtain milk to drink
for the children — that was the question.

The brothers told the ring-lord,
cheering his spirit with this:
on this island, a certain kind of beast
carries excellent milk within.

In appearance the animals were
like European goats;
Berthold often chose some for himself there,
well-fatted dishes from them.

Some of these the men now
caught alive in snares;
they built an enclosure, tall it was,
and penned the beasts inside.

This stock bred freely,
and quickly multiplied within;
the young ones grew tame,
accustomed to human manners.

The meek beasts grew used
to letting themselves be milked well;
neither wealth nor livelihood was lacking —
this prosperity one could call a blessing.

Their fine, bountiful milk
the jewel-field handled well;
she fed her people on cheese —
Berthold found this much to his liking.

Now the ninth year,
the gentle one, was nearly done;
the season of the tenth
arrived with its fair bloom.

The savage was then well ready
to receive baptism;
he desired to accept it —
wishing to enjoy what it offered.

Berthold had often tested him
and found the woman always content;
he trusted the honest man
to bear a name upon himself.

On the first day of the year,
joy, peace, and quiet grew;
the Christian household held
the holiday, as was their custom.

Wolfgang's brother then
Berthold blessed with baptism;
the matter was well managed —
the spirit's joy did not lessen.

The ring-field, glad in thought's garden,
gave him, with wisdom's counsel,
the name of her own father —
she and her godparents were to be.

The name Joseph he received there;
he kept a faith pure and clean
through his whole life,
and walked the path of fortune straight.

Berthold taught both brothers well
the skill of marksmanship;
slowly though the training went for them —
he wished to show the practice.

It must be told — the veil-goddess
bore twins there,
but after the pure baptism they are recorded —
they departed from life.

The overlord of the island
posted two watches outside;
both had their duties —
to guard against the danger of attack.

Wolfgang, every night,
kindled a fire by the cannon;
he could not sleep in peace —
yet it suited him well enough.

One could see that fire from far
if ships were out at sea;
often it seemed to announce
that people should turn their course.

Men might see upon the island
that some were dwelling here;
if a ship were in distress
it could surely sail this way.

On the high sea-cliffs
Joseph laboured similarly;
the fire-keeper in his place
kindled no less a blaze.

Alone was he in that post,
keeping faithful watch through every night;
Berthold was meanwhile
where the sea-battered received their daughters.

On each side there
the brothers were posted;
they guarded against the assault of war,
the sword-lord's bright-kindred.

Each had a small hut beside him
in his own station;
they slept within
when the sun shone in warm hours.

It must be told — the fair company
went about their work well;
one night Wolfgang
hurried home to the farm.

He fired off a powder-blast;
the shot woke Berthold up.
Where the gold-tree's lord had slept,
from pleasant rest he was torn.

He dressed and came out swiftly,
the mighty one, and asked the tidings;
the fire-river warrior boldly
gave his account of this.

He said he heard a storm of shots
thundering from far out at sea;
the storm drove hard —
this gave the warriors cause for worry.

He hastened then to the redoubt,
speaking urgently with the spear-lord;
and on the way at the same time
they heard cannon fire unceasing.

Berthold spoke and reasoned thus —
he guessed it rightly:
"This is not the savages' way —
this is rather a European method."

The shield-tree then fired off
one of the cannon next;
a tremendous sound it gave,
the earth groaning in the echo.

Out at sea after that,
still more shots thundered;
a great rumbling spoke —
the mountains were heard to drone beneath.

The shield-tree fired a second shot
at the right moment;
thereby the others thought
the shore was heavily settled.

The gunners on the ship
could make no sense of the shots;
many thundering blasts
sounded every minute.

The island-lord asked the brothers
to quickly take the smaller boat;
the grove-lord bade them launch it —
if somehow it might help.

Wolfgang spoke these words,
the weapon-bearer in authority:
"We must learn about them,
whether they are in distress.

If so, you must help
to deliver them from trouble;
quickly guide them to land,
and light torches for them.

Tell the lindens of the sand
that no one may set foot on shore
before the island's overlord
first gives his leave.

With obedience let them keep this rule —
announce the terms as set;
otherwise their lives are forfeit
and their ship as well."

After Berthold's bidding,
the brothers went out in the darkness,
rowing through the walrus-field
straight toward the great ship.

The destroyer of the serpent often
stood watch, alone,
so that no one should land
before the sailors might permit themselves.

He feared most of all
lest the strangers prove to be Spanish;
he would pay the greatest price
if cruelty should gain the upper hand.

Now the warm ones guided the ship
into a good harbour,
near the fair goddess of Odin,
and announced the established rules.

Having finished their work,
the brothers came upon shore
and told Berthold the news
from the fair-lady's beach.

The men, unhappy in their spirits,
desired to repair their damaged ship;
they were in sore straits —
it was no pleasure to meet such trouble.

But whence they had sailed upon the sea
remained hidden from our knowledge;
yet some of the serpent-tenders
spoke Portuguese.

Berthold's spirit soon desired
to walk down to the shore;
the brothers lit torches to guide him —
the grove-lord set off straight.

He called three men from the ship
to come and find him upon land;
these obeyed at once —
three men of the thunderbow company.

Quickly arriving, three warriors came,
rowing and holding to shore;
they beached the oar-ship
and greeted the elf of the brands.

The pearl-adorned one addressed them in Portuguese,
graced with honour:
"Welcome, dear men —
may your lives be blessed."

One of them then with the treasure-lord
undertook to deliver his answer:
he said he was sent from
the famed island-lord.

"He wishes to offer you welcome
if you suffer need;
the spear-wielder is generous —
do not fear any trouble."

The goodwill of the island's master
cheered the arriving men;
they said, the branch-warriors,
they wished to come ashore and repair their ship.

They also desired to purchase a vessel,
for sufficient payment in return,
if such things were available —
let the famous one of the gold enjoy.

"We also need fresh water,
as much as necessity demands;
then we shall sail when fair wind comes
from the oar-bearing ship."

The steel-breaker Berthold
then undertook to promise well:
he would bring that matter before the captain,
eager to serve their needs.

"He will meet all these requirements,
known here for many virtues,
as soon as he learns
from what land's settlements you hail."

The shield-trees conversed there:
"This ship is from Holland,
fully fitted in every respect,
set in the best condition.

We wished to sail with a fair wind
upon the whale's road,
along with another fleet —
we set out from Batavia.

A violent storm then
suddenly rose upon us;
the oar-ship was torn asunder —
it seemed to portend loss of life.

Our ship was battered
in the ocean's turmoil,
until we were driven here,
suffering the hard adversity."

When Berthold learned
from whence the ship and men had come,
a thought cut through his mind —
though he showed little joy upon his face.

Then the famed one went home,
taking Joseph with him;
the treasure-sun greeted him —
she found peace and relief from worry.

While Berthold had been away
she prayed to the Lord,
for her spirit bore fear,
sprung from the rumble of the cannonfire.

He went to kiss the island's lady,
and joy he could sustain;
he told the spear-bearer
glad news of the shipwrecked crew.

He spoke further — bearing on his words
with firm trust in his thought:
"The sun of the Lord's mercy
has now risen anew upon us both.

By His kindness, it seems to me,
this ship has been sent here;
we should therefore depart with them —
I believe that is the right fortune."

"Our cry of prayer
He has looked upon with grace;
to reach Europe now —
He gives us means and counsel enough."

Hippóliti wept with joy,
so deeply moved was the island-woman;
she wisely let herself fall
into giving praise to the Almighty.

He then told her next,
in the following words:
all that the situation held —
nothing should be shifted from its course.

The sword-bearer said he must go back
to meet the men again,
and shortly after that
he would give them the island-lord's answer.

So to the shore the famed one walked,
joy and courage enveloped his spirit;
he found the shield-lindens,
and Wolfgang was waiting beside them.

He conveyed the answer
then to the fellowship of brothers:
that landing was permitted
for the men on an appointed ground.

But they must not stray beyond
the boundary set for them here;
if the men do so,
all may live in peace.

In the morning, talk of the ship's repair
and other matters shall be discussed;
also what payment the island's guard
deserves from those who are served.

"Of his goodwill you may be certain,
if you obey;
from these heavy hardships
none of you need fear."

This great generosity
they thanked with eloquent words;
the treasure-lords, ready with skill,
soon parted from the men on shore.

The men of the ship hurried back,
the grove-lords, as necessity demanded;
glad in heart, with clear sense,
they reported all as it had happened.

For two nights past,
the warriors had taken no rest;
the aged sea-daughters
had held them in that turmoil.

The sword-breakers, weary now,
went to seek their gentle rest;
and I too shall be glad
to sleep away from this ríma.

Ríma XIV

The poet offers a fourteenth mansöngur — apologizing for his faults, asking listeners to bear with him, and bidding farewell to his lyric prelude. In the narrative, Berthold hears that a ship has arrived and determines to meet the captain. He disguises himself, walks to the shore, and is brought before the ship's commander. The two men study each other — something stirs in memory. Berthold realizes this is his cousin Wolfgang, now a ship's captain. The cousins embrace and weep. Wolfgang tells how he returned to Holland after the Cape Town disaster, inherited little from his dead father, and worked his way up to command. Berthold reveals his ten years on the Island of Good Fortune, his wife and children, his wealth. He invites Wolfgang home. Wolfgang sees the compound, the fortifications, the cannons, and is astonished. Hippóliti welcomes them with grace. Little Gotthlíf calls them to dinner. The feast is merry. Berthold tells Wolfgang to send sailors to fetch provisions — wine, food, and supplies flow freely to the crew. The ríma closes with satisfaction: the dark chapter gives way to the bright.

Mansöngur

Awakened again — shall the eager one
turn once more to the art of verse?
Before the serpent's bridge of song,
it is best that I make an end.

The ring-lord stirs the blood and lifts the mood
when he offers his verse;
the lovely sounds that brighten song
gladden the paths of the veil.

Amuse yourselves, men, for a little while —
let the breast warm in peace —
if you will kindly regard
these verses of mine.

Though the thread of song weaves its linen,
I must count myself the least;
many faults in my verse-craft
will be found among the wise.

Give my poor offering to the world —
I ask no man's praise;
the verse-refrain, not without worth,
I have vowed to fashion.

No one shall hear from me
the polished play of conceits;
if the judgment be fair,
my songs are set out plainly.

Those who judge the poet's craft
often as the gusting wind —
they lack the sense of those
who, like the blind, see colours.

The seed-rook — mark its making —
and the track of the hand's cunning:
what seems worst to me
is when the verse goes crooked.

Fame often drifts to the unworthy,
many forget to strengthen it;
the world bends verse-craft awry
and shames those who compose.

Often the burden has pressed me hard
on all manner of roads;
some of it has turned out
less than fair.

I ask the dear folk to grant me
honour in this matter —
not to distort my songs;
I seek that gently.

If my verses come to light
bearing their flaws,
and someone corrects them for the better,
that would suit my mind best.

Though I gladly strive here
to draw forth the songs,
never let the people say
that I call myself a poet.

Many might perhaps declare —
and speak for their own profit —
that there is no need to labour
offering Odin's mead to memory.

Since I often let the craft of song
cut into other work,
perhaps something of greater worth
might well have come of it.

Forgive me what is worthless here —
the bridge of the cutting-woman —
the mansöngur shall cease now;
it may be considered finished.

Narrative

Now I return to where I left —
my memory and the tale awaken;
new mercies took their course,
and the seed-rook finds its profit.

The ship-captain's loss was mended,
and it did not lessen his gain;
his heart was glad therefore —
he had found so good a place.

From the string of speech came word
that few should stir themselves overmuch;
let no one presume
beyond the leave he is given.

Berthold then kept careful watch
that all should go well;
no untamed band should approach
too near his dwelling.

Straightaway at dawn the next day
he determined on a great deed:
he would go and find
the master of that island-realm.

He dressed himself in other garments,
the son of the stove's bounty,
trusting that in these
he would be less easily known.

Readily to the shore he walked,
the son of the good-fortune land;
he found men awake on watch
and gave them careful answers.

His faithful servants followed him —
they were given good sense,
and well they understood
the duties laid upon them.

Berthold made his way
past the stiff branches of the treasure,
determined to find the ship's captain
and present himself with craft.

The shield-lindens led him then
to the captain's tent;
when the bold ring-lord rose
from the power of sleep.

As well as he could, with courtesy,
he appeared in friendly manner
and greeted him in Dutch,
clasping his hand.

"My master sends me here to you,"
he said, "and bade me ask:
what is it that you need?
He wishes to lighten your trouble."

The answer came slowly from the two —
they matched each other well;
each one stared at the other,
and there was no merriment in it.

Something stirred in memory —
men sometimes speak this way —
that at some time before
they must have met.

Then the stranger said,
endowed with dignity:
"Undoubtedly you are
a man born in Holland."

"Since you speak the language
so very clearly,
you must have been raised in that land,
free from cold and grief."

"I am an Englishman," the treasure-keeper
answered him,
"and there born;
the ways of life are various."

The island-ruler's fame then spoke:
"I believe I have seen that lord before
and that he once
sailed with my company."

"My mind is strongly stirred,
and the marks you bear are plain;
you have your kinsman with you —
you have been in mortal danger."

From the old events
he found all manner of answers:
at the Cape of Good Hope
it had gone thus.

He recalled the explosion in the air,
the loss of life and more,
the destruction of the ship
upon the open sea.

Then Berthold knew the man
whom he had often seen before —
there stood his own
kinsman of great deeds.

That was his cousin Wolfgang —
joy now woke in him,
and the stirrings of the mind
set the heart to racing.

He asked then: did he not know
his hard-pressed brother-in-arms?
"Yes!" the other answered,
the lord of the flame-wave.

Overcome with wonder,
as the other was with joy,
he found his dearest kinsman
living before him.

The bonds of love
took their sudden hold;
they fell into each other's arms,
those kinsmen, before they could speak.

Nearly beside themselves
with this new joy,
there kindled in them more
a loyalty beyond measure.

Then came a meeting of gladness
that shone before the groves of men;
the hour of profit now began
to bloom upon the ground of the world.

Wolfgang's words came then,
with all his rightful feeling:
"You still draw the breath of life —
oh, this amazes me.

The truth I tell you now
so that no doubt may linger:
many have mourned your departure
from this world, and for a long time."

From Berthold's eyelids fell
hot and burning tears;
he gave heed to old sorrows
and the wounds of the spirit.

Then the weapon-bearer said,
composing himself:
"Much there is now to remember —
both hardship's pain and joy.

The waves of the deep sea cast me up;
danger caught me like a falcon;
from the jaws of death
the Lord's strong hand drew me out.

Wonder and awe attend
all that has happened, I must say;
good fortune ruled, and happiness has been mine
to endure this joy.

Ten years upon this island
I have lived in gladness;
manifold is the happiness now —
great the fortune founded for me.

A thousandfold thanks
to the Almighty Lord;
sweet shall be the praise rendered over land and sea —
may His glory never fail."

Wolfgang with amazement
heard all this told;
of so fine a circumstance
the spear-bearer spoke.

"When I came home to Holland
and parted from you,
I saw, from the damage done,
that the ship had received me in want.

I had little wealth there
after my father's death;
bread ran short, and it was hard —
bitter were those straits.

Then freely, with a willing spirit,
I gave myself to great enterprises;
free once more, with good fortune,
I suffered no disgrace for it.

It has gone well for me;
I often found gladness;
here I am become the captain
of a whale-road ship.

This is the best one a man could have —
let it be set down in writing;
the good ship Gallóvan
runs better than most.

Oh, what joy it gives me —
this is the greatest happiness —
that out upon the deep I find you,
my dearest kinsman.

I beg you, my best friend,
quickly show me your aid;
my life's necessity depends on it —
support my fortune.

Materials for the ship's repair
I would have from you;
the timber of the slipway has failed,
and the game of peril is ugly.

I beg wine and provisions too —
your care will be certain;
if my need is supplied,
payment shall not shrink."

Berthold smiled and spoke:
"That power which saves —
God who gave to me here
shall give to you in return.

Gladly I would go from here —
though it might have been sooner;
I would sail with you to Holland
if the passage be fitting.

That good fortune shows itself clearly to me —
the best now in the world;
you are sent to fetch me —
such is the faith I keep.

My skill here is very great;
we can change our provisions;
dear fellow Christian brother,
do not refuse this first request.

If all goes smoothly as it may,
my fortune shall be used;
long have I felt the desire
to visit my fatherland.

You shall have lodging and wine with me,
my glad friend;
your ship shall have what you need,
and so your damage may shrink.

In my spirit I find joy —
no silence holds me back;
I shall help you from trouble now,
my suffering brother.

Likewise my heart is glad
that fortune brought this into my hands:
to sail now with my kinsman
who was sent to me."

Both their loves took hold,
and stirred within them;
the famous wielder of swords
quickly gained his ship-room.

Wolfgang asked to be told
what riches Berthold possessed;
glad he was in that place,
and lived unenslaved.

Quick to act and free of grief,
the spear-bearer told
of his life on that island —
all of it, boldly.

Then he invited his kinsman home —
the linden of the fjord's fire —
who silently accepted the offer;
that was his good friend.

He sent his servant home
to magnify the report;
with treasure and provisions in tow,
the friend was received with joy.

Then the best man he had beside him
he led as his guest;
bonds of trust do not break —
they drive out most sorrows.

There the kinsman saw the fortifications
and the copper cannons;
then his amazement grew,
that useful warrior of the brand.

He spoke these words plainly:
"You are unconquerable;
here you are lord over the sea
as well as over the land."

Both then made their way
to Berthold's dwelling;
it is said that kinsmen there
welcomed each other with joy.

Hippóliti showed herself with both her children,
followed by garments and finery;
cheerfully she greeted them,
the generous mother-wolf.

She bade him welcome —
the skilful weaver of cloth,
the linden of shining gold —
and used the customs of courtesy.

The sword-swinger praised
the buildings and the compound;
much there was to wonder at
within his thoughtful mind.

The gold-maker with laughing words
began to speak, smiling:
"It is good living on these wilds —
well established here indeed."

"This island ought rather to be called
the fat and fertile island,
for it gives happiness and peace;
one can see the wheat sprouting."

"There in spirit you rejoice —
the trial of hardship has eased;
fortune gave you its helping hand
and led you to find this goodly land."

Berthold answered gently with warmth,
offering the fruits of plenty:
"Wherever I may live out my years,
the island shall be called Farsæla — the Fortunate."

Wolfgang marvelled at everything
that he could see there;
wonder-struck in that place,
he took in the fresh delight.

He saw fields all around,
the treasure-god's bounty,
and the high enclosure
within which the animals lay.

The linden of spears showed
his friend the abundant treasure —
the best and the brightest of it,
to his famous companion.

Then out came young Gotthlíf,
the small, bold lad, and said:
"Food is set upon the table —
we cannot wait any longer."

Berthold led his brother
to the table with him,
and the mistress of the linen-grove
bade him welcome.

Beside them sat the lady of the house,
dispelling all sorrow,
and bade the warrior excuse
the hasty preparation of the meal.

Wolfgang ate gladly —
there was no lack of table-talk —
and he said that nowhere
had he received finer food.

"On this empty wilderness,
I marvel at the good things here;
this is what he speaks of most,"
said the famous keeper of garments.

"By that high cape, few
would have imagined
that such bounty lay before you —
the blessing upon the earth's ground."

With joy he put forward his request,
in the finest words,
and chose a little refreshment
for the sake of his own men.

In return he offered payment —
Berthold should have it;
the treasure-giver said his wealth
would never run dry.

The other laughed kindly and agreed,
speaking with courteous skill:
he said he wished, however,
not to take a single shilling.

The guest was cheered,
and the greatest effort was made:
"The best gift is what is freely given,"
the warrior of spears said.

"Let some of your sailors now
come here to me and fetch
food and wine, since you wish it —
let them attend to their need."

He sent his men from home,
the linden of sore wounds,
back to the ship to say
that they should go and find the foreigners.

To Berthold's generous bidding, true in faith,
the sailors went —
some of them now came
to take the instruments of the hour.

With them came wine and food —
the brothers had arranged it;
the grove-lords of garments carried it out
to the ship, with deeds of goodness.

The sailors ate their fill now —
plenty of good provisions —
and the food fell well
for all who were very hungry.

They drank there to the island-master
and his welfare,
and the band of warriors
wished him every fortune.

Soon, with the task completed,
the bold brothers went
from the broad skiff homeward —
Berthold's wants were met.

The lindens, now returned home,
cheerful in spirit,
careful in all matters,
sat down before the table.

The merry warriors refreshed their mood,
and praised their luck;
the kinsmen sat together in honour,
ate and drank as one.

The dark chapter loses its grip,
and the contest shall not linger;
the bright accord now reveals
the turn of the verse-craft.

Ríma XV

The poet composes his longest and most personal mansöngur — twenty-nine stanzas in a new meter (three-line stanzas), telling of his own life: born in Skagafjörður, forty-four years old, now settled at Fáskrúðsfjörður in the Eastfjords. He reflects on hardship, the Lord's protection, and exile from his birthplace. In the narrative, Berthold reveals to Wolfgang that he named his servant after him; Wolfgang is touched. Practical plans are laid: how long will the ship repair take? Berthold offers all his materials freely. Wolfgang spends the day with the family and praises Hippóliti's virtues. He jokes that all he lacks now is a good wife. The next day Wolfgang brings a priest to bless Berthold's marriage and baptize the children. The ship is repaired in six days. Berthold loads cannons, wine, provisions, gold sand, coins, and his parrot Skjönkopp aboard. He leaves behind supplies in the compound for any future castaway, carves a farewell inscription on the gateposts in English, Portuguese, Dutch, and Malay, and kneels with his family on the beach to sing a hymn of thanksgiving. They board. The Island of Good Fortune vanishes astern.

Mansöngur

Again a new song I must begin —
I cannot delay;
too long I've strayed from the track of verse.

Often the mind would blow its bellows
in the smithy of song,
but the hands have other work.

For a long time I cannot find the hour
to take up the pen;
I always live with this vexation.

Most often I must leave one thing
to go to another;
I have to be quick about everything.

I have lived in many places
and been put to use,
and had plenty to do in most of them.

I was born in Skagafjörður —
let it be told —
and was widely known there, I believe.

Often misfortune of every kind
laid its hand upon me;
much has driven through my days.

Throughout my life I have been made
to test every danger,
far from the sight of other men.

But always the Lord of heaven
has helped me;
often I saw the token of His protection.

May the warmest praise and thanks
be given to the Almighty;
that is what I will repay Him.

Once I spent three years
in hardship's grip
on the little island of Eyri.

Eastward here I have been borne
over the current of destiny,
the swan of the high wave.

Forty-four years, as I reckon it,
I had then dwelt
upon the earth.

Here in Breiðdalur I have kept
the parish seat
for ten years and a little more.

Most of the folk here
have suited me well,
and given me kind company.

I shall not hide it,
if anyone asks:
I am now in Fáskrúðsfjörður.

I shall scarcely see again
the fair Skagafjörður
in my remaining days.

There is no use fretting about it,
especially at this late hour;
well enough I fare in the east.

One day I shall leave this exile
and afterward find
the true fatherland.

Berthold too from his exile
shall soon take his leave
and visit his fatherland at last.

After trials endured, he saw
the bow of affliction bend;
he came at last to tranquil rest.

He tested both the gentle and the harsh,
as the verse records;
patient above many others.

Often he prayed the gracious Lord
to free him
from foul sins.

Likewise to drive away
all manner of misfortune,
and to lend him good luck.

And to grant him always
the help of goodness,
so that he might follow God's will.

In prayer he practiced
and in good conduct,
and thereby earned fortune's increase.

On the Fortunate Island he lived
amid every kind of bounty —
peace in the finest seclusion.

I would not have left that place
for a very long time,
had I been the one cast there.

But I must mind the time now
and take my leave;
from my mansöngur I must depart.

Narrative

I left the tale last time
where the brothers stood before the table,
full of sorrow's spirit.

Friendly words the kinsmen shared,
and Berthold spoke these words:

"Cousin, you became a father to me
in your absence;
and so I had good reason

to christen my servant
after your name;
that prudent one proves your equal."

Wolfgang was well pleased
that it should be so,
but first he wished to see the matter clear.

When he came home, he also promised
without doubt
to give his godson a father's gift.

Berthold asked how many days
his men would need
to mend the ship's damage.

Wolfgang said he did not know
for certain yet,
but would find out soon.

Berthold bade him generously
to use whatever materials
he wished to choose.

Besides, the rest was of no use
to anyone after —
the famous thunder of steel gave thanks.

Wolfgang spent the day
with the honourable couple;
most things fell well to his liking.

He was delighted to speak
with courtesy
to Berthold's wife, that tireless conversationalist.

He could not cease praising
her great skill,
and later told his kinsman:

"I lack nothing now but one thing —
a good woman
who will offer me a kiss.

I would call myself
the happiest in the world, cousin,
if fortune gave me such a match —

though I am rich enough now
and fear nothing,
that no hardship troubles me further."

This merry jest the gold-tree laughed at,
and thanking him,
she spoke in turn:

"So Berthold, my husband, won me —
the one who bears the greatest virtues —
and bound me in poverty to his faithfulness.

Naked, yes, he took me to himself,
the keeper of treasure,
and honours me with his love.

He has freed my life
from the dream of death,
and undeservedly upholds my honour.

Whether he will love me as well
remains to be seen
when we reach Europe,

where perhaps various fair rivals
may sweetly compete
for his great wealth."

"I would rather spend all my days
here, my whole life,
than have it come to that:

to lose the one who is as dear to me
as my own soul —
I could not bear it."

She said she left all this
to the Lord's grace
and to good fortune.

Berthold answered his dear ring-line
gently again,
and shaped his reply thus:

"Hear me, my Hippóliti,
dearest of my heart,
my only joy here in the world.

Never shall I forsake you,
my love —
you need not doubt that.

To you, most faithful of my heart,
I shall not forget my loyalty
while I live in this world.

Yes, even though I had the chance
and the full right
to win a king's daughter,

you may build your certainty
upon this:
that I would never accept it."

Hippóliti then took his hand
gently,
and kissed it all over.

"And so I go from here," the ring-goddess said,
"well contented
and glad in my heart."

The couple let the tender talk subside;
the blissful day
was drawing to its close.

Then Wolfgang took his courteous leave
from them,
and went to find his wise men.

Berthold followed him a good way,
that sweet companion;
they had much to say to one another.

He bade him come home every day
while the men worked
upon the ship.

This was accepted with gratitude,
and the promise given;
the glad keeper of the mind's fire.

The next day the sailor of steel came
with enough priests
to bless Berthold's marriage.

The wise kinsmen had agreed
beforehand
that this consecration should be performed.

Over both children too they blessed
and gave their grace;
Berthold's servants likewise received it.

All of it they entered
into their church register
with proper and beloved ceremony.

The time passed pleasantly
with Wolfgang's conversations,
both for them and for him.

The couple were cheerful
and glad in heart;
they prepared themselves for the journey.

Now the ship was made seaworthy
upon the flowing roads —
rigged and ready on the sixth day.

First, four cannons were brought
from the fortification aboard the ship —
the great copper pieces.

Then came unopened wine and provisions,
the timber of rigging;
they carried them out to the plank of the deep.

The lindens spared nothing here
from the work of their hands;
it was time now to load.

Great profit the blooming
Fortunate Island gave,
as men would say.

Berthold carried his gold sand,
that precious treasure,
out to the ocean-horse, no less.

And with it he also brought
the grove of rings —
an abundance of gold and silver coin.

The sum he himself
did not know;
such sacks we never see.

He left behind on the island
the best of every kind,
all arranged in the finest manner —

so that if someone later
should come there,
this would sustain his life.

He left a written account
locked inside,
telling of his island dwelling —

how the Lord had drawn him
from the grip of death
with works of wondrous power —

and shown him this Fortunate Island,
and caused him to flourish there
and be blessed.

Ten years' time, he wrote,
he had been there,
enjoying the Lord's gifts of grace.

Now the carrying of his possessions
continued,
the spear-bearer upon the horse of the waves.

Skjönkopp was brought aboard —
that ornament which adorns —
fair-headed, as the name implies.

Only four of the tamed apes
survived,
the strong ones, mighty in effort.

The dragon-bed's master let these creatures too
go aboard
upon the steed of the waves.

Last, at the fortress he locked
the doors behind him
and fitted them very well —

and set the barricades in place,
in the same order
as they had stood of old.

Upon the outermost posts
the arrow-tree carved these letters,
and set these words before them:

"This land shall forever be loved —
sweet it is, I speak truly —
and the island is called the Fortunate."

"Here is a safe place for any man
who would enjoy it —
all who suffer a ship's damage."

"If afterward someone is sent here
by fortune,
out of the dangers of life —"

"may the highest mercy of the Lord
help that one too,
as He once chose to do for me."

"The one who for the last ten years
has lived here
in freedom and in peace."

"And who has now already come
upon the road of the eel,
safely to Europe."

In English he wrote all this
with wisdom,
and also in Portuguese.

He carved it in Dutch too,
with rich understanding,
and in Malay as well.

The truth of it — since upon it
no tale was cheapened —
was that the Lord's glory should be proclaimed.

Berthold, with his wife and both his children
and both their servants,
went down at last to the sea.

They fell upon their knees on the shore
and made to the Father of the waves
an offering of thanks

for the protection granted,
the mercy and the calm,
the fortune and all manner of gentle gifts.

And as they knelt there,
kissing the earth,
they bade the island farewell.

A fair hymn of praise they sang
to the gracious Lord —
the honourable young couple.

And so they prayed that this voyage
they had planned
should be free from all harm.

Then they walked to where Wolfgang
waited for them,
gentle and kind in his greeting.

He smoothed their way aboard the ship
with the greatest honour
and the finest welcome.

Fortune smiled upon the couple,
radiant before them,
and sweetly offered them its aid.

It was as if she said
she would arrange things so
as to draw them from the ocean's embrace.

Now Berthold shall fare better
upon the waves
than on his former voyage to India.

After Wolfgang set sail,
on the eighth day out
the ship turned from the island.

Since I do not care to sail with them
through the hours of sleep,
the ríma shall now fall.

Ríma XVI

The poet opens his final ríma with reflections on the turning wheel of fortune — adversity teaches the young, while peace suits the old. In the narrative, the fleet sails from the Fortunate Island; the family grows seasick but recovers; in nine weeks they reach the Cape of Good Hope. At Batavia, Wolfgang reports to his fleet; two missing ships rejoin. Berthold goes ashore and repays all his old benefactors. The burgomeister hosts a six-day feast. The fleet departs; Wolfgang sails to Holland; Berthold is invited to stay at his home in Amsterdam. A month of festivities; Wolfgang gives up the sea, names his godson with a hundred ducats. The cousins sail to England. Berthold finds four siblings alive — reunions of joy. He buys a house in London and a country estate. Wolfgang courts Berthold's younger sister, a sixteen-year-old beauty, and they marry. Berthold provides a thousand gold coins as dowry. Both couples live in honour and prosperity; Hippóliti is beloved; they die in peaceful old age. The poet bids farewell to his sixteen "daughters" — the rímur — and signs the year: eighteen hundred and seventy.

Mansöngur

Once more for the verses I rise,
as my duty calls;
not all my veins run cold —
not yet, not all of them.

Joy thrives and sorrow fades
when the mask of darkness thins;
I must tie the final knot
here upon my rímur.

Now I watch the low wave swell,
though the spirit may darken;
I must follow Berthold home
upon his voyage.

Nowhere here is found perfection —
inconstancy is the rule;
my mind is always
in perpetual motion.

Thus I see it clearly:
the course of destiny —
men's fortunes are shaken
upon the wheels of change.

Fortune cannot play the same way
in a man's life always;
many things went badly for a time,
then better afterward.

It is better for the young
to endure some adversity —
let trouble come before
the nurse of old age.

Most men bear it less well
in their later years;
they would rather bow toward peace,
ease, and gentleness.

All may be spoken of
under that heading —
the state of every man,
whatever course he chose when young.

Many drive themselves
recklessly into danger,
not avoiding the crooked path
they are willing to tread.

When Berthold turned aside
from the right road,
then heavy trials
fell hard upon him.

But that same need bent him back
swiftly to the right way;
and so he kept to it
well after that.

It is often seen and said,
in matters of all kinds,
that much is placed in a man's power
through the free will given him.

Truly, if I wished to wield
the weapon of speech rightly,
it was in my own power
to spin this tale out here.

My joy it would be
if the rímur were completed
and the time of idleness
could be shortened by them.

My mansöngur departs now —
it is time to cut it short;
this shall be the last
that I compose.

Narrative

Before the falcon of the waves departed,
the journey was not yet arranged;
the horse of the slipway prepared
to travel the broad roads of the sea.

It was, they say, a matter of form —
all the cannons were placed
inboard, in their proper order.

Up from the sand the sailors drew
the anchors then;
they set the sails in place
and pushed off from the shore.

Then the couple looked back toward the island
as long as they could see it;
toward it they stretched
the aching gaze of longing.

And so they said: "Our thanks to you
for all your bounty,
O ever-Fortunate Island,
which we both enjoyed."

"Grant your aid henceforth
to those in need,
if their ship should come to grief
and seek your shore."

The island vanished from their sight;
the surge of the sea-wave drove them;
the swift ship ran onward
before the gift of wind.

The folk were cheerful in their minds,
and grief was driven out;
Wolfgang served his guests
with generous hand.

He gave the couple
the finest cabin,
and every kind of comfort
he sought to provide.

Yet — as I clearly gather
from the written record —
the young ones grew sea-sick,
and Hippóliti herself.

But they soon recovered
their welcome health,
and with their natural temperament
cast off all sorrow.

No trouble delayed them
upon the wave-road;
the swift runner of the sea
gained its full course.

In the ninth week they came,
free from all manner of harm,
under the high headland
of the Cape of Good Hope.

The tree-lords of garments rejoiced —
happy men who found
the finest harbour there;
they made the ship fast with ropes.

They saw a fleet of ships
resting in their splendour;
Wolfgang, as before, continued his voyage
from Batavia.

The crew rejoiced
to welcome back their travelling brother
among the best of their company,
though they thought death had claimed him.

Two fair ships of the fleet
were missing from the rest;
the thunder-warriors waited
for them on the ocean's horses.

Then Berthold took himself some time
to go ashore,
walking upon the green earth
to revisit old acquaintances.

He found there quickly
those useful old friends
who once had given him
generous plenty.

He resolved to remember all that —
it brought no bitterness —
and now repaid them,
all of them, with princely hand.

To his old host's fair daughter
he gave a gift:
a beautiful golden ring,
and it did not lessen his renown.

Two hundred costly ducats
in ready money he gave her too —
sometimes men give thanks for less,
and with a good spirit.

The bride — so it was told —
received a worthy gift;
she had shown him kindness
in the old days.

The burgomeister then invited him
to a feast;
the lord of spears came to visit
with a band of friends.

He was asked to tell,
as the eagerness demanded,
whatever notable thing
had happened in the warrior's days.

Most of all, they chose to see
his dear wife,
as if she had been sent from heaven
when the opportunity came.

A fair feast, full of honour,
grew with the new guests;
every heart was glad,
blessed with the world's finest gifts.

Berthold was greatly esteemed,
now risen to full stature;
there he told his life-story
to the assembled company's delight.

It was found uplifting
there in the feasting-hall —
all wondered at the Lord's protection
over the man in that place.

Wise and fortune-girdled she sat,
glad in her thoughtful spirit —
Hippóliti, who was honoured
by every man.

Wolfgang faithfully followed
his dear kinsman;
he found every kind of delight
and extraordinary honour.

For six days the feast continued,
with wine and costly dishes;
many things the people told
and heard as fresh news.

Eight days later they waited,
the warrior of the eel's trouble,
and two ships without damage
were added to the fleet.

The word-lords then tightened
the mast-ropes well;
they fitted the ships for sailing
over the wave-roads.

The kinsmen bade farewell
to their friends upon the shore;
the crowd, glad in spirit,
wished them all good fortune.

When the anchors came up on deck
and the bold sailors hauled them,
a fearful gun-salute rang out
and the cliffs trembled.

By custom the brave men
with the finest regulations
stretched out the sails upon
those nail-studded horses.

Nearby one could see it,
the spectacle of pleasure,
when the fleet together
drove away from shore.

Wolfgang had fair winds,
with all his men alike,
until at last he reached the harbour
of Holland, on his sea-bear.

Straightaway the treasure-bearer stepped ashore,
laden with gold,
and with gentle terms
invited Berthold home.

He asked his brother to stay
in comfort with him,
while the weariness of the journey
was cast aside.

The mild wielder of the spear
said he was free in all respects;
his entire company
should follow as well.

The keeper of the sword attended
to his honourable invitation;
all went home to Amsterdam,
treading the warm thresholds.

Wolfgang there prepared a feast
for his finest friends;
the wine poured to good purpose,
and the guests grew warm.

The newly found fortune
all rejoiced in who had tasted joy;
together they sat for a month
in honour and delight.

Wolfgang loved Berthold well
and would not part from him;
he offered to follow him
to English soil.

Now rich enough, he said,
the lord of the mind's wall,
he would lay down his voyaging
once and for all.

He settled into peace,
the destroyer of the dark-gleam;
much that was harsh and contrary
comes from constant travel.

He gave his godson the promised gift,
worthy of his own name —
the sun-lord of war gave it:
one hundred ducats.

Swiftly the kinsmen made ready,
with skill and care;
they sailed now for England
upon the same sea-horse.

By the Almighty's power,
exile was ended;
Berthold found once more
his native soil.

He learned that four of his siblings
were alive —
and such news
brightened his heart.

Of the sisters, two were counted,
the elder already married;
both were ladies of accomplishment,
in the higher rank of brides.

It is told that the younger one
was six years old,
the treasurer of the sea,
when Berthold set out to see the world.

He travelled there
and greeted his siblings;
the meeting was one of joy
for all of them.

They marvelled to see him
alive again,
having long believed
him surely dead.

His siblings took the property
he had left behind
and divided it among themselves;
the warrior of brands did not object.

Rather the weapon-bearer
added to it great gifts,
and that, as we know,
pleased the siblings well.

He soon set about establishing himself,
the biter of the serpent's field;
he bought a fine house for himself
at home in the city of London.

And so he settled there in peace,
with his ring-lady;
greatly honoured, she won the love
of all the people.

The ring-maker next purchased
a country manor,
spending his treasure with pride
out upon the countryside.

He reaped the fullest garland
of blessings;
Wolfgang, his best friend,
never parted from him.

Wolfgang's eye brightened
toward Berthold's younger sister;
the thorn of love's speech
drew the warmth of desire there.

She bore the virtues of goodness,
that courteous ring-island;
sixteen years her age —
a fair young maiden.

Wolfgang put forward his proposal,
and Berthold went to the lady;
it was easily won —
the kinship of the families was sealed.

Soon the wedding was held,
and a multitude invited;
the custom of feasting was observed,
and men tasted the wine.

Long the joy of life continued,
and bad temper was banished;
the merriment made it all pleasant —
the sounds of instruments.

Berthold gave his sister
her dowry then:
upon the wave of gold
he had already spent freely.

He was found, each time, unsparing
with his wealth,
the famous lord of the wool of rings;
he gave the bride
a thousand gold coins.

The feast exhausted its fine provisions,
and few spared their gladness;
the guests had to go home,
half-stumbling.

The love of the young couple grew well,
nourished and warm;
neither would ever
break faith or loyalty.

Wolfgang then resolved
to settle in peace,
in the land of England,
near his beloved kinsman.

Berthold was faithful
to both his brothers,
as they had always counted him;
there in grace they dwelt.

The spear-wielders gained
a good and wise reputation;
they mastered well
the customs of European men.

The climate gave them — as the record tells —
release from their old complexion;
their skin took on
the fair and pale appearance.

They appeared then in the bloom
of clear beauty,
and from that time forward
bore a fair countenance.

To both brothers there
Berthold dealt with grace,
and in the end arranged
good marriages for them.

He settled them generously,
giving them wealth unstinted,
and set the warm birds of the land
to oversee his estates.

All these mentioned spouses
received blessings of the finest;
God's providence gave them
the enjoyment of a good life.

Berthold and his wedded lady
loved each other well and long;
renowned in all things,
they were beloved among the people.

A fairer memory than most
their story left to men;
in quiet old age
they ended their days.

Eptirmáli

The poet's postscript — written in his own voice, outside the narrative. He tells of his five years in Fáskrúðsfjörður, his sudden blindness, his failed attempt to travel north to Eyjafjörður, his return to Breiðdalur, the kindness of Reverend Magnús, and his eventual journey to a doctor at Vopnafjörður, where the factor Sæmundsen housed and fed him for a month. He closes with gratitude.

The rímur-text I wrote in freedom
upon a winter's day;
it cannot appear from me
in any finer garment.

I find it great refreshment —
though much may cause trouble —
to be free of these songs.
Praise be to fortune!

My mind was therefore glad
that the labour of fame subsides;
yet I do not know how popular
my rímur shall prove.

They will certainly miss
the praise of the masters,
when men cut themselves
upon the thorns of critics.

It lies before me clearly —
at last I must bear that judgment:
here great differences
in opinion will arise.

Yet I send my verse-scroll out
to the common folk;
I choose to let it land
among those who love song.

Though meagre learning and skill
attend me in the press of verse,
the people wish — and I agree —
that these songs should go to print.

In Berthold we must find
a memorial set with honour;
the work of my mind is
the yield of my life.

Now my hand, worn from the pen,
accepts its rest;
I think I shall compose no more
after this is finished.

I set these songs before you —
the daughters of the thunder-gleam —
farewell, and be fortunate,
my daughters, as you leave me.

And so it is bound up rightly
in the new letter:
the year set down is eighteen hundred
and seventy.

The composition is in Breiðdalur,
the eastern boat pulled down;
the backwards-working smith of the ark
bids the world farewell.

Free from burden may the folk live —
may high fortune not fail them —
and those who set these songs in type,
let them have my thanks.

The hour of fortune succeeds here;
the labour is driven off from Jón;
the bound speech is ended
under the tone of verse.

Colophon

The Rímur af Berthold enska (The Rímur of Berthold the Englishman) is a sixteen-ríma narrative poem composed by Jón Jónsson and published at Akureyri in 1874 by B. M. Stephánsson's press Norðanfari. The cycle retells the story of Berthold, the son of a wealthy London merchant, whose restless nature leads him through shipwreck, exile on a desert island in the East Indies, love, family, and eventual return to England — a prodigal son's journey through Providence and redemption. The poet's mansöngvar are unusually personal and autobiographical, culminating in a fifteenth ríma that names his birthplace, his age, and his residence, and an eptirmáli that recounts his blindness and the kindness of strangers. The work belongs to the tradition of moralistic rímur that flourished in nineteenth-century Iceland, blending the conventions of the rímur tradition with Christian homiletic content.

This is a Good Works Translation from the Icelandic source text, translated by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. This is the first known complete English translation of this cycle. The translation was produced independently from the Icelandic; no prior English translation exists for consultation.

Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.

🌲

Source Text — Rímur XIV–XVI and Eptirmáli

Source: Rímur af Berthold enska, Jón Jónsson. Akureyri: B. M. Stephánsson (Norðanfari), 1874. Digitized by the Internet Archive.

Fjórtánda ríma.

1. Upp vaknaður aptur nú, óðs til hraður vendi?
   fyrir naðurs bólmarbrú, bezt er það jeg endi.

2. Hrindir móð en hressir blóð, hrings þá
   bjóður kveður, falleg hljóðin fegra ljóð, faldaslóð-
   ir gleður.

3. Skemmtið firðar baugabil, brjóst í kyrrð svo
   hlýnar, ef þar virða viljið til, vísur hirða mínar.

4. Öð þó nýti auðarlín, á það hlýt jeg minn-
   ast, bragar lýtin munu mín, mörg hjá ítum finnast.

5. Heimi gefið hjer mitt raus, hrós ei krefur
   lýða, bragarstef ei lítalaus, lofað hef að smíða.

6. Ei mun frjetta öld frá mjer, andaglettu
   hnjóðinn, greind með rjetta ef að er, út á sett
   mín. ljóðin.

7. Óðarrit þeir um dæma, opt sem þyti vind-
   ur, á því vit sem ei hafa, eins og liti blindur.

8. Sáðakraka gáðu' að grjer, og greiparjaka=
   slóðin, það er lakast þykir mjer, þá afbakast
   ljóðin.

9. Mærð opt sveimar með óskil, margir gleyma
   að styrkja, skáldskap heimur skekkir til, skamm-
   ar þeim sem yrkja.

10. Opt nam baga út frá mjer, ýmsa slaga
    vega, sumt það bjagað orðið er ekki fagurlega.

11. Bið eg kæra þar um þjóð, þá mjer æru“
    að veita, að rangfæra ei mín ljóð, eg hógvær
    þess ieita.

12 Verða hjer í ljós mun leitt, ljóð mín beri
galla, þeim ef er til betra breytt, bezt kann mjer
geð falla.

13. þó jeg feginn fýsist hjer, fram að tegja
    ljóðin, skal aldrei á skilja mjer, skáld mig segi
    þjóðin.

14. Margir kynnu má svo ske, mæla' er sinna
    gróða, þörf ei vinna þetta sje, þundarminni að
    bjóða.

15, Óðs föngin sízt opt eg ljet, aðra vinnu

skerða, eitthvað finn sem meira met, margt það
kynni að verða.

16. Forlát mjer það fánýtt er, fræningskvera-
    brúin, mansöng hjer við hætta fer, hann má vera
    búinn.

17. Hvarf þar áður minni mjer, mín. og dáð
    að vaka, tóku náðir nýjar sjer, njótar sáðakraka.

18. Bættist skaði skipstjórans, skerti það ei
    gróðann, því varð glaður hugur hans, hitti stað
    svo góðan.

19. Máls af streng í ljós fjekk leitt, lítt sig
    mengi hreifi, slái enginn út sjer neitt, yfir fengið
    leyfi.

20. Berthold þá og vaktar víst, vel upp á að
    fari, bústað nálægt sínum sízt, sá ósmái skari.

21. Strax með degi hjer næst hann, hlyni meg-
    ingerða, fyrir eyjar forstjórann, finna segist verða.

22. Klæddist búning annan í, ofnerstúna viður,
    hafði trúnað þann á því, þekktist núna miður.

23. Greitt til strandar ganga vann, góinslanda-
    börinn, menn vakandi fyrir fann, fjekk þeim vand-
    að svörin.

24, Hans þjenarar hollir með, honum fara náðu,
skynsemd var þeim skötnum ljeð, skyldunnar vel
gáðu.

25. Berthold innir svo um sinn, seims við
    stinna kvisti, skips- að finna frægð búinn, for-
    manninn sig listi.

26. Hlynir skjalda honum þá, hans að tjaldi
    vísa, þegar baldur baugs nam frá, blunda valdi
    rísa,

27. Bezt sem kann með blíðlegu, birtist hann
    viðmóti, heilsa vann á hollensku, handarfannanjóti.

28. Yfirmaður minn hann tjer, mig um bað
    svo frjetta, hvers nú að við þurfið þjer, þeim vill
    skaða ljetta,

29. Treinist svarið tjeðum hjá, tveimur bar
    vel saman, hvor þar starir annan á, ekki var þeim
    gaman.

30. það ígrundar muni minn, menn svo stund-
    um skrafa, að þeir mundu eitthvert sinn, áður
    fundist hafa.

öl. Sá framandi síðan tjer, sóma standi gædd-
ur, óyggjandi eruð þjer, í Hollandi fæddur.

32. Með því talið málið það, mjög svo alskýr-
    lega, hafið alist í þeim stað, utan kala' og trega,

33. Maður er jeg engelskur, auðargrjer hinn
    segir, og þar verið innfæddur; ýmsir gerast vegir.

34. Upp svo kveður orðróminn, eyjar tjeður
    ráður, held eg sjeð þann herra minn, hafi og með-
    fylgt áður.

35. Mjög innrætt er mitt í geð, mark aðgætt
    það berið, hafið ætting yðar með, í lífshættu verið.

36. Tilfellunum fornu frá, fann margskonar-
    svarið, Góðrarvonarhöfða hjá, hefði svona farið.

ð1. Loptflugið á minntist með, manntjónið og
fleira, höfðann við sem hafði skeð, á haflamiði
dreira.

38. þennann áður sem opt sá, svofnersláða-
    hlyninn, Berthold náði þekkja þá, þar sinn dáða-
    wininn.

39. Frændi hans það Wolfgang var, vaktist

ansa gleði, hyggjuranns við hræringar, hjartað

Sansa rjeði.

40. þá spyr hann hvert þekkti ei sinn, þraut-
    mæddann stallbróður. Ójú vann að ansa hinn,
    eldahrannarbjóður.

41. Inntekinn af undrun hann, er sem hinn
    fagnandi, kærstan finna fjekk þennan, frænda sinn
    lifandi.

42. Yfirráðin elskunnar, áhrif bráð svo þáðu,
    falla náðu í faðmlög þar, frændur áður tjáðu.

43, Nærri frá sjer numdir þeir, nýrri þá af
gleði, tjeðum hjá þar tendrast meir, tryggð ó-
smáa Tjeði.

44. þá varð fundur fagnaðar, fyrir lundum
    skjóma, hófst nú stundin hagnaðar, heims á grund
    með blóma.

45. Wolfgangs urðu svör þau senn, sinn fram
    burð með rjetta, lifs dregurðu andann enn, ó mig
    furðar þetta.

46. Það jeg skrafa satt um sinn, svo ei vafa
    fengi, margir hafa harmað þinn, hjeðan afgang
    lengi.

47. Berthold hvörmum hrutu af, högl með
    vörmum tárum, fornum hörmum gaum að gaf,
    geðs og örmulsárum.

48, Síðan tjáir vopnaver, við sig þá hann rjeði,
Margt nú á að minnast er, mótgangs þrá og gleði.

49, Höfrungs löndum hraust mig á, hætta
Vönd nam lerka, dauðans gröndum dró mig frá,
Drottins höndin sterka.

50, Dásemd með og undran er, allt það skeð

má. segja, heill sú rjeð og heppnast mjer, hjer
við gleði að þreyja.

$1. Tíu hjer á eyju ár, eg hef verið glaður,
margskyns er nú happa hár, hagur mjer stofnaður.

52. þúsundfaldar þakkirnar, þeim alvalda Drottni,
    ljúft skal gjalda um lönd og mar, lof hans aldrei
    þrotni.

53. Wolfgang með forundran allt, á það rjeði
    heyra, um svo skeð sitt ástand snjallt, álfi tjeði
    geira,

54. Forðum þá til Hollands heim, halda frá
    þjer náði, skort jeg sá af skaða þeim, skipi á
    sem þáði

55. Lítinn auð jeg átti þar, eptir dauðan föð-
    ur, „þraut mig brauð svo vært ei var, við það
    nauðalöður.

56. Greitt svo fríum geðs af móð, gaf mig Í
    stórreisur, frjáls á ný með föngin góð, fjekk ei af
    því hneisur.

57. Hefur það vel heppnast mjer, hlaut opt
    glaðværð finna, hjer formaður orðinn er, á hvals-
    traðar línna.

58. þennan beztan meta man, mun það fest
    í letur, græðishestur Gallóvan, gengur flestum
    betur.

59. Ó, hvað gerir gleðja mig, gæfa er hin
    mesta, að með fjeri finn jeg þig, frænda hjer minn
    bezta.

60. Þig jeg bið minn bezti vin, brátt mjer
    lið auðsýna, liggur við mín lífs nauðsyn, lukku
    styð þú mína.

61. Efni til skips aðgjörðar, at þjer vil jeg
    hljóta, hefur bilað hlunnamar, háskaspilið ljóta.

62, Kýs jeg vín og vistir mjer, viss mun þín
um sorgun, þörfin mín ef upp fyllt er, ei skal
dvína borgun.

63. Berthold tjer og brosa fer, bjargar er sá
    kraptur, Guð sem hjer nam gefa mjer, gefa þjer
    skal aptur.

64, Fús jeg hjeðan fara vil, fyrri skeð þó væri;
halda með þjer Hollands til, hentugt sjeð er færi.

64. Heppnin sú mjer birtist bert, bezta nú í
    heimi; sendur þú mig sækja ert, svoddan trú jeg
    geymi,

65. Mín sú list er mjög frábær, mega vistum
    breyta; bezt samkristinn bróðir kær, bón ei fyrstu
    neita.

66. Greitt ef ansar ganga kann, gæfustands til
    nytja; lengi sansá fýsn jeg fann, föðurlands míns
    vitja.

67. Þú skalt hjá mjer vist og vín, vinur fá minn
    glaði; skip þitt á sem þörf er þín, þverra má svo
    skaði,

69 Jeg í anda fagnað fæ, finnst því grand ei
hljóður; hjálpa“ úr vanda nú því næ, nauðlíðandi
bróður.

10. Líka þar af gleðst mitt geð, gæfu bar í
    hendur; að nú fara frænda með, fæ er var mjer
    Sendur.

11. Beggja þreifast ástir á, og sjer hreifa verða ;
    Skiprúmsleyfi fljótt nam fá, frægur veifir sverða.

12. Wolfgang það sjer birta bað, Berthold hvað

reif yfir; er svo glaður í þeim stað, óþrælkáður
Lifir.

13. Fljótt að- gjöra fús það var, fleinabör án
    trega; um sín kjör á eyju þar, innti sköruglega.

TA. Heim svo bjóða frænda fór, fjarðarglóða
hlinur; þegi hljóður þáði rór, það hans góði vinur.

15. Sinn þjenara sendi heim, svörin þar að
    magna; auðs og vara við því reim, vini bar að
    fagna. á

16. Síðan beztan sjer við hönd, sinn rjeð gest-
    inn leiða; tryggðafest ei bila bönd, böli flestu eyða.

17. Fjekk þar skanns og fallstykkin, frændi
    hans að líta; eykst þá sansa undrunin, ulli brands
    hjá nýta.

18. Svör hann þróar þannin bert: þú telst ó-
    vinnandi; herra sjó hjer yfir ert, eins vel þó sem
    landi.

19. Bertholds þá til bústaðar, báðir áfram
    halda, sagt er frá að frændum þar, fagni gnáin
    spjalda.

20. Lijet: sjer bæði börn sín með, bríkin klæða
    fylgja, hýr í ræðum heilsa rjeð, henni fæðir ylgja.

21. Vera biður velkominn, vefjan sniðug dúka,
    ljómaiðulárviðinn, lista sið nam brúka.

22. Hjörvayggur hrósa vann, húsabyggingunni,
    sjá margt þiggur furðu fann frekt í hyggjugrunni.

23. Spangagrjer með spaugsorðum, spjalla fer
    brosandi, búsælt er á öræfum, allvel hjer búandi.

Sd. Annað heita ætti þó, eyland feita þetta,
sem að veitir sæld og ró; sjezt hjer hveitið
spretta, í

85. þú í anda þar gleðst af, þrauta stand nam
    linna, þjer hjálpandi gæfan gaf, 'gósen land að
    finna.

86. Berthold svarar blítt með þel, blossamar-
    ar veitir, jeg nú hvar sem aldur el, eyjan Farsæl
    heitir.

87. Wolfgang dáðist öllu að, er þar náði líta,
    undrun háður í þeim stað, yndi þáði nýta.

88. Akra sá þar allt um kring, auðar knái týr-
    inn, og þá háa umgirðing í sem láu dýrin.

89. • Sýndi hlynur fleina frí, fjárhlutina næga,
      bezta skini yndis í, einka vini fræga.

90. Gekk út þá og gaf þau orð, Gotthlíf smái
    drengur, matur á er borinn borð, bíða má ei
    lengur.

91. Berthold inn til borðs með sjer, bróður
    sinn þá leiddi, vera linnavallar-grjer, velkominn
    hann beiddi.

92. Hjá þeim sat þar húsfreyja, hryggðum
    glatar muna, fleins- bað skata forláta, flýtirsmat-
    reiðsluna.

93. Snæða feginn Wolfgang vann, vantar ei
    borðræðu, betri segist hvergi hann, hafa þegið
    fæðu.

94, þessu svæði eyði á, undrast gæða hagi,
mest um ræðir þetta þá, þundur klæða frægi.

95. Við þann háa höfða fyr, hugsa fáir mundu,
    slíkt að lá þjer ljúft fyrir, lánið á heims grundu.

96. Geðs með fögnuð bón fram bar, bezt í
    sögnum fínum, hann kaus ögn til hressingar handa.
    brögnum sínum,

97. þar í móti borgun bauð, Berhold hljóta
    skyldi; sig ei þrjóta sagði auð. seimanjótur gildi.

98. Játar mildur hinn og hló, hýr með snild
    rjeð skrafa: að hann vildi aptur þó, engann skild-
    ing hafa.

99. Komugestinn kæta fer, kapp þar mest á
    lagði, gefið bezt að gefa er, geiralestir sagði.

100. Skipsmenn þínir nokkrir nú, nóg til min
     heim sæki mat og vín fyrst það vilt þú, þörf að
     sína ræki.

101. Heiman sendi sína menn, sára bendir
     linna, skips til venda" og segja senn, sig útlend=
     um finna.

102. Bertholds rækja boð með trú, blossalækja
     þundar, skipsmenn sækja nokkra nú, nota tækin
     stundar. 8

103. Víns.og fæðu föng með þá, fylgdu bræð-
     ur tjáðum, runnum klæða knör út á, kapps með
     "gæða dáðum.

104. Skipsmenn snæða náðu nú, nóg af gæða
     föngum, og þar fæða fjell vel sú, flestum æði
     svöngum

105 Eyjar þar og yfirmanns, öl velfarar drukku,
þessi skari þolli brands, þá óskar til lukku.

106 Brátt að starfi búnu því, bræður djarfir
foru. heim frá karfa breiðum bí, Berthold þarf-
ir voru.

107. Hlýrarnir nú heim komnir, hýrgaðir Í
     anda, ráðvandir í bezlubir, borðum fyrir standa.

108. Höldar kátir hresstu geð, hrósað gátu
     lukku, frændur sátu sóma með, saman átu og drukku.

1ð1

109. Taptur þáttur missir mátt, mens ei þrátta
     miptin, aptur sáttur birti brátt, bragar háttaskiptin.

Fimmtanda rima.

1. Aptur nýjan óð skal byrja ei má tefja, lengi
   við frá lögun stefja.

2.. Öpt þá hugur belg vill blása brags í smiðju,
hendur aðra hafa iðju.

3. Tíma langa til kemst ei að taka pennan,
   ætið bý við ókost þennan.

4. Optast hlýt jeg einu frá til annars fara, þarf
   að vera! á þönum bara.

5. Ymsum stöðum er jeg búinn í að vera, og
   nóg í flestum fengið gera.

6. Jeg í Skagafirði fæddist, frá skal greina,
   víða þekktist þar eg meina.

7. Opt mótfallið ýmislegt fjekk á mig hrifið,
   margt hefir á daga drifið.

8. Þrátt um æfi hef jeg hlotið hættur kanna,
   Líðum fjærri tilsjón manna.

9. En mjer jafnan hjálpað hefur himna Drott-
   inn, opt jeg sá hans verndar vottinn.

10. þíðast lof og þakkargjörð sje þeim alvalda,
    víst það honum vil jeg gjalda.

ll. Eitt sinn var jeg árin þrjú í önnungstandi,
á því minna Eyrarlandi.

12. Hingað austur hef jeg borist hárs um
    Svanna, fyrir straumi forlaganna.

13. Fjörutíu og fjögur ár,jeg fæ svo talið, hafði"
    eg þá í heimi dvalið.

14, Hjer í Breiðdal hef jeg eirt við hrepps að-
Setur, tíu ár og eitt þó betur.

15. Allvel mjer sð fólkið flest hjer fallið hefur,
    viðmót ljúft og greiöð gefur.

16. Ei skal dylja ef“ að nokkur að því spyrði,
    jeg er nú í Fáskrúðsfirði.

17. Jeg mun vartí fríða framar fjörðinn Skaga,
    líta fá um lífsins daga.

gx

18. Um það fást er ekki vert og einkum síð“
    ur, allvel mjer því eystra líður.

19. Eitt sinn mun jeg útlegðar hjer eptir stand-
    ið, finna rjetta föðurlandið.

20. Berthold útlegð senn úr sinni sig mun
    flytja, föðurlands síns fær að vitja.

21. Eptir þrautir afstaðnar sá yggur hneilð,
    Tjettra til komst rólegheita.

22. Bæði reyndi hann blítt og strítt sem birl
    ir letur, þolinmóður mörgum. betur.

23. Opt hann Drottinn blíðan bað síg bezt að
    fría, syndir fúlar frá að drýgja,

24, Einnig hrekja allskyns frá sjer ógæfunð;
en holla ljena hamingjuna.

25. Og sjer til þess aðstoð góða ætið veitð,
    vel eptir hans vilja breyta.

26. Bænrækni hann brúkaði og breytni góðð,
    öðlaðist því gæfu gróða. á

27. Á Farsælu eyju hann við allskyns gæði, búð
    fjekk í bezta næði. "

28. Mundi þaðan mig ei hafa mjög svo lang“
    að, hefði“ jeg verið horfinn þangað. )

29. Jeg má til á tímanum að taka vara, og Íré
    mahsöng mínum fara.

30. Sögn jeg feldi síðast þar með sinni móð
    bræður fyrir borðum stóðu.

31. Vinaræður fremda fjáðir frændur ala, Bert“
    hold þannin þá rjeð tala: 3

32. Frændi gjörðist faðir þú í fjærverunni, rjé“
    jeg þessu ráða kunni. .

33. því jeg skírði þjón minn eptir þínu nafð“
    ráðvandra sá reynist jafni. í

34. Vel líkaði Wolfgang það svo vera skyldi
    hann fyrst ráð sitt vanda vildi.

35. Heim þá kæmi hann og líka hjet án efa,
    honum föðurgáfu gefa.

36. Berthold spyr hvað menn hans mundu
    Marga daga, þurfa skips að bæta baga.

37. Wolfgang það ei vita kvaðst enn víst um
    þetta, sagðist bráðum fá að frjetta

38. Ósparlega Berthold bað hann brúka skyldi,
    efni það sem velja vildi.

39. Annars það til engra nota eptir lægi, þund-
    ur stála þakkar frægi.

40. Wolfgang undi heiðurs hjónum hjá um dag-
    inn, fjell þá honum flest í haginn.

41. Vel fjell honum við að ræða virðulega, Bert-
    holds kvinnu tals ótrega.

42. Hann atgjörfi hennar mikið hrósa náði,
    sinn við frænda síðan tjáði.

43, Ei mig vantar annað nú en eina góða,
konu sem vill koss mjer bjóða.

44. Mín er gleði gafst þjer frændi gott hlut-
    Skipti, ó mig slíku gæfan gipti.

45. Jeg í heimi sannfarsæll þá segjast mætti,
    hún þó skilding engan ætti.

46 Jeg auðugur nú er nóg og neitt ei kvíði,
örbyrgð framar á mig stríði.

41. Gjörði þetta gamanræðu gullskorð kalla,
    þakkar samt og þá nam spjalla.

42. Þþannin Berthold minn fjekk mig sá mest
    ber dyggðir, bláfátæka batt við tryggðir.

43. Alsnakta já að sjer tók mig auðarhirðir,
    Og mig sinnar elsku virðir.

"50, Lif mitt frelsað hefur hann úr heljardróma,
óverðskuldað efli minn sóma.

51. Hvert sem hann mjer eins vel ann er und=
    ir vonum, Evrópu í átthögonum.

52.- þar sem ýmsar kannske kærur keppa fríð-
ar, um hans miklu auðlegð blíðar.

53. Allann heldur aldur minn hjer ala vildi,
    en að til svo takast skyldi.

54. Að missa þann er mjer varð kær sem mín
    sál eiginn, af jeg bæri enganveginn.

óð. Hún svo þetta allt kvaðst undir eiga kunni,
herrans náð og hamingjunni.

56. Berthold aptur blíðri ansar baugalínu, þann-
    in hagar svari sínu.

57. Heyrðu það mín Hippóliti hjartkærasta,
    heims mitt yndi hjer einasta.

58. Aldrei skal jeg elskan mín þig yfirgefa,
    þú ei svoddan þarft að efa.

59. Til þín hjartans trúfastri jeg tryggð ei
    gleymi, meðan lifi hjer í heimi.

60. Já í þinn stað þó jeg kost vel þar á ætti,
    að kongsdótlur eignast mætti.

61, þú skalt mega þína vissu þar á byggja,
að jeg mundi það ei þiggja.

62. Hippóliti hans þá tók í hönd blíðlega, og
    svo kyssti allavega.

63. Svo fer jeg nú hjeðan hringa hrundin tjeði,
    vel ánægð og glöð í geði

64, Hjónin feldu talið tjeða tók að líða, á þann
daginn yndis blíða.

65. Hjernæst Wolfgang hjá þeim orðlof hýr
    nam taka, fyrða sína finna spaka.

66. Berthold fylgdi vel á veg þeim vin inndæla,
    höfðu báðir margt að mæla.

67. Hann bað koma heim til sín á hverjum
    degi, meðan gjörðu menn að fleyi.

68. þessu fók með þakklæti og því lofaði,
    hirðir skjóma hugar glaði.

69. Næsta dag kom njótur stáls með nóga
    presta, Bertholds hjónaband staðfesta.

70. Höfðu áður hyggnir frændur hjer um sam-
    ið, yrði vígslu verk það framið.

T1. Yfir bæði börnin þeir og blessa náðu, sama
Bertholds þjónar þáðu.

12. Allt svo þetta í sitt kirkju inn þeir færa
    regisltur með reglu kæra.

13. Tíðin styttist vel af Wolfgangs viðræðon-
    um, þá eins fyrir þeim og honum.

14. Hjónin mikið hress og glöð í huga vóru,
    búa sig til ferða fóru.

15. Varð nú knörinn ferðafær um. fliðruvegi,
    seglbúinn á sjötta degi.

16. Fyrst af skansi færð á skipið fjögur vóru,
    kopar þau fallstykkin stóru.

T1.. Síðan ótæpt vín og vistir viðir korða, færðu
út á fílinn borða.

718. Hjer til neitt ei hlynir spörðu handarjaka,
     hógu á var nú að taka

719. Mikinn af sjer gróða gaf svo gumnar mæla,
     blómleg eyjan sú Farsæla.

720. Berthold flutti svo gullsandinn sinn þann
     „ dýra, út á flóða fák órýra.

721. Ljet og þar með líka fylgja lundur hringa,
     gulls og silfur gnægð peninga.

722. Tölu vissi summu sinnar sjálfur ekki, slíka
     mi ei sjáum sekki.

723. Eptir skildi fleinafreir af flestu tagi, bjó
     um það í bezta lagi.

724. Úpp á þáð ef einhvern síðar að þar bæri,
     þetta lífs hans viðhald væri.

725. Uppskript hjá þar ljet hann liggja læsta
     inni, eyjarveru sagði“ af sinni,

726. Drottinn hefði dregið sig úr dauðans kverk-
     um, dásemdar með dýrstu verkum.

727. Og sjer vísað á Farælu eyju þessa, gjört
     sig vel þar blómga' og blessa.

728. Tíu ára tímann þar hann tjáðist hafa, not-
     ið Herrans náðargjafa.

729. Flutningi nú framhjelt sinna fjármunanna,
     geirabör á hestinn hranna.

730. Skjönkopp færði skip út á þann skraut sem