By Níels Jónsson skáld

The Rímur af Flóres og Blanzeflúr retell one of the most popular romances of medieval Europe — the story of Floire and Blanchefleur, known across French, German, Norse, Italian, Spanish, and English traditions from the twelfth century onward. A pagan king captures a pregnant Christian noblewoman; his queen and the captive bear children on the same day — the prince Flóres and the girl Blanzeflúr. The children grow up inseparable, fall in love, and the king, horrified that his son loves a slave-born Christian, sells Blanzeflúr to merchants bound for Babylon. Flóres sets out across the world to find her.

Níels Jónsson skáld composed these nine rímur in the mid-nineteenth century, drawing on the Old Norse Flóres saga ok Blanzeflúr (itself translated from the French). The cycle displays the full range of rímur craft — nine distinct meters, elaborate mansöngvar, dense kennings — applied to a tale of young love triumphing over tyranny, deception, and distance. The poet's voice alternates between self-deprecating wit in the preludes and genuine warmth in the narrative, and the political world of kings and emirs is rendered with the same heroic diction the tradition brings to saga material, creating a distinctive blend of romance and epic.

This is a Good Works Translation by the New Tianmu Anglican Church and Claude, translated directly from nineteenth-century Icelandic. The source text is from the 1858 Akureyri edition, digitized on Internet Archive. This is the first known English translation.

Ríma I — Tvískothend eður frumhend, ferskeytt

One hundred and twenty-four stanzas. The poet invokes the muse and reflects on the old art of rímur in the age of enlightenment. He introduces King Felix, a pagan Spanish king who raids the coasts and captures a pregnant French noblewoman of noble birth. Felix gives her to his queen, and the two women become devoted friends. Both bear children on the same day — the prince Flóres and the girl Blanzeflúr, whose names both mean "flower."

Mansöngur

1.
All things the age allots with ease —
nature bound in wisdom —
silence and speech along life's way,
likewise sleep and waking.

2.
Moderation's shadow ruled the land,
so drawn forth it should be;
from time's every measure here,
something it would gather.

3.
Given to dreams, from sorrow free,
sweetly I have slumbered;
hold your horns a moment, men —
give me silence briefly.

4.
The hawk of thunder slowly starts
to thread the paths of discourse;
an hour's amusement he would seek,
if peace he could be granted.

5.
Long has Iceland half-asleep
lain in the arms of verses;
the people have delighted in
adventures and old stories.

6.
Ancient songs of curious note,
though fame lack wit to praise them,
are worn away by distant words
that never find truth's pathway.

7.
The tablets of false runes grow old,
and renown fades from letters;
now the enlightened age has come —
better things are practised.

8.
Sigtýr's mask befits the flood,
yet let them not grow withered;
still the folk may fashion rímur
in the ancient manner.

9.
Not least when I find them wrought
in verse of fourfold measures;
the variety fell finely, and
delighted many scholars.

10.
It dims no thistle-bed at all,
though sand stand close beside it;
the weed of enlightenment
sits well with every palate.

11.
So goes the labor of the verse —
some poor fool among poets;
the man drags his green eloquence
and tends the scales of glory.

12.
Much mischief learning can produce,
and ants gnaw at the eyebrows;
I trust no sip from any spring
will cool my breast within me.

13.
Friend! you, who chose me
to wage this dismal battle —
the recitation serves you right;
soon I shall say more widely.

14.
You have rejected many men,
more skilled as verse-smiths;
now my poor aid must serve the need
to reach the speech's midpoint.

15.
When nearly all convey their art
in many a fairer stanza,
and folly scarce could strike you worse
than clumsier verse than this one.

16.
An adventure bare of everything,
as most will see who look —
I would explain the lifeless work,
yet profit nothing from it.

17.
Little does it speak of swords' din,
many a wound inflicted,
the steel's long draught of blood and gore,
of ghosts and giants felled.

18.
Rather I have set my mind
to render human nature:
the spirit's virtue and love's power
that elder times once honored.

19.
Far more I know, and less, of what
the souls of others sharpened —
those who in the hot heart's forge
whet the keenest steel.

20.
There at times the mind inquires —
for it slipped from my memory —
which noble land hangs always on
the spirit of fierce striving.

21.
That I did not see for certain
in this adventure here;
of him whom I set out to praise —
a grand mass of glory.

22.
A mighty spirit in a humble frame
labored, though in silence;
the hand cut the banner's cloth —
his courage never faltered.

23.
My account I make as brief
as bark stripped from a sapling;
a cloak of short-cut measure —
I choose what may suffice.

24.
My poem, if it win regard,
will serve the ear most kindly
wherever blood-soaked battle-glory
has most to make its noise.

25.
Now it is time for the matter itself,
to strike the verse-string singing;
a blind man's toast has long been poured —
remarkably long! — in the telling.

The Raids of King Felix

26.
Clerics told the king abroad
how Christendom stood hostile —
Felix was his name, that lord
who ruled the realm of Spain.

27.
He let his kinsmen scatter sorrow,
generous in gifts;
Alpes-heights or Apell's-fortress
was the prince's capital.

28.
The chieftain had a viking's soul,
accustomed oft to plunder;
he pressed with fire and blade to make
the towns of Spain give way.

29.
Fierce spite was all his mind,
ruin to the people —
his chief delight was swords at clash,
to whet his rage to fury.

30.
He scoured each bay and inlet well,
most watchful of his neighbors;
he was both brave and, of all men,
most skilled in arts of war.

31.
Sometimes he fared the sea-road forth
to raid the coastal towns;
no warning ever ran ahead —
the miser struck them all the same.

32.
He seized both folk and wealth from there,
the terrible one, through plunder;
thus by arms he spread abroad
his dominion over Spain.

33.
And through the chains of servitude,
the common thrall-fate people call it,
nearly nothing was left safe
in any Spanish district.

34.
One thing alone the king enjoyed —
to win from Christian peoples;
yet victory's strength did not suffice
to blunt the others' edges.

35.
My tale now turns aside from here,
from the mass of blows and battles,
save for one he dealt upon
the last of all his days.

36.
His war-host he led on the lion's path,
with fire and armed retainers;
at the same time he laid waste
the land of Jacob's shrine.

37.
(The story's digger so reports,
as from the poem it springs;
but let me say, dear Reader,
a trifle more on this.

38.
I considered, as the matter is framed,
woven as it may be:
the lord destroyed with hunger for brands
the town, but not the district.

39.
That then is poorly said at best,
the dread of the market's plunder;
Compostella of James I grant
to be a town in Spain.

40.
Saint James's town, that honest hold,
the warriors say it guards —
take the name from that, and judge
whether the rest seems likely.

41.
Their cloudless faith in those times past,
constant on sea and land —
thither an endless crowd of pilgrims
pressed, ensnared unceasing.

42.
The folk in general thought themselves sure,
rich in thoughts from the Scriptures,
that visiting James's grave and Christ's
would serve them equal purpose.

43.
This was not the only happening —
and here I name the liveliest —
that stands in the story's later course,
the whole of its full matter.)

The Capture of the French Noblewoman

44.
More shall be sung of this king's deeds,
whose spite alone could cool him;
he rode among the plundered fallen
and the ruins of burned halls.

45.
Thirty leagues' great stronghold
the lord had stripped entirely,
so hasty was the homeward march,
the noble troop drove hard.

46.
The army halted at the shore,
his fleet was made to load —
with sand and cargo filling up,
a crowd of folk and goods.

47.
The warriors rested from the fray,
the host was brave in labor;
some scouted round the countryside
to trap the fleeing people.

48.
The story, as I read it well,
was bitter though the quarrel —
the king desired what passed from him,
whatever bore a life.

49.
In that hour, mark it well,
girded for the battle-plow,
a company of French pilgrims
came forth from the dark forest.

50.
They sought a ruined settlement
to search for wool and weapons;
the lord told the king of that —
thirsty as he was for blood.

51.
He would not cease for any fright,
would not forgo the battle-mass;
he sent a hundred and fifty knights,
a host, to crush these people.

52.
So it was with that party's march:
sickness and affliction seized them,
and they had had no easy rest
since leaving home behind.

53.
The leader of the company,
no weakling in the fray,
was a champion Paris-born —
a kinsman of the queen rode with him.

54.
He had died — the grief of that! —
stricken sore by illness;
they could not see the deep blood-pool
that had been brewed in secret.

55.
No one, none at all, could walk there,
the pestilence held them pinned —
save one alone, whom need compelled,
a woman newly with child.

56.
Her noble father, once the sunlight's shield,
no longer rode with fortune;
he had grown old and feeble now,
once a mighty champion.

57.
He stood among his weapons still,
though scarcely any others could;
peace waned, new need arrived —
a band of villains closed in.

58.
The people had not sensed the fight,
the danger was undreamed of,
until at last the death-blood
streamed fast upon the warriors.

59.
Little or no defense was made,
the spears wrought enough of murder;
the sons of France fell slaughtered there,
the woman watched the battle.

60.
The horsehair-shielded father of the lady
lets fury's fire blaze;
long accustomed to blood's ebb,
he begins the steel-quarrel.

61.
Warriors close on every side,
they offer the gleam of shields;
they meant to seize and strip the spoils,
the pure ones, glowing with flame.

62.
The champion's life and strength then
stirred their courage once more;
no sword could touch his body,
no hand could find a hold.

63.
Long he raged, he shook the blade,
he hewed the host like branches;
many wounded men he felled,
and wielded the mist-weapons.

64.
He roused the quarrel of spears and raised
the cry on either hand;
the brave man sank at last,
he fell to earth, spent.

65.
Later the gold-tree learned the tale,
swollen in a flood of tears:
at last life forsook him,
from a small wound, of weariness.

66.
To all alike it came alike,
those warriors who had stood —
to bear to the king the fallen woman,
the fleeting spirit, they trod.

67.
They plundered the slain and took the wife,
and turned at once to the ships;
the lord thought well of the bare-won prize,
the swift one deemed it fair.

68.
A chance event — how it happened so! —
"we have won what we scarce hoped for" —
the king spoke, and soon began
to twist the lily-strand.

69.
"Queenly and noble, it is settled:
a Christian woman I have won you;
but that word has slipped my mind —
the grievous wound has emptied it."

70.
"My sense is this: she'll never find
a comelier handmaid anywhere;
thus fortune blossoms from this —
our standing grows the fairer."

71.
"Surely she is not born in some
low market-stall of merchants;
we may be sure, nor from small kin,
that she is rightly chosen."

72.
"Our handmaid, then, a noble wife
from Christian lands she comes;
one sees the trace of where we fought —
our triumph-withered hands."

73.
Who can fathom grief's full quarrel,
how heavy the woman bore it?
She would sooner have given her life
than travel in this fashion.

The Voyage Home and the Queen's Friendship

74.
The king bade them loose the mooring-lines
when at last the lady was calmed;
the waves now rose against the hull
and the surge rocked beneath.

75.
The angry sea on every side
the prows of the ships were toppling;
as if blood-drenched, the breakers crashed —
the sister-waves stood shuddering.

76.
Foam frothed blue about the prows,
the billows shook the shrouds;
the swirling spray lathered high —
the sea-road surged beneath.

77.
The rigging strained in the stallion's flight
straight through the salt-spray waves;
the sails heaved in the storm of drift,
all toward the prince's harbors.

78.
One could see upon the lord's face
that these signs pleased him well;
none dared to hinder his ship —
the north wind was blowing.

79.
The honor-hungry lord of the land
gave quarter to his fortunes;
as proud bearing suited him,
he drove home to his castle.

80.
Mares, treasures, riches —
he fed his strong-armed neighbors;
and gladly to his queen he gave
the captured woman outright.

81.
The queen dealt the woman no harm
but nourished her with warm kindness;
she took her by the hand with grace,
the one whose grief had wounded her.

82.
With such great power it came to pass —
wisdom, gracious, to be leaned upon —
through sorrow's clouds one saw
the woman's inner beauty.

83.
So soon it came that the lady of the court —
most everyone could see it —
now thought herself to have found in her
the best share of the plunder.

84.
Each one surpassed the other's speech —
perhaps the finest women —
upon the earth, with nimble soul,
learning each other's tongue.

85.
The queen offered whatever she could;
the lady's grief she checked;
the more she knew the woman,
the more dearly she loved her.

86.
Grace pressed to the heart's depths —
how the king's consort provided!
A great part of the world's happiness
she wearied herself to bring her.

87.
When she received a noble train of maidens
and a splendid chamber furnished —
such honor as she saw bestowed,
she had truly never found.

88.
The king's wife saw about her then —
joy's glory shone above them —
and no one pressed a golden shield
to push away Christianity.

89.
This freedom the devout woman
valued beyond all else,
though she expected soon
to hear those ugly commands.

90.
Yet she concealed no tender gestures,
though sorrow's hours pressed her;
the queen saw the golden pillar's heart —
she sheltered the hidden grief.

91.
She watched and observed the ways
of the wise woman carefully,
as if she owed it to herself
to win it for her life.

92.
Each morning the host learned
of the gold-tree's service:
she sent her maidens all away
when she wished to pray.

93.
It happened once, as often it did —
there is a tale to tell —
alone there in a sorrowful place,
the evening-star's gentle eye.

94.
The golden pillar, noble-souled,
wore a cloak upon her frame;
between her bones she bowed her body,
the necklace-tree wrapped in cloth.

95.
She bent her face toward heaven, knelt
in Christian worship fine,
and offered up a beautiful prayer
for her unborn child.

96.
The woman spoke, according to her sense,
of her griefs and sorrows —
all that a mother's love can find,
the warmest that can be.

97.
She spoke herself comfort and certainty:
may heaven see a way
that this soul might come to Christ's church
before it die.

98.
She saw no end of anguish ahead,
the blood-wound growing beneath her;
then at the bedchamber door
the queen stood listening.

99.
Her speech so quickly shifted then,
the path of grief grew calm;
she turned inside — and the woman
she scolded, motherly.

100.
Then she spoke, in this wise: "So would
your suffering be cured?
I think it can scarcely be seen
what ails you in your sorrow."

101.
"It is now plain to me in full —
the chief cause of your torment:
I see you are surely with child,
though you name no father."

102.
"Such a thing you did not tell us,
at any suitable moment;
you concealed it poorly then,
a matter of such weight to you."

103.
"Little will it profit me
to cure your pain uncleanly;
from now on your child, unborn,
cannot be raised here secretly."

104.
"How doubly pleasing to you was the quarrel" —
so the matter also stood —
"at first it suited me quite well."
The other agreed to this.

105.
The gold-ring woman began to grieve,
for bitter were those pains.
The queen swore: "Do not despair —
there is no use in fretting."

106.
"Tell me if you can, and sorrow not!
Quiet your tongue, dear lady:
when were you to show the world's light
to the hidden little one?"

107.
"If health's condition does not hinder" —
the other said — "the wound decides it;
it draws toward Palm Sunday,
the holy day of Christendom."

108.
She answered: across the span of days,
fed on the nurture of deeds,
great things would be drawn forth,
though dark the way to read them.

109.
She added: "Truly I feel
the hour is the same one."
The other noted the reply
and said the debt was bound.

110.
"Enough doubt I now bear,
and find it in my dwelling —
whether forgiveness can be granted me
for my own foolishness."

111.
"It is no use to quarrel over that" —
the queen could plainly speak —
"for truly, this I understand:
fate has decided it."

112.
"I shall lend you aid ungrudgingly,
the heathen faith be witness —
whatever is possible for me,
to bring you the best relief."

113.
The other then shed tears of joy,
the woman counted her own recovery;
the noble friendship between the ladies
was restored in its best form.

114.
At last the queen, half-Christian now,
had become the lord's own wife,
though golden-branched and proud she was,
she would have to change somewhat.

115.
Of many more speeches the woman spoke,
not written in the sources;
time steals on to reach
the day appointed before.

The Birth of Flóres and Blanzeflúr

116.
A feast at home — the people saw
that he was there, both men and women;
the clothes kept from the year before
were now displayed in finery.

117.
This custom of the warriors, certain,
was thought to be appropriate:
to welcome summer in this fashion
was the constant way of that land.

118.
Both golden-ring women bore
their children on the appointed day;
each saw her own prophecy fulfilled,
yet still in secret, not quite.

119.
Women's hands attended them —
as soon as the travail was done,
the queen bore a son, the other
delivered a fair daughter.

120.
Then a mighty feast was raised
in every hall of the people;
Flóres was the prince's son named;
Blanzeflúr they called the maiden.

121.
They seemed alike in beauty —
and fittingly so, well matched —
for "flower" was the meaning of both names,
on account of the birthday.

122.
The court rejoiced, and the king with them,
many a note rang out;
the lord believed he had seen
his own throne-heir at last.

123.
Neither ring-tree suffered harm,
and health blessed them with deeds;
before long the people
rejoiced in both alike.

124.
When the flag of ill-fortune froze on me,
the jewel of women stands —
I have laid down my fostering care,
the verse-smith's hammer falls.

Ríma II — Ferstiklnuð ferskeytt

One hundred and forty-two stanzas. The poet encounters Bragi, god of poetry, who chides him for daring to handle Suttungr's mead. The narrative follows the childhood of Flóres and Blanzeflúr — raised together, schooled together, inseparable. At fifteen, Flóres proves himself in a joust. The king discovers the love between his son and the captive's daughter and rages, wanting Blanzeflúr killed. The queen counsels a subtler plan: send Flóres to his aunt Sigbilla, who will make him forget. Flóres is sent away, but nothing can sever the bond.

Mansöngur

1.
Let the day of the art-kin shine,
let the breath of verse revive;
let the halls of joy gleam bright —
let the beat of poems resound!

2.
The steeds of the surf-wheel appear,
the people's torches blaze;
the lady of nails and warm rooms —
I hear the vow of flight.

3.
The bear-gleam scatters about the brow,
the breeze feeds the hidden flame;
the soul's fire kindles feeling,
the tongue stirs in its bonds.

4.
Dreamless I have often dozed,
a slumber one might doubt —
whether light or air has given
the moon's peace any rest.

5.
Yet now I have enjoyed a dream,
enough to ward off ill —
mine, and fashioned for the verse-tree's glory,
the gift for a sluggish brain.

6.
Thunder's swan seemed to me
(though by old custom) to stretch
its wing-arms loose,
and seek the horns of poetry.

7.
Before the dawn, for this reason,
content was drawn along;
to him the way-storm came —
he met Lord Bragi there.

8.
At first the unkind one showed alarm,
his manner fierce with dread;
my beard he shook from side to side,
the poet he chided and said:

9.
"Suttungr's mead, the holiest treasure —
do you think, man, to find it?
For us it will, beyond our reach,
avail you not at all."

10.
"You pretend to own Fjalar's ship,
the pure draughts of Freyr —
doomed by fortune you think not;
you knead dough from stones."

11.
"Rightly it would be tested
if experience could show you:
a worthless honor we find in
nourishing your delusion."

12.
"Whether I can tread within you
the faults of the verse-cup —
and here to strengthen myself for that,
ha! — I scarce looked at it."

13.
"But there it will be proved, our friend,
if you have the will to try:
the man you urged to courage —
to straighten the scroll of glory."

14.
"Let my will and power prevail
to make a fine enchantment;
try to hold on this time —
it will never be heard of again."

15.
"The verse-cup's moisture, which shines to men,
the noble worth of poetry —
that you rejoice often, does not bear
your prideful excess."

16.
Now the poetry-chieftain vanished;
the people may well inquire:
my master of verse, the lucky one,
spoke this in the midst of glory.

17.
The age will scarce trouble itself
to proclaim the verse to the crowd;
the mind is untamed, the light asks
to bend the dream to reason.

18.
A new deed of glory here
was promised me in slumber;
yet though quickly brought to its close,
it ended with the page.

19.
Bragi's ill-will I poorly grasp,
his power may weigh on souls;
but that draws the mind at last
to what the story tells.

The Childhood of Flóres and Blanzeflúr

20.
A boy and a girl were seen there —
one sees in them a lesson —
that they were playthings of fortune,
whose nature shifts like clay.

21.
The happiness of the gold-fire's linen,
likewise the great king's heir —
their fortune stood as fickle as mine:
whole, for the labor of verse.

22.
Well have the fates of future days
evened out the footprints;
unlike-born yet alike they seemed,
blooming in youth's springtime.

23.
Kin and pure intentions lay
at odds here with the door of reason;
likelier to test, than see afar,
the choices of luck and pain.

24.
Rich and poor, lord and thrall,
all suffer untold grief;
fortune bids none free from her —
her cold embrace of death.

25.
Young here, with a free mind —
I hold that none can know
whether he enters the world
for all or half its measure.

26.
Though we know both uneven harm
and uneven blessings' taste,
to some measure wearied alike
we all must be born.

27.
Little grief strikes the lucky man,
the luck that is called love;
but one thing gladdens the ill-fated:
his wretchedness might be cured.

28.
He whose sorrows crowd him thus —
the heart is so resourceful —
let the eye of blessedness rest on it;
it will bear little weight.

29.
He does not know what makes the downcast
warrior find his joy;
he gained what cannot be lost,
though it profits less than nothing.

30.
Joy's warmth transforms the brow,
sorrow to hush and stifle;
the ever-shifting game is grief, and she,
the soul of feeling.

31.
Your soul knows the heart's desire,
that habit never broke;
though fortune turns so stubborn
as to deny it to you.

32.
So it goes with a man's spirit —
no match can mend it;
what his hands have spared him,
the heart swiftly brightens.

33.
Fortune's field so planted your luck
with lilies fairer decked;
on the other side you plunged
into more poisonous sorrow.

34.
The story seems mighty when
it should have been told at once —
to speak of these things to me
in far more natural fashion.

The Two Queens and the Children

35.
The gold-mask's ocean stilled,
the verses found their place;
both women rose from childbed
to the people's gentle joy.

36.
The French woman's care and counsel —
it is said the men would bear it —
swelled, and never waned, as though
she were another queen.

37.
Unheard-of fortune, foreign there,
the goods were twined together:
the queen, vigorous in deeds,
made her dearest lady-in-waiting.

38.
Often therefore the lady saw
herself refreshed with goodness;
the queen's counsel — yet the king least of all,
puffed with pride, approved it.

39.
For household peace the lord cared not,
the king in careless fashion;
over them watched the wretchedness
of the viking-fashioned silence.

40.
The queen, eager for goodness,
her noblest mercy shining,
wished that the Christian ring-woman
should foster both the children.

41.
The lord at last was drawn to agree —
no objection weighing strong —
but that she give the boy her breast
he forbade emphatically.

42.
That people held it would wither fortune,
increase the wound and peril,
that Christian mother-milk
should nourish him more than pride.

43.
That charge the woman would not yield;
the wife stood firm in her refusal —
other native customs were seen
as the one thing to be done.

44.
Yet the bond of fostering-love
grew strong within the breast of wealth;
as soon became clear and plain to see,
each stubborn will grew soft.

45.
One could scarcely go farther than this:
the woman felt, the bright lady,
that the gold-ring's tree, like the maid,
had lain beneath her heart.

46.
The children thrived, fair and lively;
though kinship did not answer,
some were struck that many a sibling
seemed less alike than these.

47.
The treasure-woman held them in her arms,
they feared no coming peril;
bright youth flew forward thus —
four years went by.

48.
Such a pair was seldom seen —
the people, as they tell —
at half-grown age they seemed already
full of talent and beauty.

49.
Gifted, their talents scarcely hidden,
the story lets itself be told:
a remarkable keenness was found in both,
swift in the course of days.

School at Geides' Hall

50.
And so the verse-quarrel lengthens —
the host and the court agreed:
at the first convenient hour
Flóres should enter school.

51.
The king judged it a fitting plan,
the place was called Gjaldom;
the boy would soon make his dwelling there —
an old man lived in that hall.

52.
That man served noble Geides,
known for raising highborn youth;
no art he left untaught,
whatever had befallen anyone.

53.
The prince received his leave from court,
the gossip did not stay quiet;
the young warrior quickly went
and spoke to his father, saying:

54.
"I now feel and well understand
your mind and your desire:
to part me from my foster-sister,
to separate me from that wise one."

55.
"I cannot complain about the school,
one must attend to learning;
my sense is this: the old man
will serve me well enough."

56.
"But wherever the heart grows empty,
wherever sorrows press upon it —
my mind and memory would die
at once, in that very hour."

57.
"Little will the grieving heart heal,
the dirge of grief it catches;
but if Blanzeflúr comes with me,
I go there untroubled."

58.
"The fear seizes me — it would be
terrible grief besides —
that torn away from the girl,
I would learn little indeed."

59.
"That cannot be — the king declares —
let nothing stand in your way;
the maiden's company we deny you not,
no harm shall come from it."

60.
So quickly it was all arranged,
just as the poem relates:
both were taken straightaway
to the school together.

61.
The king then charged the master
to teach them both alike;
while the gold-battle's champion lived,
the same lessons should instruct them.

62.
At the steel-tree's root and cup-line,
warm souls were nourished;
Latin speech they first were taught —
unbroken words they learned.

63.
The brain-chambers opened wide,
none struggled in the learning;
they seemed to share a single soul,
the two of them as one.

64.
The lad concealed nothing from the girl,
the lady less from him;
love banned the same from both alike —
and so their youth went by.

65.
Two lilies on a low hill,
nourished close to life's warm gleam,
each gives the other sun and shelter,
warmth and a place to grow.

66.
The bright boy and the slender necklace-tree,
memory marked out their course;
they wrote much, yet thought still
a third part more than that.

67.
With time their learning grew
still greater and more fine;
the scholars bade them wait,
the letter-craft grew fair.

68.
It became plain, now and then,
fiercely straining past all custom:
mighty love found them both
before they even knew her.

69.
Their like-mindedness became full love,
which binds the heart so tightly;
it could not be torn asunder,
sated with bright delight.

70.
A gentler pair dwelt there —
the will of both was sworn —
to be wary of all they saw
that might cause them to be parted.

71.
Good fortune felt itself driven off,
as what was greater took its place;
neither could live without the other,
nor any prosperity settle them.

72.
Their childlike bodies readied for the time —
bright hope matched a hope like this —
the flame burned bright toward the noble lady:
soon the kingdom would be established.

73.
If they dared not tell the people,
then let him dream meanwhile
that he would manage in the interval
to keep the maiden near him.

The Joust

74.
The lord, stubborn and persistent,
now thought the time was late;
he mustered host and retinue
and long he rode the tides.

75.
One thing the lord desired to test,
the time had come, he thought:
could the boy in the brand-storm's fight
wield the wound-blade well?

76.
Fifteen years old was Flóres there,
the news was heard and clear;
his nature carved its mark through him —
the treacherous steed demanded it.

77.
The lad asked for the blood to warm,
the fine joust he tested,
and in a few lines for that
presented to his father.

78.
He said he slumbered here, weak in strength,
and still sometimes felt at home —
himself toward the soft-play of wounds
he dreamed more clearly.

79.
The king paid himself in this —
he knew, he wished to send
a warrior who would meet the boy
on the field with lance and shield.

80.
As a prince's equal, as was expected,
each one's mildness grew;
on account of such replies, the son
he wished to humble gently.

81.
The king sent a landed champion,
chosen from the finest warriors,
one whose famed hand would fell him:
the brave one, known as Áli.

82.
The wise champion was a capable man;
he found the prince mild-tempered;
this stiff joust he carried —
the riding-match would count.

83.
Flóres fisted the battle-steel —
his spirit rose in joy —
the strong horses charged together,
the shield-edge met its mark.

84.
The miser's son missed his lance —
the nail-branch felled the man;
the proud one loses his staff's edge,
he stepped across the field.

85.
Now the fortune-blessed boy inquires —
the other thought it an even greater shame —
whether he will or can lift himself,
for more exchange of weapons?

86.
The wound-pool's gentle serpent —
that, the champion said, he could not;
but he might still find the king
and tell the matter's end.

87.
Flóres declared him free to go,
no wound that bound him held;
the other fell silent; then the two
parted from the bout.

The King's Rage

88.
The lord of the land marveled greatly
at Thunder's lowering of spears;
the warriors sought the brand beneath him —
a prince's son to test.

89.
Hidden in the shirt of Skoguul's linen,
the shield-tree freed from faintness,
the king admired his son's courage;
so there was peace awhile.

90.
He loved Blanzeflúr as before,
the fair wreath-tree beside him;
his keener wind now sailed
the brands' still sharper course.

91.
The strong king returned from war,
about a year later;
and then the king's ears heard
something other than a fool's craft.

92.
Flóres had now secretly changed —
most saw it plainly in the maiden;
it seemed clear he had cleanly
bound his full love to her.

93.
The king's majesty over warrior-wings
turned to bitter grief:
another to grace a woman beside the prince —
that day would never come.

94.
The proud lord grew restless,
he raged at what was nearest;
honor's glory gave a poor yield —
the Rhine's gold cut his finest.

95.
The queen found him in his idle time,
the peace-breaker furious:
"Destroyed for us, we know,
is our honor's ease of peace.

96.
"The cursed wretch has ruined the fame
of both our treasures —
his own handmaid he intends
to lay upon the marriage-bed."

97.
"A fitting sentence for the ring-treasure:
she shall be given to death;
so to shift this game it pleases us —
to strip her life away."

98.
"To follow that path as free men,
most will keep their silence;
but to speak against it from under —
our servants dare not."

99.
"If the heir, on whose honor
our kin depend,
should marry into a Christian race —
the king reckons the fury."

100.
"The realm's esteem, the land's welfare
likewise hangs on the quarrel;
all gives way before his folly —
hard are such troubles."

The Queen's Counsel

101.
The queen saw the king was stricken;
there was no mercy in him.
She was silent long, then at last spoke:
"A softer course might be found."

102.
"A disgrace, harsh and rigid,
would be remembered in the minds of ages:
to murder an innocent woman
and bring neither happiness nor peace."

103.
"I will see to it that my friend
turns away from the maiden,
as if she suffered a painful wound
and lay in a swoon at times."

104.
"Let the people mark that the treasure-woman
finds her strength diminished,
in a terrible illness — and wish then
for her own daughter near."

105.
"The weeping girl will not refuse,
once she turns to those tasks;
the fleet-footed maid will not speak against
her own mother's needs."

106.
"The golden counsel then from Geides:
let her feign illness,
and send the boy home at once —
then the game runs together."

107.
"Your brother-in-law and my sister —
so the game may be won —
will lure the lad home to themselves;
I find it plain enough."

108.
"She will dream up fitting schemes —
she is not slow to those —
the gold-stream's destroyer of lindens:
to make him forget in time."

109.
"Or would there be no way at all
for maid and boy to split?
Let it be fully accomplished
when the hours have passed."

110.
The king, pleased, set the plan in motion,
the counsel revived his spirits;
the man of fortune's place was called Ligor,
a landed man was he.

111.
A great estate, far from the village,
Ligor held and sat upon;
the ring-woman was known as Sigbilla,
cunning and wise in craft.

112.
All was set upon the road,
the scheme went without a stumble;
the counsel was keen — but the bright sun of rings
was left cruelly cold.

113.
The king endured these answers —
thorn and battle's net —
the maiden's life should be spared;
fate willed it thus.

114.
Now the art-game begins to play,
the lie wrestles against truth;
Geides sinks, the king's son draws near,
the girl is driven back and forth.

Flóres at Sigbilla's Hall

115.
The woman came home with the prince,
neat and flushed about the cheeks;
she was Odin's lodging-house,
snug in her mother's care.

116.
Through the pretended fog of jewels
her mother schooled her well,
and counseled her to call on Christ,
whatever goodness burdened.

117.
In that one thing the woman found
the first harm she could ease;
grieving, at last she took the vow
to make this trial her own.

118.
The worthy son of the king was struck
by fate, stern beyond hope;
now the errand was disclosed,
and joy was torn from him.

119.
He said: "So fortune's path will twist;
the lucky one will decide
to separate the master and the maid —
so I must understand it."

120.
The king found words to answer then:
"The reasons here are strong;
now you cannot go with her —
the crown of sorrow's nobility."

121.
"Seized from life's peril,
harshly I mastered it once;
your master and your mother's wife —
the girl must attend her."

122.
"A month, therefore, the necklace-woman
must wait until the war is done;
whatever becomes of the other then,
she shall be sent to you."

123.
That event, though the prince's heart
suffered terrible grief,
he managed to restrain his rage —
for he suspected treachery.

124.
Then they were parted thus:
the noble son received his escort,
drawn to Ligor's home,
the king's chosen company.

125.
A feast the lady, with all decorum,
both weapons-benders and women,
prepared to greet the lord's son,
with elegant wands they tended.

126.
The queen wrote her sister a letter,
the tale briefly told.
The ring-woman read the missive —
the brand-branch had been duly counseled.

127.
She read grief in his bright brows,
his darkened look concealed it;
she held the cold of sorrow away —
her womanly skill adorned her.

128.
She led the linen-tree boy into a chamber,
to brighten the dull boy's spirits;
woven all in silks it was —
a sitting-room for ladies.

129.
She brought him a golden goblet of wine,
enough to dull his wits;
the house she filled with lilies,
gilded with flames thereafter.

130.
Nothing lacked that might sate a young man's eyes —
the truth in every token.
The ruiner of fine things sprang up fast
and asked: "What is all this?"

131.
"Painted pictures I see here;
many a one catches the eye;
but pondering over pairs
drives the thought away from me."

132.
"Though sorrow's tree harms me,
my spirit is constrained;
this was no hunting-quarry —
our errand here was other."

133.
The ready lad scorned the ale of winds,
the cup of honor he refused;
the angry fellow leaped to the door,
and could not be made a coward.

134.
(The wife's wit might well be blamed,
entwined with lying kindred;
the flutter of Freyja's feathers' virtue
knew no true loyalty.)

135.
The hard mind of unpleasantness
would try to swell within the boy;
he went seeking his stone-fish friend —
now hidden under a rock.

136.
As brother of the dead, Blanzeflúr —
the portion of wealth was poured —
when waking drove him from his arms,
the bitter need so crushed him.

137.
Yet the worthy prince found
himself conveyed to this:
until hope of the maiden remained,
he would do well to restrain himself.

138.
So he locked the fortress of silence,
those next few days,
that scarcely anyone saw his grief —
yet inwardly he was fiercest.

139.
Sorrow's lullabies across the land,
the cold string hummed;
this frightened the people: short words —
the boy spoke never a word.

140.
The nail-branch spoke to no one,
had no desire to talk;
his own mother's sister —
he could scarcely bear to look at her.

141.
And so, wherever I raised my voice,
the terror-man grew grim;
the prisoner was luckless,
in luck's own cradle.

142.
Steer the cup of verse,
bear the burden of the mother of learning,
spread the scroll of glory here —
the keeper of clothes is reddened.

Ríma III — Oddhend þrístikla ferskeytt

One hundred and ten stanzas. The king again wants Blanzeflúr killed. The queen persuades him instead to sell her to foreign merchants. Blanzeflúr is sold to a merchant named Ullías for a vast sum — ten gold pounds, fine silks, and a marvellous goblet depicting the Judgement of Paris and the fall of Troy, set with a carbuncle stone. The merchant sails east with the weeping girl to Babylon, where she is sold to the emir. The king erects a false tomb inscribed with Blanzeflúr's name. Flóres returns home, learns of the "death," and collapses in grief.

Mansöngur

1.
A third poem from the treasury of silence
must now be offered to the people,
to warm the blood and chase off shame —
harden the verse-string's edge.

2.
The wine of echoes in the vault of praise,
may the clashing song suffice;
the groan of glory cares not for fame,
the fury of flight is launched.

3.
If Bragi's prophecy should fail me,
blind, then I shall be —
I go looking now for something else,
another source of aid.

4.
If Ásgarð's women will not offer me
their generous rebuke,
fostering-craft to soften the mood,
they should fashion learned things.

5.
I was harmless there so long
as nothing called me to the task,
or brought me to fulfil the match
for the ship of skillful labors.

6.
Though the wrapped-up woman scorns much,
in Valhöll I greeted no one;
I go still wary, dare not boldly
sing the artful mead.

7.
Therefore, if I beg them for their aid,
no need to seek for peace;
the ruffled one rages at the worst —
he will not call it truce.

8.
Though he be angered: red is my custom,
strong enough to try;
from here onward I must still
trust in what lies ahead.

9.
First the bold desire wrestles,
beauty's whetting brightens;
need and duty call at the work,
and the strengthening spirit falters.

10.
Exile's strife from the gods' people,
early and late is better
than the harshness of the Dísir's unkind drought
that passes through this winter.

11.
Therefore I sing in Oddhending —
if I manage the swing of it —
deceit around the curious mind:
it would be a work of glory.

12.
Take from me what I have wrought —
never did Odin walk those roads —
unless he goes where treachery finds him,
better to defend his own.

13.
A watchful eye on the beauty's gleam
of women, grant me care;
for him alone it never rested,
if one must speak the truth.

14.
Like him, many a man
is known to be so wounded:
wishing to ban that very breach —
to be deceived by the maiden in the house.

15.
Such matters cannot greatly press them,
the maiden who must obey;
her worth and welfare then —
they see the woman pass them by.

16.
But seldom does the blade bear so hard
that any harm should swell it;
whether proud stubbornness or not,
it must amount to the same.

17.
Hasty judgments and self-pride's scorn —
chiefly that we know to boast of —
then empty loss of honor,
sworn by the gleam-branch men.

18.
None of this, in any station,
will scarcely be discovered:
that love's woven bond, once set,
seems right enough to bear.

19.
We hear of men the earth has loved,
if gold can seize them fast;
the people, wrongly judging him or her,
cry shame and snare on the other.

20.
The matter here, as follows,
though some may like it —
my song-book gives me leave
to turn little from this path.

21.
Cunningly the custom shields the people,
she stands at their side;
give him the easy continuation —
more than just bystanders.

22.
But love and loyalty from the spirit's dwelling —
wherever breach led to contempt,
sorrow caused those who cut the sickle
to shear her off in hatred.

23.
And those strokes, with malice and deceit,
to strip the living love away —
whose eyelash-gleam does not blink at
how very much this would accomplish.

The King's Second Rage

24.
King Felix's brow was furrowed;
Flóres wept beside him.
But pity it was, for the king
then took heed of honor.

25.
That the woman's kin were Christians
made the harm no less;
the people's hatred could cut the prince
from the throne he stood upon.

26.
A single love endures the torment —
those who watch it learn —
for many, mischief and ruin are baked
from lesser causes still.

27.
The horsehair-shield, as I recall,
with the king's untamed wife —
proud that spear and mercy-wanting —
yet wrought his own destruction.

28.
His son bore a dangerous hour,
to break the mood and weary —
for the sake of the sun-disk's maiden,
honor must be served.

29.
The maiden's worth shall not be lessened,
the warrior judged it in his trust;
the scroll of glory hid it nowhere —
she was reared in virtues.

30.
The lord knew well where victory ran —
sorrow now engulfed him;
but the secret path, when the work was done,
he scarcely knew he had it.

31.
Dark delusion! the devil, swiftly,
often makes things sour.
But honor's bright fidelity,
noble — like all dear hearts!

32.
The one who is pure never misses the mark,
the greatest honor of fidelity;
virtue stands near, while "he who laughs
and loves too many equally."

33.
O you virtue! who breeds loyalty,
who ends hatred and torment —
Vegtam's woe, which weakens grief:
lead us to your dwellings.

34.
Bright fortune! whether you lend joy
or strike with dread —
be near us, so that our deep-souled
testing of strife may endure.

Blanzeflúr Sold to Merchants

35.
The sword-god turns now to the other matter;
the precious gold of glory —
this adventure, clearly understood:
the lord wished to cut the branch.

36.
The spear's blow and the golden lady's goods —
I guard which one was told —
they are a pair, as plainly known,
who thrived in deeds of daring.

37.
Fallen, the leveled gift of verse
lay under pain's remembrance;
half a month without joy,
the dark one steals the flame.

38.
That time passed; the golden woman came not;
the spear now dealt with the boy.
He knew then that from that hour on,
he need not look for the maiden.

39.
Now at first his softened longing sought
to repay the quarrel's goodness;
fortune struck the linen-tree —
the nearly lost one showed his hand.

40.
He would rather bring to his own lips
the weapons' sting, joyless,
whatever the pure journey cut away —
had it been poison itself.

41.
The boy could not endure the mood of Ligor's land,
nor the lady of the ground:
the king's son for a fretful hour
must suffer in that direction.

42.
They judged the plan best done at once:
the lord of land would be warned.
A letter was written and the king was told;
every harm managed to travel.

43.
Hot anger bit the king;
the trial-shifting smith —
she showed him what Ligor wrote,
the linen-tree, joyful and bright:

44.
"Look at what was written to me —
harm's misfortune —
what yield that pair of asses bore!
I was too slow to counsel."

45.
"Our son deeply pains the woman —
oh, if only I could see the hour —
deep into the ground that ring-maid
would lie in hell beneath us."

46.
"I trust nothing else, lady:
that the torment will forget itself;
if that jewel-woman were to die now,
the champion clad in gold."

47.
"The ugly matter I will this night
see quickly done with the pike;
it shall be silent with a valiant guard —
wrap it up swiftly."

48.
The dexterous lady of the gold-strand answered,
virtuous in most things:
"If she lose her life for bonds of loyalty,
I call that the worst of harms.

49.
"Blood-vengeance for the woman strikes us;
the author of rage none can know;
it breeds only shame, nothing good —
yet we can profit with her."

50.
"A mother-in-law here beside the gold —
and pure wit seizing the lady —
the people of Asia would pay a mighty sum,
wealth, to buy her from us."

51.
"Here in the realm no ring-play
like her would ever be offered;
at those riches I scarcely dare to look
that might compare with her."

52.
"Now the boy dreams homeward thus,
and henceforward might forget:
soon with those men across the salt sea,
if the sun of gold were carried."

53.
"The treasure-woman leaves us unharmed,
and to our accounts it is proved:
for him she is dead — and neither
can see the other again."

54.
"And then we keep the maiden's life,
the beautiful one, alive;
the champions, we tell them, the skirt-island,
is dressed in a nightgown, gentle."

55.
"He is told that here she came,
swift the pillar urged him:
the fair trinket-woman has died —
a few days before."

56.
The king now found this plan profited,
and the other thing fared better too;
the beautiful woman's life was thus won —
the moon-shield of the wave's edge.

The Merchant Ullías and the Goblet

57.
The queen went now from the bench,
she could not bind her tears;
for both the girl and the boy,
by bitterness's taste, she fashioned the bitter trick.

58.
Then the one who brewed the ban
summoned men to the hall:
one merchant, a man of the land,
and the golden woman beside him.

59.
The pearl-path beside the salmon's pool,
the leaf-folk bade her sell;
the merchant-folk, and for the lady,
to choose the fire of the fjord for themselves.

60.
The rarest treasures, the noblest —
the champion brought them forward;
half as much again was the price,
one could scarcely bear to look.

61.
The lord's trust did not waver;
rarely was the exchange struck —
he spoke with the valiant voice
of the eastern peoples' tongue.

62.
That foul work the one chose to do,
his wits frozen in error;
every man stood soul-sick,
plainly, before the lord.

63.
The woman, disgraced, lay weak and low;
little awed the fools;
no mercy or ease of heart —
her tears were driven back.

64.
The grieving lady could not hide her heart;
she nearly burst apart;
tears thundered from her eyes and fell
down upon the breast below.

65.
The wretched girl becomes a sacrifice,
her tender strings unguarded;
who among them speaks her pure soul —
punished by sorrow's steel?

66.
The wretch trod his path through the gold,
the current-fire in his hands;
he came where the people stood at market,
leading the suffering lady.

67.
Worse than death, the ring-pillar offered,
burned over the treasure widely;
like a lamb, the wretched creature,
the auction served her no better.

68.
There was great commotion at the bright auction,
and swiftly among the men;
the tricky bid came thick and fast,
and some bore hard upon it.

69.
The noise grew short, with people and haggling,
the flash was steered toward them;
the one who always read the coins' chatter —
Ullías was his name.

70.
His fierce glance darted eagerly,
the noblest woman floating past;
he pressed his bid — the money did not break —
the rarest offer yet.

71.
Ten gold pounds he weighed from his hand,
a silk vestment, the wave's fire,
and three of the fairest
rings of silver found.

72.
Then came rare long robes,
the count of which stands here,
and chosen tunics of the finest cut,
double-lined from Savala.

73.
A splendid ornamented goblet,
whose worth exceeds the best —
it followed her, as is widely said,
to bear the most from his mouth.

74.
This cup, they say Aeneas owned —
though I can scarce believe it —
and from that custom little fades,
to turn the scroll of glory high.

75.
Words that stand close, I thus expound,
if I could press them out:
the vein of heaven's wit and learning,
where the pure blood of Greeks would flow.

76.
Upon the cup's body was a cloth of scenes,
with the branches of the Gjúkung doom;
the Greeks' unyielding spear-storm
was given in the closing panels.

77.
That Troy burned and the king's curse fell —
the images say as much.
Helena's husband found his place with them —
and from there they rowed home.

78.
It bore a finished pair of artworks,
the longest one to praise;
the images so hard to fathom,
one scarce could glean from them.

79.
With wonder one saw the art there wrought,
the metal-head could not bear the like;
the worthy story, set with skill,
was seen and understood besides.

80.
Three goddesses with gilded brows
found the golden apple, clear;
Pan the tall, the swift herd-god,
stood beside them on the ground.

81.
The women's greed burned for the apple,
the whole thing can be known:
"The one who finds me fairest wins me" —
thus it was written there.

82.
The tall goddesses, it must be told,
compelled the herd-god then
to judge and say who owns the apple —
his word would stand as final.

83.
The shepherd could not weigh the merit,
all three offered bribes;
such a spectacle was scarcely seen,
the customs of friends to better.

84.
Juno offers a wealth of peace,
first, so the quarrel stir;
mild Pallas offers wisdom's beauty,
then tested the proof of wit.

85.
Venus then spoke from on high:
"The herd-god shall be given to the wise one
the finest woman with the brightest brow,
a jewel among us all."

86.
He seemed to stare at the holy ones,
the steeds of aurora redden;
the many-colored bribes
were the most worth beholding.

87.
The woman he found most loyal to him,
whatever else it might have been —
the apple Venus won in this fashion,
though scarcely true to merit.

88.
An apple of envy it was,
and so it is always called:
it cuts the souls asunder —
fellowship ruined wherever it goes.

89.
If I must tell the tale here,
and someone wishes to hear it,
the cup can be seen in the dark —
so much it shone from within.

90.
The clasp was a carbuncle,
from the precious branch of the wave;
high and proud it bore itself,
held on a green emerald.

91.
Rays scattered about the mast-cliff,
the scribe's mark blazing red;
it wrought on the surface of sight
till what seemed dead grew living.

The Departure and the False Tomb

92.
The deal stood; the ruddy shore,
the king's slave gave the lady over —
with his full weight upon the gold,
the wretchedness bound her like blood.

93.
Without delay, the man ceased his talk,
the waves' surge and the vessel;
when the wind blew fair, with its rigging,
he sailed straight east to sea.

94.
Nowhere was the woman crushed
by the surging tumult's force;
the lady sang here of her harsh fate —
the cargo was long weighed down with grief.

95.
The weeping maid in the storm's teeth —
the surf would not calm for her —
struck with sorrow, she said: "No,"
but never ceased her singing.

96.
She came at dawn to a shore of vessels,
to Chaldea's green dominion,
and with the wave's fear at Babylon
was sold to the prince of that land.

97.
It cost the king's treasury dearly,
the courteous beauty of women;
the river's gold, beyond all standing,
surpassed all human measure.

98.
How the golden woman suffered longing there —
of that little is told —
beside the court; what comes after
the story shall tell in its courses.

99.
Here I part: but I still wish
to bridge the gap of gemstones.
Back to Spain the verse-ship's keel
may be straightened to run.

100.
The plan, unsteady, swiftly ripened;
the sentinel's spirit did not cool.
The father took everything Ullías paid —
the spirit-crushed king.

101.
Before the crowd, the lady was sold —
the lord believed it the truth —
yet wrapping things up now seemed
the needful turn to make.

102.
A smooth marble, a great cliff,
the educated people set;
by trick-craft's pleasure, a neat lie:
they had this monument made.

103.
The slab was driven to whiteness —
no effort spared in the crowd —
so that wherever the eye should fall,
no one would turn aside from the lie.

104.
Beside the grave there was set a plaque,
a tale of solemn roads;
upon it the nobles saw
what is not lightly missed:

105.
"Blanzeflúr, whom Flóres loved,
the fair one grief would mourn —
she departed from the world in death's sleep;
here the horns sound beneath her."

Flóres Returns

106.
The grim king forced an oath —
from the heath, without deceit —
the loss of the spear-tree pained them all;
the tale tells no more of that.

107.
Each of the king's men then would stand
among his precious neighbors —
which of them, concerning the woman,
would dare to tell the prince the truth?

108.
The queen swore — proud and tall —
the king's oar wins its joy.
Home came Flóres, leaped from his horse,
and rushed into the hall.

109.
His heart was set on learning of the lady;
his father and mother he found —
the good hero's heart-blood stirred;
the greeting cut the verse-health short.

110.
He broke off his speech, stammered then —
found there no rest for sleep;
I spare the telling, leave the scene:
the will lies bound on the ebb.

Ríma IV — Tvískothend gagraljóð

One hundred and sixty-one stanzas. The longest ríma. An extended mansöngur meditates on the art of verse, fables, and moral instruction. Flóres learns of Blanzeflúr's "death," sees the false tomb, and faints three times. He draws a dagger to kill himself so he may join her; his mother seizes the blade and cuts her hand. She reveals the truth — Blanzeflúr was sold, not dead. Flóres vows by Mahom to find her or die. He demands his father provide gold and horses, and sets out disguised as a merchant. At an inn, the hostess recognizes his grief and tells him Blanzeflúr passed through on her way east. He boards a ship bound for Chaldea and Babylon.

Mansöngur

1.
Hear, and ponder glory's speech,
turn from the stolen step;
the lame one's council in the ugly hall —
I claim to bring before you.

2.
Though the verse-cup yields but poor reward,
the best among dull crafts,
let it give both ground and gain:
a bed for the verse to ripen.

3.
The game slows, it seems to me, soon,
the lame one's eagle veering off;
Lord Bragi helps but little —
he has begun to betray me.

4.
Now to test if Hár by gloom
would quit Hliðskjálf's hall;
whether none from Ásgarð's ladies
I might get a word with.

5.
Though men dwell in guarded halls,
glory's speed does not swell the purse;
I shelter there once more —
often a little time serves good.

6.
This freedom pains me —
it will sting worst through life;
chiefly in what is hindered,
fortune pleases some the best.

7.
If fortune has been kind to me,
a share once in the cup and spring —
every hindrance may go dull;
she found doors where eyes saw none.

8.
Though at the verse-dance I barely manage,
the drinking-bout on such a theme —
a man's strength cannot master
the unfolding of each fate.

9.
That which ruins gain or harm,
lends joy or wakes desire —
all of it Osjun's hand commands;
one may often learn and see.

10.
But to praise the richly learned,
to sharpen glory's smith's renown —
to handle such refinement —
men do not count it custom.

11.
I hear the roar of harsh judgements,
a prison-sentence for the soul's murder
of him who within an empty rímur-script
tries to speak a useful word.

12.
Yet I dare not rightly test it —
the reasons, as they stand —
the dull mind wants its news.
Hear me, brothers! briefly:

13.
What is worst about the verse-scroll?
Does it desecrate the truth,
or does it elevate the best author,
whatever may befall and be written?

14.
But when the refined thing is explained,
the cup-god's gift is given:
sorcery and the demon's dark glory,
the fool's prize and degradation.

15.
The stuff of poems at evil's will,
worst, full of scandal's mud —
the verse's finer skill is lost;
gold is trampled in deeper mire.

16.
Can a Christian custom not refine
the verse-branch's such-like thread,
and blend with it something weighty?
Something important — that is true.

17.
But what increased both hair and world,
glory's scroll and essay for me,
was the title from the book of time:
to see whose work it is.

18.
Wherever I sing a chapter of glory,
cleanly dare I swear the work:
that shamelessly I count, though often cheated,
to remember him along the way.

19.
To this men will answer: "Perhaps
the story is pure fiction;
the meaning in it may be double —
scarce can anyone draw profit there."

20.
To my troubles, my answer shall be:
let him who found such things recall
that parables were composed,
glorious, and in the Bible too.

21.
More agree than speak against;
the moon shines from the sun's hem;
the fool pretends to love the root
yet hates the fruit withal.

22.
Let us look at what the story shows,
which I was going on about —
first about what I made ugly,
and also where it points.

23.
The lord vexed the root of spears,
did not little to the peoples of the land;
but nothing availed to wrestle against
the fate of two young lovers.

24.
The king's fury at the lost game,
the ruin it brewed so fiercely at the end —
and here nothing arrives but
natural failing.

25.
What can burden the lord of the land,
who dealt whole harm to peoples often?
If his excess is not curbed
by a higher hand's hard watch.

26.
This example drew it forth:
think how precious is that power —
mighty, just, without toil,
that governs all, then and now.

27.
To maiden and boy, more than slave,
the treasure of desire and greed —
pure love was victorious;
one also learns that there.

28.
So the matter neatly proves,
without boasting of man and wife:
she was something more than smooth —
the horse-trades that go on today.

29.
The folk grew wise in them, and keen —
one sees this from experience:
when he at once took my mammon,
love's matters mostly governed.

30.
But whoever takes the best refreshment —
let our fortune counsel that —
when one so awakens the mind firmly
to whatever noble deed there is.

31.
Wit learned from many things drew near,
the most famous learning one can name;
but examples, after all,
are the mightiest to move a man.

32.
The stirring of the spirit, the keen mind,
wherever joy or virtue is fixed,
and honor's careful sensitivity —
these live best in imagination.

33.
Balsam feeds the death-wound,
brightness damages the sight of people;
a poem's wholesome, clean amusement
is better than the soul's strength sick.

34.
Many here would not be dazzled,
though men knew the troubles;
I think the worst has barely grazed me —
back again to the story.

Flóres Learns of the "Death"

35.
Earlier the wounded ale-wind
froze the dance from its verse;
the king's son asks of him:
"What has become of Blanzeflúr?"

36.
The king stood silent, the champion stared
(cold gravity weighed on his brows);
he turned aside to his own mother —
plainly she was shedding tears.

37.
"Where is my beloved now?
Tell me, mother!" the lad demands.
The wave-fire's linen answers:
"The praiseworthy lady is dead."

38.
Instantly Flóres found his dread,
no comfort could avail.
"Is it long since?" he asks.
"Eight nights." The queen reports.

39.
The spear-god asks of the moon-jewel:
"What, what fate cut the maiden down?"
"Her death" — the ring-tree said —
"was longing after you."

40.
It seemed like thunder in his ears,
the tormented one, what the woman said;
he knew no more about his state —
he fell as if dead, where he stood.

41.
At the brand's edge, the lady
of the breakers — his French foster-mother —
looked on, curious,
but could not see it.

42.
The ring-heath sighed and gasped:
"Why will fate lash itself so hard?
On top of what I already bore,
now two children are lost to me."

43.
"Fortune ceaselessly, all it can,
seizes from me at necessity's prayer;
every human child I love —
death's verse at once devours it."

44.
Hot grief anguished many;
the king sat struck down;
the women grieve, the frightened company —
Flóres, until he could revive.

45.
Weary, he turned to his mother now,
his speech still mixed with tears' pool:
"Have mercy, lead me, lady,
to the band of the grave."

46.
She did so; the grave-inscription —
the jewel-warrior started at the sight;
and on that spot, into a faint again,
a heavier one than the last.

47.
All within the king's court here
seemed to lose their inner peace;
so stricken the young man showed himself
when at last he came to:

48.
"I am made for nothing but strife;
all my rest on earth is gone.
The happiness of my young life
is rotting and turning to dust."

49.
"Something painted finer than a game,
the necklace-garden where she died —
everything that dignifies the soul,
one must say, dwelt with her."

50.
"If a woman so grieved for me
unto death enough for the maid,
while still alive she showed herself,
she — if we had not been parted."

The Dagger

51.
"Away! you of the dire journey!
Now I break open hell's gate;
long, O death, shall you be permitted
little to sever our bond."

52.
"As soon as the maiden lost me,
death, you stood nearest then;
but me, who desires you —
you pretend you cannot strike."

53.
"Here no remedy avails the wound;
the deed demands the steel should bite me.
So long to live without the lady
declared the quickly ruined soul."

54.
"She alone — let men recall —
was worthy of mankind's love;
young and tender, seen together:
truly, by skill she conquered love."

55.
"Be equal, death, to my grief;
though the maid be air and all —
your reluctant hand of spite
shall help me to the flower-field."

56.
"My gentlest wife awaits me there."
Away from reason's course he went;
a fine dagger he snatched up quick,
tore the clothes from his breast.

57.
"The bright lady, you brought me to this —
to carry out my will with you,"
he said, and held the dagger's point
firm against his heart.

58.
He reddened the maiden of swords —
thought himself conveyed to the grave's sleep.
His mother leaped forward, near the knife —
her hand was somewhat cut.

59.
"Hear me, my son!" the lady cries —
"do not rashly take vengeance on your life!
Then you have no hope at all
of reaching the bright thorn's warm sun."

60.
"You now would aim for the fog-realm —
never call it flower-field!
Will you believe it can be so:
I know a garment to revive the tree?"

61.
The hard lad swore to himself:
"Least of all I dread any torment;
later still shall the news reach me,
doomed, that more than one iron bites."

62.
"I can tell scorn and mockery,
your offspring's refusal to debase me;
lady, should you not revive
the death-harbor's flame? Yes!"

63.
"First: a life without happiness —
harsh is this anguish-tax for me;
since that one woman was the thing
that made it bearable."

64.
"Then I would see about the rest
(the spirit's demand compels it) —
you who parted us:
you shall never have joy from me."

65.
"Wings shall grow for me soon,
the maiden's steps draw near;
if others had had a share in this,
I would avenge the woman first."

66.
"One thing I count: that the price of blood,
life unkindly — it can cut that short;
let one be content though the woman's life be lost —
no life is worth more than mine."

The Truth Revealed

67.
The queen could not answer the boy;
the lady found the king at once.
Flóres sat there in his thoughts,
and fainted now a third time.

68.
She spoke thus to the king:
"For our God's sake, forgive —
the frost and fury's garb —
the bright one's father, wake now."

69.
"The anguished longing, wrecked and ruined,
the king's chief son of branches —
our purpose then brought to its end,
the line may risk it if this cuts."

70.
"What good is the folly's zeal?
Who can supply amends for that?
Is his misfortune not a peril?
How would the kingdom stand then?"

71.
"Let him be comforted at once" —
the lord said. But the lady spoke:
"In that fashion, day by day,
death gently draws him near."

72.
"To take his life he has attempted —
he did not ask permission;
look at the knife! here it is —
which I wrested from him instantly."

73.
"A hero's courage" — the king spoke —
"his spirit does not let him bend;
steel and will are in him —
this does not make me glad."

74.
"We could not watch his ways closely;
long the woman was with him.
Here it is hard to counsel out of hard —
foresight's stroke has failed us."

75.
"There I know nothing keen enough
when things have come to this:
one thing only — tell him all."
The secret-rune gave her answer: yes.

76.
Again she found Flóres then.
"I was given leave to tell you true" —
the ring-slope thus made clear to him —
"you will plainly grasp it there."

77.
"We sold Blanzeflúr away —
she is not held by the earth here;
now you cannot reach the lady
by any path of life you see."

78.
"Your father wished to avoid her,
as most thought it a foolish match:
that you should think of taking
a slave-born daughter to yourself."

79.
The lid came off the lying-chest;
the lady let Flóres see it —
the hand of ice, the tree of gold,
where nothing lay concealed beneath.

Flóres Demands His Birthright

80.
He went away and armed himself —
to none did he give answer —
the fury did not cool, though his temper was strongest;
his hand-fingers gripped the sword.

81.
His blood rose in the cloak of rage,
the grief-shore's bitter stream;
filled with fury and fresh courage,
he went swiftly before the king.

82.
All marveled at the champion's spirit.
"Now, at once and for all time,
we shall be told apart —"
he said — "and the bond broken."

83.
The king answered: "Consider first;
set no cruelty in your mind;
a better counsel than you've missed —
nothing else can heal you."

84.
With gentle words the lord then asked
that he would come to peace.
The other spoke grimly (hard he grew,
the mind's snow on the chief's son):

85.
"Never shall I be content with any woman
other than Blanzeflúr,
whether I receive life or death from hell,
and wherever in the world the lady is kept."

86.
"To warm our cold soul's hall
with another maiden's love —
it shall never succeed,
not even if her likeness existed."

87.
"I swear here by Mahom's power,
the noble one — I steal no other love;
one alone shall share my bed:
Blanzeflúr, or the Queen of Hell."

88.
"Now at once I go to seek the lady;
I leave my land and its governance.
Whether you give me all the means
or deny them — either way."

89.
"If fortune serves you well,
bright, and mount the heights, O woman —
in me you'd have found a war-leader
against your kingdom's enemies."

90.
"Consider then the more —
hinder, lord, my journey;
the less likely I come to good,
unless the host shows courage."

91.
"Clear it shall be, if the land grants me
kind leave for such a voyage,
and the provisions my wish requires —
your kingdom shall be free."

92.
"If my cooling comfort reaches near,
let peace be found between us;
that which would be purely unharmed —
let us never speak of it again."

93.
"Besides, my hope is never —
and the wound-shower drinks me —
to take here the serpent's wife
if I do not reach Blanzeflúr."

94.
"Little shall secret evil match —
the clean spirit will explain itself;
take me prisoner, if you will —
but it will cost someone dear."

95.
"Your strength is greater,
but the spirit's deed — that bows not;
at once I would hear plainly said
what you now intend."

96.
"Easy repair is hardly here" —
the king spoke and sighed:
"This will be — that is certain —
a heavier loss than was planned."

97.
"I must learn submission at last;
fortune's deeds go badly;
I can do nothing useful now —
I am stripped of counsel first."

98.
"Now nothing else avails at all —
to anything I am scarcely free —
but to provide you the provisions
according to your own desire."

99.
"Do you wish for land or fleet,
wealth or warrior-escort?
A merchant bears a fat purse,
though a king's goods we name."

100.
Flóres answers undaunted:
"My case grows no kinder,
though I let a great war-fleet
set out from Spain this time."

101.
"Under a merchant's guise I go —
I travel best and least to harm —
on solid ground, with five
pack-horses and five riders, no more."

102.
"Heavy packs the horses bear,
bearing gold and sable-skin;
the price for my kinship-grief's isle —
I choose the fullest store I can win."

103.
"One among the lads shall speak true,
the tongues most practised now."
The king answers, his eyes wet:
"Your loyal mind does not fail you."

104.
"Life or hell, whichever way it falls —
may this journey win at last;
wisely you choose for yourself
these memorable terms."

The Departure

105.
Flóres demands the full reckoning;
swiftly his will and new demand;
the lord swore it should be given;
then their talk was done.

106.
The man spent beyond all bounds,
sometimes grieving, the anguish cut;
he gathered goods until, when ready,
the lord of the ground was quick.

107.
Now at once the king proceeds
to equip Flóres as described;
he emptied his treasure-vaults here
and chose a trusty man at once.

108.
The couple chose the ring-child's best,
the dearest selection of Berlin-silk,
a byrnie, shield, helm and sword —
the horse must also be described.

109.
The bridle-serpent bore upon it
the prince's moon-garments, spotless;
so fine the cost, he could afford
six good castles.

110.
His mother went to the noble lad,
joy was struck by sorrow's blade;
the dragon of the fair plain gave him,
a fine thing drawn from her own hand.

111.
"Do not part with" — the linen-clasp speaks —
"this ancient flame-bright ring;
the need of which I tell you now —
this one is mightiest on the serpent's coil."

112.
"Neither wave nor flame shall harm you,
if you inquire of the stone's virtues;
least of all, though steel should hum at you,
will any blow's edge eat."

113.
"Whatever you seek, you shall find it —
the ring itself accomplishes that."
The golden shield, glad from the gods now,
asked the help-god's blessing.

114.
Flóres thanked the offering well,
said praise, finely spoken;
but the great wonder-wealth
he gave his father not a thing.

115.
The people grieved, the steel-defier left —
he was held in great esteem;
the hall seemed half-emptied
at the loss of the woman and the prince.

116.
The mind's torment lay upon the lord;
now he saw too late the meaning:
his own heir, he saw then,
he knew would bring his death-counsel.

117.
The lord did not know where the necklace-heath
would end up then —
whether he would lose the boy as well,
the matter drifts from here.

118.
Angry Flóres, yet controlled,
cut the farewell short;
boldly he went and leaped on his horse,
which had been led before the gate.

119.
The flood-lights blazed upon it,
the gemstones showed their colors;
from beneath the garment's fold
the polished bells rang out.

120.
Fully adorned, the fire-stream's flame
fluttered on the sea-fire's threshold;
the golden-winged eagle's bridle
shone on every street he rode.

121.
He galloped headlong across ground and gravel,
the loyal prince, at his thought's bidding,
until the dome of heaven swallowed him,
the castle-walls that guarded the throne.

The Inn and the Hostess

122.
So he found his companions,
who had gone ahead a little;
with the fire of plunder gained,
they hurried across the fair heath.

123.
He asks, if they could tell him,
where Blanzeflúr had been sold.
One of the spear-warriors managed:
so was he freed at last.

124.
"There will be, upon our way,
the inn where she once stayed."
The hero of trust waited nowhere;
they pressed on and came to it.

125.
They took lodging — it was evening;
it stood near a harbour;
wine and food the folk in plenty
received, unstinting, from the stormy sea.

126.
He had set in his mind,
the guardian of the treasure-wave:
to conduct himself in every place
as richly as he could.

127.
So he entertained the innkeepers,
the prince's generous provision;
the merriment was tuned to a glad key,
yet gained less than he hoped.

128.
Full cups gleamed across the tables —
the ale was purely refined —
fine gold and silver goblets;
Flóres sat and said nothing, alone.

129.
The warrior could not hide the dregs of grief
in the forest-thicket's cover;
rather, the keeper of spears,
the hostess watched him closely.

130.
The thunder-glow's woman first
drew her husband to one side;
the kind lady asks: "Tell me,
what about the newly arrived men?"

131.
"Have you noticed the chieftain,
your wisest guests?
I mark in that man a harm —
a wound that might bring death."

132.
"He does not care for drink or food,
he is pressed with heavy sorrows;
though certainly of noble traders' kin,
the lad does not bear a merchant's look."

133.
"I suspect you may be right" —
the husband's answer joined in there —
"but scarcely will you get the news,
so as to be wise in that matter."

134.
They went then to the wine-hall;
the wise one bore some weight of gold;
the kind woman gave, the sun-clever lady,
a later moment at the table:

135.
"Your cheerful company's glad hue —
no shadow falls on any of you;
though I cannot fully keep silent about it:
the leader alone is grieving."

136.
"I have seen such sorrow often,
how hard it lies on the heart;
and I have shown this many a time —
it is not long since I recall."

137.
"Though I begin the thought
as the most foolish person here —
I cannot let it pass from my mind:
one flame-wave's lady once came here."

138.
"Something grieved the gold-cloth's lady,
the goddess of divine-weave, I noticed;
but she resisted my inquiry —
I trusted in what I saw best."

139.
"Written all over the lady's face
were agonies, it seemed to me;
bright she was, called Blanzeflúr —
the wound-linden's rose, she was."

140.
"Wisdom adorned her look and manner,
though the gold-tree bore its grief;
into the Chaldean trade-voyage
she came at last, when she was here."

141.
"An unambiguous report about the lady
the folk told me the next evening:
that her own beloved she had mourned,
the one sold away against her will."

142.
"A bold thought about that too
will develop for the newcomer;
the pale color of the blow of grief
shines more brightly in his face."

143.
The nail-warrior, hearing the name just then,
stumbled in this hour;
from his hand into the drink
the mead poured onto the tablecloth.

144.
"Flóres! we find you out" —
his companions say, with a smile —
"guilty before the hostess here."
And he did not deny it.

145.
Again the spear-lady filled the cup,
the lady poured and passed the goblet —
from which the ruined ale had spilled —
she speaks further to the young man:

146.
"The woman has not ruined anything;
constantly her thoughtful mind boasts;
wisdom has poured the wine by right.
Gold suits the devout."

The Ship East

147.
A ship lay there at the harbour's lee
(the bountiful soul of the cold-cliff's heath);
his companions see and learn of it,
equipped for the eastern lands.

148.
A little later one sailor came,
from the sea-steed's bench, in there;
he asked the folk: had anyone here
a wish to travel with them?

149.
"We use the dark wind, as minds plan" —
the fellow speaks — "around the eel's frame;
and ample room on the ocean's hind —
we have scarcely a third of a cargo."

150.
The prince's son, glad, agrees:
"If a lucky chance arises for me,
by no means shall I let it slip,
if the chance is there."

151.
"Make it known to those who load the ship:
I choose passage across the cod-path,
five packed horses with me,
five servants, and no more."

152.
The sea-day's wave, the proud land —
the prince's son offered a mighty sum;
they went at once to carry goods aboard,
the wise elephant swallows wealth.

153.
Thus prepared, with finished errands,
he took his farewell and bade the hosts goodbye;
now at first with that, the resolute one,
the clever lion of the current, was carried out.

154.
Little on the bed there now,
the warrior pondered, longing for the woman;
after a tender farewell,
he struck up talk with the captain.

155.
"First, in haste, from the hull's bowsprit,
where remedy of passage was offered me —
I wish to steer the established current,
a course across the sea-plain's ridges."

156.
"I wish to be borne, if the wind mends,
the breeze across the deep wherever I have hope:
to Chaldea, and to reach there neatly
the nearest harbour to Babylon."

157.
"I shall pay, with the finest choice,
whether fair weather comes or foul;
the warriors shall be richly served —
let the voyage cost what it will."

158.
Everything there was offered and got;
Flóres, to his honor's bidding, added more;
they gave thanks, and nearest to this,
the thunder-dream's hawk was loosed.

159.
At once the sail-cloth rose;
on wings the storm-swallower lifts,
the cold-grey wind tosses the spray,
the frost-elk shifts the billow.

160.
Flóres may now go his way;
land and settlements fall behind,
the western bull-grief on the bison prow —
I, the fool of the shore, must stop.

161.
The warrior's wave of the ale-track
is borne farther, no nourishment lent;
Flóres's ship on the ancient ferry —
though tossed by a generous breeze.

Ríma V — Tvísamlyklað ferskeytt

One hundred and thirty-four stanzas. An extended mansöngr meditates on the art of verse, the fickleness of friendship, the danger of envy, and the steadfastness of honest virtue. The narrative follows Flóres to Chaldea, where he lodges at a seaport and hears from his host that Blanzeflúr was led past in sorrow, sold by the merchant Ullías to the king of Babylon. The host counsels patience and bribery — "the bribe can soften the hardest stone." Flóres gives gold freely, sleeps poorly, and departs at dawn. He rides through fair forests and blooming heath to a great river, where a ferryman carries him across. The ferryman confirms the news. Flóres gives a hundred silver marks and spends the night at the ferryman's house.

Mansöngr

1.
The gleam of verse whets my tongue,
the shield-bright mead of Baldr;
so richly grows its shining echo —
may I find Ölvaldi's fee.

2.
No ugly deed will I long conceal —
I shall press onward still;
may I earn the name of valour by grace,
not by sorrow's bitter spark.

3.
Wisely I drew forth my verse,
the fleet of Brokk's invention;
though stubbornness wins less in the end,
it earns some favour among men.

4.
Even the poorest verse, swept from sight,
I offered up in song;
if a friend's plea wins not the smallest gain,
then kindness counts the more.

5.
Yet we who know the malt of verse —
our skill supports us poorly;
a hundredfold it flows to her
whose fountain never tires.

6.
It was easier for men of old
to give songs that rang with glory
than for us, sworn and true, to know
our own good lord beside us.

7.
Though a man be unscathed, his word unscarred,
a sightless fool he'd be
if he let his pledge of loyalty lapse —
though the lake of grief still stirred.

8.
More and greater than futile songs —
what causes fame's undoing?
I hear the spirit die within the people:
silence is envy's wage.

9.
Few can enjoy the good they've won
among their gentle friends;
countless must grow bitter then
at the rewards of harsher men.

10.
Truly the shield of good-will
is well pledged in affection;
mankind can shape its character
with the skill of honest craft.

11.
The one deprived of sleep may often
raise himself to meet them,
see the liar on his pleasant hill,
and conquer him with truth.

12.
Praise tumbles, praises go astray —
so the wise man ought to strike;
we could hardly speak of all of it,
the unkind sport they'd play.

13.
Though fame's undoing press a bitter edge
and from the foolish mouth it slips,
among such whetstones of deceit
the lucky man knew how to dodge.

14.
A perilous path for men lies here —
the grave of jealous ruin;
if fortune's hangman had his way,
the devil's bitch would rule.

15.
The steadfast folk will have their say —
they'll hardly urge such things;
blame it who would cast down praise,
yet boast his own disgrace.

16.
I see that every man still stumbles hard
into his own ban and lies,
if he cannot gain respect on high
by anything but honest virtues.

17.
But if one should pare away
one's honour thus, the kin of knowledge fading,
it were near impossible for me
to say what the faultless know.

18.
All goes worse as I look near;
troubles grow in plenty;
for you and me alike in this —
yet it cannot be avoided.

19.
May I not retreat from danger's nerve,
nor stumble into the fault of kin;
the unwary host forever counts
all men among its friends.

20.
You would then possess a lord
whom none in glory matched;
a wonder-bound king of praise —
long honouring the wise.

21.
But he who examines worldly life,
its circumstance and craft,
finds another truth: that somewhere
bitter labour hides in strife.

22.
Few fit men I see
who may speak openly of this;
to write or tell about the choice of friends —
that should frighten even me.

23.
I bore the ale of verse unrefreshed,
emptied from needy hands;
great Flóres who endured this well
knew hardship's difficult work.

24.
When the gladsome plank of the mind
draws the cargo-barge across the field,
look and see how the roads proceed
for the heir who walks the way.

25.
Rare it was if friendship's strength,
favour and skill together,
could match the noble rider of the sea —
that generous warrior-heir.

26.
Whoever betters himself in trial,
beneath the burden's weight,
may guard the treasure of the wise —
few can speak of it now.

27.
I know the slender thread of solace glints
if treachery does not sway;
a friend's light often wins the faith,
but seldom the strong man's trust.

28.
Where one needed to guard his treasure,
enduring in the work of skill,
he spared nothing here or there —
the warrior's silver heir.

29.
Would that beside us here a hero came,
the battle-lord's offspring of the branch,
were one so ready to arrive —
willing and bound to prove it.

30.
So that man's and woman's loyalty of strength,
patience and endurance both,
he proved that honour conquers right —
the power of pride undone.

31.
Sorrow and shame may be lightly borne,
yet hidden scorn still flickers at us;
wherever faithful trust rules right,
both tested and known may waken.

32.
What will be written in the world's book?
The frost-chalice of the thunder-lord;
it is my shame I undertook this task —
but the ríma accepts its time.

Narrative

33.
The warrior of the shining ground
went to seek the gold's fulfilment;
a precious, noble mead he found —
concealed, the prince's heir.

34.
Those honoured men who bore
their strength through middle-earth,
across the mighty ocean's main —
the rule of the gods' dominion.

35.
There the mind's harvest breaks
the branches of the sword-bearer;
he who must gaze on sky and sea
holds but a single grain of sand.

36.
Wherever the rolling swell bore them,
fear hardened into terror;
to answer fate's decree they went —
the company thought it worthy.

37.
The living waves of the gulf-world gleamed,
the raven's water flowing;
the bright-thrown gold of Neptune's realm
shone green upon the prow.

38.
The arrow flies from the prow's grey beast,
the sea-folk so arrange;
the crane of the wind drives the sail-road on,
the ship stands tethered in the deep.

39.
The prince's son found a treasure good —
the greedy ship-steerer's hoard;
he loaded gleaming gold upon the flame,
the tyrant's generous sea-horse.

40.
The bright-gemmed shirt of the high cleric —
he thereby tallied out the sum;
the worthy worker's five fair marks
and ten more measures given.

41.
The sun of ships could heal the hero;
the prayers of the goddess ceased;
the runners of the waves upon the deep rejoiced,
and vowed their work to win.

42.
He gathers the tokens of the flame —
none may say they complained;
the thread of life was not his care:
his heart lay elsewhere now.

43.
With humble, blameless words of thanks
and few companions near,
the hero blessed by deeds stepped ashore —
a wonder to behold the men.

44.
Both on the plain beside the sea,
bright and much lay spread;
the mounded gifts fit handsomely —
nearly all the world's adornment.

45.
The warriors see upon a mountain
a fortress, blue and tall;
they quicken their steps across the square —
bright-minded, free of harm.

46.
The host names Beladathor —
a noble, splendid hall;
Flóres speaks quickly there,
driven hard across the fields.

47.
Thirsting for the tale, he seeks the town,
the sharp-edged one strikes for answers;
he lodges first at a village there —
the cunning one, well-aimed.

48.
The host seats the lord at home;
honour makes the greatest seat;
gold stored safe upon the bench —
he chooses the nearest place.

49.
Now — I think — Flóres was weary,
more troubled than pleasure-blended;
his face was stained with hindering tears:
the same old sorrow tamed him.

50.
How unhappy he found himself, forced
by fortune to endure;
the swift blade could only part him
from the horse of the sea beneath.

51.
The lord among his host at home
kept up the conversation;
he held the merchant's manner still,
though the cold wind gripped him.

52.
He served himself and his fine neighbours,
the thirsty worthy men;
the wine shone bright upon the cups —
he feasted with the best.

53.
The crowd grew glad without restraint,
the ancient flowing treasure;
bravely the bargains of speech held firm —
the horns of good ran full.

54.
The prince's son gave out the cup,
the heavy draught of Odin's sun;
the merchant's store he served with strength —
among the kindred, now and then.

55.
The choicest ale was poured, the verse-bringer
who bears himself against the storm;
the lord of trees grows bolder still —
though still at odds with gladness.

56.
The host then watched the hall's dark guest —
had word yet reached the road?
Until the man could answer this,
dryly but courteously.

57.
They held their talk, and the newcomer
asked his bright host further:
"What say you, keeper of the herd —
what think you of all this?

58.
"While I walk the great road of war,
the journey stands before me —
a pleasure-errand, or a fortune's road —
lest I should come to shame."

59.
"If I may prophesy," the sword-lord said,
"many — if none should spoil it —
shall gain the gleaming gold of the deep,
the favour of valiant men."

60.
"But I swear by the lady of the sea-throne,
and answer the land-traveller's toll:
the thin ship's keel you'll need, my friend —
though I am not to blame for that."

61.
"I must attend the lord's command;
that duty falls on me;
nor can I walk away from trouble
when it casts my path in doubt."

62.
A trick they thought would serve him well;
the grim-mooded one agreed:
this was the right blow of the ride —
the reddened silence fell.

63.
Whether spoiled or stained the errand was,
it could neither help nor harm;
he churned within his twisted breast —
then something changed his mind.

64.
"Though I would choose a lovely maiden,
let manhood not fail me here;
these deeds are brought to light —
let treacherous counsel be silent."

65.
"But this maid, so true, so proven,
who speaks of deeds and comfort —
she would not steal away in secret,
though swift we turned to counsel."

66.
Unease disturbed the storm-lord then,
and he bore himself more gently;
he swore the straight oath afterward
and answered all the company.

67.
"But an ill-favoured shadow with sharpened look
stood stiff and looked the worse;
he brews his bitter drink, he'll not taste it —
the wise one sits at table, wordless."

68.
The worm of thought seizes the mind
when things must go this way;
the man's own life, the woman's too —
neither can be held in check.

69.
The angry cheek of wrath grows red,
the lance of grief outweighs;
the bold prince's heir
makes inquiry of all this.

70.
"Why is he wrapped in sorrow's toll,
the wanderer of the sea?
What tax is it that causes this?
What longing troubles you?"

71.
Flóres swore: "It is no man I mourn —
what loss is that to speak of?
I rode to think of something else:
a task I had to finish."

72.
"I bear no oath of silver for myself;
my vow was nothing greater —
but here among us it has proved
that much more lies beneath."

73.
Thus the lord of the wave-fire spoke:
"Whether sharp or tender,
surely something else weighs more
upon your heart's foundation."

74.
"The reason I ask so freely here —
strange, beneath the wave —
is that lately a warm-hearted woman
came this way, bound by sorrow."

75.
"A maiden crowned — Blanzeflúr was her name,
beauty's jewel anointed;
across the land she was led by the host —
she seemed to suffer, and to weep."

76.
"Further I learned of the woman's fame —
let none be amazed at that;
grief without joy accompanies the maid —
and her keeper resembles you."

77.
"The girl in torment — the lance-lord says —
cannot now sit in peace;
speak of it — yet all is the same —
and still it seems to blister."

78.
"My heart is carried neither side
by the sword's debate within;
the one who slips away shall sorrow,
but afterthought is wiser."

79.
Flóres heard the gentle tale,
the news about the maiden;
then from his neighbours for a while he went,
unable to bear such knowledge.

80.
He calls the wise host aside,
the grim-hearted one groans aloud;
the lord of all the hall at last
would test his servant's loyalty.

81.
He does not spare his wealth at all —
the worthy, prized reward;
a scarlet cloak he gave the man:
a splendid trade was made.

82.
The well-fattened goods, the sheepskin swords
of the sun-proud sea-lord's boast;
the fiery gold and precious hoard
shone bright beneath the hand of light.

83.
The prince with wealth and careful counsel
told his circumstance in full —
the sharp-tongued one, as was his way,
swift as the verse he fashioned.

84.
He pressed the lord with urgent questions —
the word ran red and burning;
if he knew more about the maid,
it would fill the heavy grief.

85.
The man replied: "I know for certain —
the sun of the sea-throne speaking —
that she has been sold into the city,
to reign upon the lady's seat."

86.
"The squalid fool did his fawning work
and insulted her most foolishly;
the wretched Ullías it was
who bought the maiden of the wave."

87.
"Though his counsel cannot be concealed —
they say it of the wretched —
that lord will surely sell her on,
without delay he'll part with her."

88.
"For here the king has nothing like her —
never a golden sun so fair;
however things may fall, one hopes
the lord of the throne will gain her."

89.
"Blanzeflúr gleams above all else,
a woman among the people's jewels;
but his vilest dealing will not cease —
dishonouring a good brother."

90.
"The moon-tree of bounty — the woman's wealth
and flowing gold he equals;
at times beneath the yoke of longing
he gathers folk and maidens."

91.
"But it offends the loyal law,
the ruler's golden power;
to build a bed beside the maid —
the swift prince would have her."

92.
"A certain time ordained, indeed —
I cannot say how near;
later the lord will gaze on her:
the jewel of sorrow, dearer."

93.
"This I know: the time I think of,
you must make good use of;
once he has betrothed the maid
there is nothing more to see."

94.
"May the gods support the warrior!
The land's gold is firmly pledged;
but mend the fierce exile's path —
and find the best of maidens."

95.
"Yet I bear a feeble hope —
beware the maiden's fate;
it goes worse for you if the lord's queen
keeps her for himself alone."

96.
"Gold shall be the gladness-gift
to the lords assembled at the table;
if the bravest champion of the lance is he,
your pledge will prosper best."

97.
"See then: such counsel you may find —
the young will always use it.
It is told and written that the bribe
can soften the hardest stone."

98.
More and more of gold he gained,
the noble sum for the maiden;
the lord of the lance, though he could not see,
was blinded in such things.

99.
The man ceased his talk a moment,
trusting the sharp one's nerve;
the hall shall hold them through the night —
the company, bright and well.

100.
Quiet through the night the sea-lord's son
did not sleep for long;
in the dread of the early dawn,
the ocean of despair would burst.

101.
Ill-tempered, the sprout found no rest,
nor glimpse of joy or fame;
restless yet rigid in his purpose —
all roads led to the same.

102.
He must endure, he must push through,
for to lose one's life is no liberation;
the enslaved would sooner give it up —
yet find a life set free.

103.
The shield-bearer found no swift way out,
no path was rightly prized;
he found himself at the gate of death —
and purely, at the last, was guided.

104.
The maiden's mourner saw the night was dark,
the snowfall hating every vale;
glad of the day, he readied fast
to survey the wide roads ahead.

105.
The hero, feathered with love of land,
the guardian of the shining field,
with careful counsel's tender love
spoke his thanks and took his leave.

106.
A moment's dwelling in fair life
he spent there, prophesying;
the lord of the sword could answer here —
the hero's swift reply was made.

107.
"Do not die of sorrow's weight —
to see it cannot help;
the weary, death-doomed warrior
can rarely keep a brave heart."

108.
"Would that nothing came to naught —
the danger stands too near;
the heron's fool who shudders fast
grows only greater in his shame."

109.
"If here you find the woman at last,
let that forever gladden us;
your life will prove the longer —
your fortune and your joy."

110.
He furnished the noble traveller's staff
with great words newly spoken;
to the warriors he gave swift farewell —
no untried oath could bind him.

111.
Refreshed, the guest was healed in hardship:
so he warmed the freezing;
on the finest horse he held the road,
and said farewell to his host.

112.
Then they saw the fair forest,
the wanderers on the squares;
the slopes were dressed with blooming birch —
the warriors forgot their sorrows.

113.
Nothing ill befell them there,
no misfortune threw its shadow;
the road and day the host consumed —
yet evening drew on near.

114.
The riders steered the gilded track,
the joyful earth unfolding;
the heath spread wide beside the sea —
the thunder of the waters' glow.

115.
The weary sea then raced and raced,
the swift stream's ledge in flood;
there one must travel to the east —
the hero fords the current.

116.
A barrier blocks the ancient way;
few men can see it standing:
a wrought gate like a hook at the horn,
beside the tall river's sand.

117.
The hero sees the warning soon,
the proud flood's barrier;
joyfully he blows the horn aloud,
to alert the people there.

118.
A manned house on the far side stood,
the sea-proud vessel near it;
so one could reach across the flood —
whoever heeded the call.

119.
The neighbours of the waves, in finery,
looked across the ground and saw
a man come from the house toward them
upon the bright lord's ship.

120.
This one could span the oar's sea-road,
the warrior who knew to grip;
he found and ferried them across,
the mane across the hard-running stream.

121.
The mill-wheel where the wall is seen —
they steer toward the meeting;
a town that blooms the best, they say:
the breakers name it Felis.

122.
The oarsman did not rest at all,
the toll-demanding ferryman;
the prince's son went forward first
and gave the man his talk.

123.
This glad-minded man, with care and skill,
chose his words and steered the course;
the sharp-versed lord addressed his host —
the talk grew warm between them.

124.
He bore the honest prince along,
both grief and loss upon him,
wherever he went — yet the talk itself
leaned toward the woman's side.

125.
Enough! I need not draw it further —
the poem names its subject;
the prince here asks, in like or like,
for news of the beloved's fate.

126.
The maid — Flóres meets the word again;
his task grows hard to master;
a hundred silver marks at once
the sword-diminisher gives.

127.
Without a moment's hesitation
the hand-snow was accepted
by the one who knew to offer it;
the grim-eyed lord holds true.

128.
The ferryman's toll, the vessel's fare,
falls short perhaps no longer;
the host is rich and well content —
the mountain-dwelling shelters him.

129.
To guard the gold and ample wealth —
I had poor luck in hunting;
he then invited the prince home
to the comforts of the night.

130.
The warriors know each other well —
such things are never doubted long;
they share the bright reward together —
the sheltering bed provides.

131.
Before the written tale departs —
though I have barely managed —
my theme, unshamed, has told its case:
take the driftwood of the shore.

132.
Besides, the neighbour makes me wonder,
though judgement's deed may carry;
the man did not restrain himself —
urged to council-wisdom.

133.
Settled, this seems right to me,
the saga spoken properly;
yet rightly the nimble tale presses on —
the weight of verse must tell.

134.
The silent woman did not hear him kindly;
the herdsman's sorrow grows;
songs I offer, to whom brings battle —
the brother of weary death.

Ríma VI — Stímuð gagravilla (ýmist alhend eða sniðstöfuð)

One hundred and eighty-one stanzas. An extended mansöngr meditates on the decline of the poetic art, the fickleness of love and friendship, and the burden of truth. The narrative follows Flóres into the capital, Babylon, where he befriends a wealthy man named Daríus. Daríus's wife perceives Flóres's sorrow and guesses he mourns the maiden Blanzeflúr. Flóres reveals his identity and his love. Daríus describes the emir's palace in astonishing detail: the fortress with walls fifteen fathoms high and four fathoms thick, thirty gates with small castles, three hundred turrets, a great marble tower one hundred fathoms tall with a cedar mast and carbuncle stone that shines ten leagues in the dark. Within: fifty maidens attend the king, who selects a new wife each year. The garden is watered by a channel from the Euphrates — a testing stream that turns red if any maiden who has lost her honour passes near it, and she is put to death. Blanzeflúr is among them. The month before the king's selection draws near. Flóres vows to find her or die. Daríus, reluctantly but loyally, promises to find a way.

Mansöngr

1.
The thrush of the wave, my singer's heart,
the thin-timbered ground of Odin,
would dive for the sixth time now
into the sun-harbour's green.

2.
Steadfast nowhere stays his course;
he leans on no fixed mark;
the swiftest gale of the fire-wave swerves,
and various sides resound.

3.
No wonder if the poet's ale grows dull
and the verse-craft never stirs;
where never on a stone there stands
a great deed or a thought unmoved.

4.
So the vessel turns itself westward —
still swifter than before;
the slender rudder-feather at my side
has barely cut the horse's neck.

5.
Though the mood that often slept itself
would put most thoughts to rest,
life gave it no quarter here —
fortune is the least equipped.

6.
In youth I floundered with the catch,
the ring of the young man's strength;
heavy the toil — yet such a song
I now think shameful to sing.

7.
The art of composing was precious once,
though humble now and far from thought;
much in skill and meaning torn,
dark and dull and stiff it stands.

8.
Though I should weep the cup-lord's tears —
trial alone wears thin —
if it were cleaner, better honed,
then what might befall me now.

9.
At last no songs amend the way
across the plundered heath;
though judgement might slide from its course,
the deep and wide stream of the spirit flows.

10.
I learn to mock my own craft;
its lack of power is plain;
good if none should find my praise —
my temper suits this sort.

11.
That is to say: though along the way
the sinew of the mind should bend and struggle,
whatever grumbles on this wintry track,
I shall speak as much as I advise.

12.
No long life have I prepared
for thought and contemplation free;
yet of this much may be said:
a harsh trial wakes me now.

13.
We lose what pleasure stood before us;
grief then feeds on what remains;
steadfastness among the people therefore
drives sharply through the sinew of the mind.

14.
More than the gull can see, with its ragged plumage,
the eagle grim and feather-sore:
that two or three still hunt so long,
with tearful life and ice-grey hair.

15.
That I sing not always evenly,
my song — the people may know this;
but what most saddens the good
is that the proud man finds his way.

16.
I trust the inner man the most,
both speech and work well known;
love and friendship he will win
when dark fell into the ground below.

17.
What further then may cling to us —
feathered or stripped of honest deeds —
that the earth should hold its even game:
no trial's notice may be gained.

18.
Love does not always wear its garland crown;
the eagle's lord is stone-blind then;
it wounds the good and the willing both,
and strength of character yields.

19.
When a falsehood offered broken trust,
it shamed the testing of our sorrow;
the fool employed that clumsy trick,
but the virtuous mourns for honest loyalty.

20.
Steadfast virtue, good and praiseworthy,
the mortal's chief soul-fire:
well observed, it seldom grieves in excess,
and rarely offered itself to the fortunate.

21.
But an apish and useless temper
shrieks its bitter lack of good;
it stumbles into the gap of sorrow,
scarce enough to guard against the crime.

22.
Never healthy here in the soul,
it veils the obvious crossroads;
many deal in deeper speech,
yet barely hide what often comes to pass.

23.
The mixed intelligence of many a man,
blind ambition spoiled by sin,
is polished again by ill-tried craft —
a lovelier image of virtue made.

24.
I confess that my wasted courage
grieves the soul, that blow of the heart,
when I turn my humbled mind
upon the state and spectacle of the people.

25.
Best: let none bind trust in anyone,
improved if many could be adorned with loyalty;
most things in the world I find are loose —
the fewest can be said to hold their roots.

26.
Would that terror could steal into the heart,
hateful and sweet, cold and warm together;
nothing in the world is safe for Adam's children —
not a single thing is found unscathed.

27.
Though fine answers to my startled mind are given,
paid immediately, dressed in mould,
I would not touch water nor fire
when they have power to harm the flesh.

28.
I count it milder still — whether breeze or flame,
evil through a lifetime's stay,
or the deceitful lure of loyalty far worse —
a considerable game that spoils you.

29.
"Shame shall bite you to the bone;
the company shall blind itself on your misfortune —
fortune, but never honest betterment —
warmth is only what shines on you."

30.
But though a tale in verse is turned,
I'll remember what I can;
let the path lead here to there —
the way will show itself.

31.
I have a question — from the sword's neck:
where does the able answer win?
Is it virtue or the path of fame
that guides the prince's son?

32.
Most among the people will be pleased —
the hero of the gold found the heath —
that at last the time arrived
when exile's fortune conquered his need.

33.
But if at last his heart betrayed him —
though steadfast he was, and firmly held —
her virtue, or her guardian-spirit,
let the trumpet sound for him.

34.
Now the hero is resolute — yes, no,
but meaning tolerates it not;
the most foolish simpleton
should keep silence about the lord of steel.

35.
Yet his loyalty holds the same thread;
we see him stumble then —
but rest and honour raise him now,
and he would grapple with it all.

36.
I cannot keep silent about this:
I must surely change my course;
the fool of learning gazed upon the maid —
it rested on his heart the most.

37.
To harden such a perilous journey,
stirred from within by loyalty's greatness,
the gold-maker of every worth was tried —
worthless, wounded by his love.

38.
I would pity the company if it surfaced:
the grief from those coals of his —
that which fortune often names
the world itself calls the hero.

39.
He is the one who struck with greed,
the unquiet step, the frantic journey;
wounded, yet nearer to his fortune,
he swore the test where hardship was great.

40.
But a temper left fatherless in judgement —
our land does not repel it;
the substance may be tested here
in the blend of a mansöngr-verse.

Narrative

41.
He bore the ale of verse to dryness;
the thought grew dull within;
there in the hall beside the herdsman,
Flóres got a troubled rest.

42.
At dawn the lance-tree rose in haste,
dreading the familiar care;
glad, he met the warrior's counsel
and steered the talk this way:

43.
"I ask you now, your bright mind willing —
the meagre gift of fate! —
whether, when we are parted thus,
you still count it unharmed."

44.
"I can swear," the other answered,
"by the sun's still harbour, the gold-spring:
no man more generous in my lifetime
has honoured me with noble gifts."

45.
"Dearest, you may think me poor,
though good intention blunts the ground;
to repay you even a little —
the thunder's lord is generous there."

46.
"And a great need urges this:
these are trials nearly at hand;
spare what you can, so fortune finds you —
the hardship's test may be unbearable."

47.
"A friend whom none despises as a swine
I hope to find in Babylon;
my thought has turned to this:
to send you on to him, as a son."

48.
"Daríus is his name, the ring-bearer;
he has borne the most of what avails;
he spares no counsel nor honest answers —
sworn to me in loyalty."

49.
"Let no warrior play tricks beside him —
the maidens' door he opens true;
none need suspect a thing in that —
from his counsel comes your relief."

50.
"With the young lord's wealth and gathered strength,
no road will I refuse for your sake;
a finger-ring and half my hoard
the boy you shall bring to the lord."

51.
Beneath this oath the rescue hides —
he bears him half that token;
the warrior of the battle-scar
shall prove a sign for you alone.

52.
"Your road stands by the wide man's field,
whether by wading or riding then;
a bridge and a gate both guard the way —
the sea-lord's men upon that road."

53.
Whatever else they talked of there —
the bold son, and the deeds he bore —
the lance-lord thanked the loyal man,
and with that they rode as companions.

54.
The wind woke the god of the grove to joy,
the famous steed upon its track;
at midday they could see the river
and the bridge that stood across.

55.
The city's walls, flanked by ramparts,
the bridge aimed at the palisade-gate;
a single man the warriors saw,
seated with manners at the post.

56.
Upon a fine, steel-studded saddle,
a marble seat gave him his rest;
the monster's speech shielded his lord —
he wore a cloak of silk.

57.
The lance-lord swiftly approached the bridge,
the gates swung open wide;
the noble and lordly Daríus
parted there from his companion.

58.
Before Flóres rode across
or had spoken his own name,
the lance-tree told him plain:
a ring and payment both he bore.

59.
The lance-destroyer, gleaming gold,
the precious tree of Gullúng's speech,
received the favour, fully charged,
and chose a loyal toll for the bridge.

60.
Four ortugar of gold in full
for every single warrior;
these were paid to the lord of the bridge —
three rode, and the pack-horse too.

61.
When Flóres had finished his speech,
concealing those bright flames within,
he took up talk with open gifts —
the game of verse thus played.

62.
They spoke together for a time;
then hastily Daríus said:
"Bide now at your rest —
I bid you stay at my house."

63.
He called the man well-wrought within,
the catch of wealth beside him ready;
he asked if he could lend his aid
wherever need was seen.

64.
Now he went further to explain —
without fear, having come home —
his wife should tend the guest with care
and guard his provisions and gold.

65.
He showed, restless, to the men there:
he said a maiden was nearby;
she dwelt a short way in the suburb —
but to rush home was not allowed.

66.
A finger-ring he gave the boy,
"Spare no expense," said he with urgency;
"the serpent's path knows its own thread —
the journey will not be long or strange."

67.
Tóres was her name, loyal and true,
clear-minded and bright with wisdom.
Flóres turned his journey home,
bearing ring and words to the lady.

68.
The gold-sun's earth, the ring-lady knew;
the thunder-lord of swords she took in hand;
she led the young prince tenderly inside,
and tended his lands — no dry reception.

69.
She bore the warriors precious drink,
the ale standing proudly at the choir;
fiercely they drank, the companions all,
but Flóres was still at odds with joy.

70.
Doubt grows in the heart about the house;
then the man began to speak within:
"Unknown, a stranger, new to all —
upon me now the danger falls."

71.
"If I should tell them plainly here
what longing most torments me,
what wager is higher than this?
Disgrace and the prince's wrath."

72.
"But I found no other man here
who dares to voice my thought;
though I cannot conceal it from him,
may his wise counsel help me."

73.
"I think to place myself in the way —
few would dare the risk —
when the crane of life is weary at heart,
dragged upon such a scale of grief."

74.
"Yet in earnest I suspect
that my ruin gapes above;
I can scarce conceal any longer
the love of the golden thread — my own."

75.
"The sorrow-thistle upon the grief-string
stings most men's imagination;
it clings fast to the young man's heart —
despair wraps its ring around."

76.
However one may fold fate's thorn,
the old ones worn beneath sorrow's mill,
he poured the offering of wine for comfort —
no defence was found for his need of joy.

77.
The shield-tree's eye gave a reddened look,
the ring-giver helpless there;
the gold-breaker, as evening came,
was unaware of her attention.

78.
The lady of the gold then spoke to him,
if she could match his living speech,
to soften the clever woman's heart,
to ease the matchless anguish.

79.
Reluctant was Flóres, though;
no tender trial would comfort him;
he showed unease to the hosts about —
then Daríus came to the house.

80.
He told the guests the lance-lord's joy,
wishing to gladden his own kin;
he looked hard upon the warrior's face
and saw at once what had been told.

81.
He found the anguish few could know,
the snow-white grasping tree in pain;
he drew the youth aside with him
to another room, within a splendid hall.

82.
The two apart sat near together,
and went to take their evening meal;
the blood-heavy anguish drummed the more;
then Daríus spoke these words:

83.
"Tell me what truth it is
that robs you of your joy and peace;
if I could ease it in some part,
your night's rest might be unspoiled."

84.
"I count it no small thing —
the champion who strikes the steel;
if with my honest counsel I succeed,
there, unbroken, a cure is found."

85.
The prince's heir gives his account:
"Tried beyond the measure of my debt —
your kindness far exceeds the task —
you shelter me; I'll not conceal my wish."

86.
"That I might call you, gift of the gods,
and gladden you with such an honour;
but what will help me most of all,
I cannot well perceive."

87.
"My uncertain thought confesses this —
whoever can attend to it —
that the treasure I have journeyed for
I worked myself a passage here to find."

88.
"Those who reckon triple years —
and speak of what the trial bore —
say it is more to guard what's won
than never lose a precious thing."

89.
"I say in truth: the hazard-road is staked,
fortune pledged and swift the loss;
both the age and dearth of friends,
the wealth, and perhaps the life as well."

90.
It was as though the lance-bearer halted;
the gold-wielder saw the wound that burned;
a thought's arrow rushed inside —
one lonely companion of the company.

91.
The goblet that I spoke of earlier —
the precious one — was brought out bright;
he bore it, set it on the table, trembling —
Flóres turned pale at the sight.

92.
The goblet recalled the maiden's fair shore;
that was enough to break his heart;
here the warrior of steel stood still,
staring long, and sighed aloud.

93.
His anguish was plain upon his face,
lifting the dark brows' down;
the couple spoke to the man in private;
she said, with a gentle brow:

94.
"You, young hero here,
your heart extinguished like a dying spark —
do not be stubborn unto ruin;
guard yourself from such folly."

95.
"You have trouble on your hands;
the wind of the gale will change its form;
an unchecked storm upon the hawk's shore —
it hinders if the sight is blind."

96.
"When the cause of illness is not heard,
the fruitless healing fails;
the one constrained said: I will not listen —
the snake's oath guards that yard."

97.
"You need not believe a thing like this:
that such high ambition torments the boy;
my meaning now is plainer still —
he aims at something else entirely."

98.
"He who is the fair-horse champion,
needing nothing more than this,
that he should grieve his own affairs —
men would not believe it."

99.
The lance-steerer's anger wanes;
he mourns, I think, for Blanzeflúr;
the warrior who shall prove his constancy
would endure the lady's absence still.

100.
"I knew it well," said the courteous woman,
"the finest among the women then,
that she mourned for her beloved one —
now two signs are found together."

101.
"This is why I cut through all the rest —
I should keep silent — no!
For in his words there lay a thing
that could not hide from the storm of grief."

102.
"Good, if I have guessed aright:
if you could cheer the grieving boy;
I count a lord's betrayal lightly,
if it guards the dovecote's gate."

103.
"The maiden is not in a wretched state —
whatever may become of her."
The trusted woman bade them hush,
and stepped away from them at once.

104.
Flóres saw there was no further use
in hiding from the maid;
he went on to tell the tale
that bore upon the matter most.

105.
Without delay he told it plain,
and offered up his payment:
that as a prince he was — a king's son —
his wealth and lands not the poorest.

106.
The grief-struck one laid bare his cause:
the warrior grasped it plainly —
that he would risk his life to lose the maid,
and more than a beggar dies within him.

107.
He begged, if counsel could be lent,
before Lóðr's lord had kissed the lady,
that he might once be reminded still
of the weary road of the troubled flood.

108.
"Such daring is a fool's request of me" —
Daríus's answer came at first —
"I would lay the heaviest weight on you
if I spoke more of this."

109.
"I cannot keep silent any longer —
you shall hear the truth alone —
but I cannot say all that is right:
this story will not amuse you."

110.
"The hall that gleams with gold,
faultless, tall as a mountain,
terrifying to all nations —
they see there the dwelling of doom.

111.
"A wall surrounds it, strong and standing,
of great stones, nowhere thin;
true: fifteen fathoms high,
and four fathoms broad besides.

112.
"Thirty gates are there to see,
triple-locked around the stronghold;
small castles standing over them,
with weapons and the tools of war.

113.
"They are guarded by heavy spears;
a hundred knights are posted there,
and more in each — for there will die
the man and warrior who bears arms.

114.
"This place is known to all mankind —
it can be compared to none;
its building at a single glance
no other man can take its measure.

115.
"From here you could not see her —
so listen to my tale, I bid you:
so long as hardship's path has not drawn near,
few could trust such craft.

116.
"Were this place not standing still,
where the nations of the world stare on,
it was besieged for seven full years —
and yet no harm was done.

117.
"Outside the halls one sees
wondrous forms both old and new:
three hundred lofty turrets rise,
the tallest gleaming under the sky.

118.
"The streets of the city are broad,
strewn with trees and orchard-seed;
a man may wander a long road
and scarcely see the half of it.

119.
"Many a fair and splendid field
a gorgeous crowd fills up;
the noble household of the halls —
it defies all counting.

120.
"The lord's host is ample here;
when the arrow should test the sword,
he leads fifty kings,
each with a fine retinue.

121.
"On two or three nights in the week,
before the lord's judgement and command,
that entire host comes home —
their voices ring with praise.

122.
"The hall swallows the wisest company;
the bold man bows before it;
wine warms every head —
talk of heroes never fails.

123.
"The lord's palace surpasses all;
above it, when the eyelids close,
the light of the sacred haze drifts over the sea —
the heavenly lanterns and the grey cliff.

124.
"In the centre the greatest tower stands,
a marble tower that bore its glory;
three vaultings rise on high —
no mark of standing on them can be seen.

125.
"A wondrous art lies hidden there,
beneath the sleeping town:
one hundred fathoms is the height
and one hundred the width beside the ground.

126.
"Upon its topmost point one sees
a cedar-pole, well-turned:
thirty ells it rises high,
and bends but little in the sharpest storm.

127.
"Upon it, a clear knob of gold
that strikes the sky and silences the wind;
a carbuncle stone is set within —
a precious thing that steers its beams afar.

128.
"I shall not exaggerate from here:
in the blackest night that jewel
sends its beams to say —
ten leagues through earth and sky.

129.
"It draws the light of the sun inside itself;
great legends arise from this;
its beauty amazes more than me —
the four quarters of the world's eight corners.

130.
"I ought to tell you quietly
the thing that touches your affair,
and it may seem ugly to the lord —
let my talk be cut short thus.

131.
"In the lord's hall stands a horse
that stirs not, though it bears a man;
of bright gold is it fashioned, huge,
and gleaming more than many a clear star.

132.
"A wellspring, living, running bright,
swerves like a torrent from its channel;
ice-cold with the stroke of streams
it strikes the floor with cunning skill.

133.
"They wash their hands and faces there;
though the chilly breeze may rise against them,
fifty vigorous maidens serve,
but each time only two are sent.

134.
"The lord is attended twice at bed,
each revolution of the sun;
yet none may spread the wing of love —
the young lord's trust is a ring entire.

135.
"No man's gaze may reach them;
least of all do they enjoy the light of joy;
Blanzeflúr in the bonds of sorrow
blindly longs for the one she cannot see.

136.
"That he could never look upon her,
and sooner would she give her blood —
but to that I speak a contradiction:
the king's heart stood toward her.

137.
"Each year he dwells with a single one,
who bears the queen's name then;
his mind turns new again,
and he chooses himself a wife anew.

138.
"The unchosen women have no peace —
the lord's will stands not there;
he shelters them in a splendid hall
but parts them all with cedar walls.

139.
"They cannot leave the gilded town
upon the planted street, the slender ones;
each may find another to befriend,
yet comfort is what few can give.

140.
"Whoever among men came there,
to tell you how wise he is —
I do not know if honour's answer holds
before he grasps the truth.

141.
"It is as nothing that wrought this death:
one may enter the tower —
the longing women die inside,
though the deep-bliss may be bright and warm.

142.
"No maiden is allowed to turn outside;
the guards are swift upon them:
three gelded watchmen are set about
each single house beside.

143.
"The captain of the watch is stern,
he stares alike on every maiden;
he dwells beside the gate, thirst-dry —
little was spoken in his praise.

144.
"Greed burns in the badger's house, and he
is sharpened to its edge;
he often dares to murder a man
for less than nothing in his guilt.

145.
"He lets the wrongly murdered die;
if bribes be brought, or garments new,
he sets his foot upon the street —
and quickens his hoarding heat.

146.
"Now shall the lord's accustomed servants,
each time he may be wed,
faithfully draw all the women in
to the great garden that he owns.

147.
"Many a stately birch grows there;
they bear fruit rich and tall;
wild and tame beasts roam,
none can tell how many things are there.

148.
"The garden is guarded by his chosen herd;
the laws of its defence are strict;
the gates are girded shut with grilles,
wrought with skill and warded locks.

149.
"Of gold-gilt bronze, bird and beast,
the gates are finely adorned;
from there a new music is heard
if any breeze should stir.

150.
"With otter-furs the garden's veil is spread,
many a better growth it promised;
neither wet nor dry the glory fades:
winter does no more than summer lets.

151.
"The coloured garments of the golden lady
seem sky-blue, blood-red, white;
to the senses, the eyes, the ears, in turn,
the streaming joy is fresh.

152.
"That place is granted gladness,
peace and delight within the mind;
a man beholds the moon-tree there,
grown tall in the garden's midst.

153.
"A superstition rests on it —
unworthy though it seems;
a foolish cloud of ignorance
was drawn up there, where the host once laughed.

154.
"The river Euphrates rushes there,
its mouth bright as the birch;
the most splendid of all the streams —
the warrior's bloom gives praise to the lady.

155.
"A channel with cunning craft
turns to water the famed oak;
it flows into a little brook
and plays about its root, which is not weak.

156.
"The fountain is filled with cunning art,
cold, and wrapped in burnished silver;
it keeps the fruitful lord's desire,
the chosen trees and multitude of herbs.

157.
"Into the channel of the stream in flood,
much came swimming from the river;
the wave that struck the earth's bright cliff —
the guardian gathered it at once.

158.
"The brides must cross the leafy ground,
a path beside the blooming tree;
driven forward — that is the king's command —
and many a ring-maiden fears the road.

159.
"The brook shows a blood-red streak
if ever one went there who lost her maidenhood;
it surges quick and burns alive —
the punishment is fierce, without a trial.

160.
"Whenever a golden maiden walked near
who had known cruelty or shame,
the brook turns red along the way —
the gold of the earth decrees her death.

161.
"But the tree gave its leaf upon her path,
when the maiden walked beside it red;
and while the blushing girl passed near,
a man in secret shook it down."

162.
"You see how easy to mistake —
the lord's power hidden under cover;
to deceive and murder is equally simple —
hypocrisy's counsel is laid so low."

163.
"I tell you now: a month remains,
and the time will not be stretched;
the festival is held at last,
the lord bows to choose his bride."

164.
"Blanzeflúr will suffer most —
though her mouth knows wisest skill —
for his eye has found no equal here,
until she herself falls to the ground."

165.
"What people truly guess among the host,
from this no one can see,
whether he will choose another woman
or marry many more besides."

166.
"It grieves me that she should die so;
the tale runs dry beside it;
it wounds you, I have said too much —
you see yourself how all this goes."

167.
Flóres gave his answer and swore:
"Powerful these tidings wound me;
they were, and truly are — to me —
if the girl were anything at all."

168.
"Against this maiden's gaze,
I could not half assess it;
steadfast resolve blocks the grief —
but I wept when she swore her oath."

169.
"The maiden was sworn to me in trust;
no lover torments the lady more;
though the honoured one should wed,
she will die pious and unsorrowing."

170.
"But to fling oneself into life's ban
and find what road the beloved took —
a woman's soul cannot endure it,
though inward anguish pierces hard."

171.
Daríus spoke his answer quickly:
"This will prove the honest truth —
I have spoken rightly and correctly:
she will shorten her own life."

172.
"It is unknown to all as yet
whether that suspicion rests on her;
though lately my wife received a letter
that would seem to prophesy."

173.
"She reports the grief I suffer,
that he at last should conquer it —
the shore of the reddened field to reach."
The prince then spoke in haste:

174.
"At last my poisoned sorrow,
the futile caution of the ring's rune,
will prove the maiden pure and clean:
she is laid in no man's bed."

175.
"But if we met — that bond of ours —
the cord of spite might be kindled hot;
so might the greatest harm be blocked:
a hand before we lose our very soul."

176.
"If with that fortune, steeled and stiff,
one strict command gave way to the next,
I would not care about my wretched life —
let this month of waiting pass."

177.
"When I reach this final step,
let all proceed in silence;
you or I shall be my death —
the means are there at hand."

178.
The warrior answered, famed in deeds:
"Such things do not march with fortune —
no such reckless act will I allow:
I take you, anguished, in my arms."

179.
"First I will try another way —
though a great deceit lies underneath —
a chance to send you to the hall alive,
else send you there to die."

180.
"I have never thought of this before;
it is best for you and me to sleep;
where the path of fortune leads,
I shall reveal it in the morning."

181.
Flóres rejoiced at this,
and gained some peace beneath the veil.
"Daybreak cuts me short — I fall in sleep,
and fade from glory's shimmer."

Ríma VII

Samhend Stuðlaljóð.

On the counsel of Darius to Flóres; then on his dealings with the maidens' keeper. Then on the disagreement between King Felix and his queen, who now took charge. Flóres gains entry to the maidens' tower. A Saxon woman named Elóris hides him there for half a month beside Blanzeflúr. They are discovered.

Mansöngr

1.
To stretch discourse further here was promised — I count it shame to fall silent at once —
I set the spindle's ship upon the sea: many will say, if I succeed.

2.
My mind squats, head turned backward — flight of praise, as trial has chosen —
though the spirit strove to tend its boast, its valor proved powerless.

3.
I trusted the swans of the battle-hall, who emptied the cups of the scale-horse —
but the necklaces are the linden's companions, praised by my neighbors.

4.
Yet I am no breathless swine, and my irredeemable foolishness —
to my hand the storm-god's wine shines, watered down beside theirs.

5.
How long shall I go on, and from what? — The burning craving for poetic company?
Who will help the youth? Who knows? No one says yes.

6.
Does it seem, good sir, that spirits bewitch me? —
the ship of gifts that delays itself, as a heavier cargo it cannot bear.

7.
Without peace the news shall fly off — let him run the stiff course many a sprint —
the merchandise may not seem fine to you: one must guard it, though it seem light.

8.
That the prince's son should heed his treasures, the gold-support gentle as love —
Darius turns himself entirely about, and after strife come the coins.

9.
Good feeling's inborn power — often the bait of favor-drawing —
his advancing wagon of wisdom, and the hope of some personal gain.

10.
But consider, friend! What then cuts if the brother's hide should change —
if now the gentle one pleased, I offer you, and whatever kind goes with me.

11.
The soul of an honest man at once falls sick, submitting to his wound —
the lesser likewise stirs the garland of fame, such honor stirs the dance.

12.
But if your high-flying war-god's fury would see pure true-virtue —
it values the small constancy of friends, if the gain seems settled on.

13.
If you say with heart's heat it has never once been given to care —
whether virtue or anything to be named, some inclination might produce it.

14.
If such things seem threatening to you, seem to offer small terms —
there is shallows then to examine, what is lost upon the patient man's burden.

15.
Whether in the memory's branch of fame one finds man-virtue — read and test —
not as hope of unclean gain, nor power, nor the suffering of the mind alone.

16.
What do you think of the heathen? — danger went, and tin he won —
to shield a shamed man before him, boldly, a man he never knew at all.

17.
Little did he think of escape — he broke no bond of friendship —
it served him not to hear the charge: her unease pressed hard at the argument.

18.
The hero waded ceaselessly through hardship — to the great prince's fiery hatred —
his welfare stood in the balance; I think that man's blood was noble.

19.
He raised the pillars of truth's throne — the soul's courage of the servant of deeds —
he squeezed the lamb out of the lion's jaws, and smothered the sparks of pride and ruin.

20.
The lord's craven shame was bound — he levied the tax of truth —
crooked hypocrisy crumbled swiftly, found its pit and fell powerless.

21.
Though a higher faith lend us aid — little is now seen of injustice —
even so, the forward-driven way of honor wrestles against itself in the flame.

22.
Deftly may this company be drawn up — our sails may be set right —
the great man's burdens shifted aside, and each headland reached with them.

23.
Let us weigh wisdom's clever guard — though the matter's root be seen bare —
even though we hire the false witnesses, the law-book is satisfied.

24.
Not always, it is true, the humbling of truth — what the law-book would count noteworthy —
if conscience should come in its stead.

Narrative

25.
The wave-horse's fire and every fortune — the well-spoken case that rightly teaches —
from that the soul may safely rest, fortune's trial escorts whoever follows.

26.
But it stands in mammon's power — the fool may keep his watch there —
the vessel's dear course runs straight: one must lay out wealth early.

27.
It was their care to love him — whatever wealth Darius won for himself —
which I cannot tell in verse, but let them blame the writer for that.

28.
Perhaps the dawning of the screecher's grey brightened — and was silent over it —
the tale otherwise shines clear in its thread; at last it begins to stir against the battle.

29.
A blow halted the play of fame — the sword there lay in a trance —
the thread is slower now to stir, waking slowly from its sleep.

30.
The dim and soft daughter of darkness — the dark traveler's cloaked frame —
while the idle company unwearied slept, the blanket of slumber hid its form.

31.
As soon as the clouds' riven pass stirred — the lamp-stream blazed against it —
Darius found the prince's mark and began their conversation anew.

32.
"Does it not change — asks the ring-man — bitter inquiry in your mind?
A kiss from the maiden" — the champion swears — "the vessel, no — that never cuts."

33.
"It avails not," said the other — "though grief should rack a man stiff —
to fling oneself against the fates, before one sees one's own death."

34.
"Better to bear grief and tears — to guard the sheaf of one's own honor —
let woman-love yet restrain itself: the kingdom lies open to you."

35.
Flóres answers, bitter: "Cowardly — should I go home
to guard my rank and treasure? Let us not speak of such wretched things!"

36.
"A worthless soul that suffers evil, so that torment never runs out for it —
what shall it trade for the brain's meal, or bear toward the helm of one's lot?"

37.
"This one heritage my people swear to me — he who bound himself to heavy labor —
little use has the slack one in me: the prince's bold throne I then bear."

38.
"One thing I first found in you: that you declared this labor served —
you shall see me self-slain, or sent, or smuggled into the castle."

39.
Darius said: "It is settled now — a bold plan there that lends you strength —
yet swift death shall come to you: guard yourself well, for the path is steep."

40.
"Though I be driven into death's claws — the woman is no whit nearer —
enough: life loses the maiden — and many a blow then strikes her."

41.
"Death's certainty is heavy beside me — valor rises — the prince's son declares —
the path of misfortune is no road: to kiss the woman and then be parted?"

42.
"One is the woman my soul longs for — nothing more shall shield her —
the soul is freed from strife if it dies, stubborn of mind — and hear me further!"

43.
"Every fool knows this — whatever is lost, so be it —
each man born here is shaped for this: to plunge himself into the pit of death."

44.
Darius then: "I see it well — you bear boldness and mock my warning —
I call it not without courage, to leave this earthly realm."

45.
"A fate more terrible than calamity — you must wrestle with misery's sorrow —
and drive toward it, that I can see: a path strewn with thorns and blood."

46.
"I shall go to guard the gate-road — but first may I show and tell you
where the maidens' tower stands — then the matter rests on you to spare yourself."

47.
So they walked up to a vantage point — he showed the youth where the tall building stood —
mighty, pressing against the clouds — and he spoke further and continued:

48.
"Dress yourself in the finest Eastern garments — purchase a great pile of treasures —
wear a ring of the wave's gold on every finger and on both arms."

49.
"While I watch the garden — then walk up the castle street —
pace around that towering house — but whoever meets you, let none see you."

50.
"That wretch, I know, needs bribes — paying the watch's company —
see that you are seen from home, draw near, but greet no one."

51.
"I promise — when you reach him — this is the right way to begin —
the will of that townsman-slayer shall mend itself."

52.
"If they come at you raging, let yourself be drawn to no place in retreat —
but ask them: whose house is this, and who is the master of it?"

53.
"They will inquire in return: what fool cares about that?
Tell the wise and powerful ones that you wish to build a like one yourself."

54.
"If the wretched one seeks to harm you — wickedness kindling in him —
the enraged leafy one, who secretly bears weapons beneath his clothing."

55.
"The spear-tree's grove — you'll find the likeness — but sharing little of his wealth —
when the chieftain hears this, greed fires up his spite."

56.
"His thinking will change completely, once he sees how rich you are —
he'll pursue the other thing: that nothing from you is to be wrestled away."

57.
"He will naturally approach you, and bear himself laughingly —
and he'll hide the sting — but listen: does chess happen to suit you?"

58.
"That art might well shoe you — the ant-pricking gamester —
plays more often than the like I see: great men gamble much at chess."

59.
The fire-god's keen lord answered with understanding: "This I can fully show by trial —
my chess-craft will not sink into nothing — it is firm and hidden."

60.
Darius then told the youth: "Do not withdraw from the chess-board, high-set —
but stake a hundred shekels of silver — yes — against him as wager."

61.
"Gauge the man's foolishness slowly — but most of all watch him play straight —
pay him the debt cleanly, and collect quickly: that must stay hidden."

62.
"He will be satisfied with his profit — so friendship comes to rights —
quickly win his favor-knack: you may work at this today."

63.
"Then tomorrow speak further to him — at the market of such small value —
gauge the low-born's measure briefly — and pay the wager too."

64.
"The third day bring to him your fine and costly cup —
at last enough will seem to me, if the wretch sees this prize."

65.
"Quickly you will see, warrior — what scarcely he will hide from you —
his single-minded greed is genuine: he'll want to play for the cup."

66.
"A complete no you now swear to that — you will not play for it bare —
but if the cup means much to you, say: the cup is given as a gift."

67.
"The clever one will then ask the man: what must be done to earn this?
Let him lure you with empty talk — draw him into plot and intrigue."

68.
"The spear-god's business — win the case, grasp the purpose —
he will become your willing instrument, submitting as if to his own."

69.
"Into his hands shall be placed whatever you wish to accomplish there —
whether the thing seems equal to him, heavy or light to carry out."

70.
"Before the serpent-goddess of the fire-ring — here the wretch swears his oath —
I know no other road by which you might find your trial's end."

71.
"You may well observe this too — do not let him see you shaken —
speak low to him from there, whatever you are content with then."

72.
"The stuff of sorrow, trust to no one within the city walls —
the bell tolls soon at the bridge — morning breaks, let us part now."

73.
That settled, they parted — then Flóres' joy shone the more —
though he steered himself into the earth's clay, the hope-reed supported the good.

74.
Following the instructions, the spear-brand flung forward —
he followed the counsel of the city — he foresaw the keeper's dealing,
friend of deeds, his nature and his court.

75.
With a clean payment he hooked him in — yet the chess game was worth trying —
the board-court set with stones — at last it tricked the wretch.

76.
The oath was now sworn without hesitation — the gold-thief accepted it so:
the errand Flóres then declared — the other grew fierce and begged for mercy.

77.
The wretch cowered, pressing forward: "For the cursed red cup —
death is not open to me, fortune-starved one, any more than to you."

78.
Flóres answers: "Find it surely — I care least to spare my life —
if trust there should fail you, your own fate, once I choose to guard it."

79.
"Note well: into the dark corner — the cloven sword shall be sent —
oath-breakers you shall now reach — tell the fiends of the underworld."

80.
"If we should come through alive — and fate judge me not doomed —
I would honor you the more, and praise manhood here in yourself."

81.
"The fearful one finds it scarcely goes well — into the pit the doomed one tumbles —
but let this trial become a device: the worst of all I least expect."

82.
The eunuch then answers: "Willing I go, though I risk my life —
far better that than to look upon the breaking of a hand-sealed oath."

83.
"The strife of life's danger quivers — forward at last it goes —
the craftsman's work is scarcely clear: three nights must pass."

84.
The other, steeled, said to the sword-lord: "Well may you prosper, and praise be peace —
fortune gently strengthens us more." At these words they parted.

85.
Darius found the deed-bearer — he did not hide the danger of the venture.
"There was no other road," said the wave-fire's man in answer.

86.
"Yet I have given you shelter and trust — it will not be without peril for me —
since nothing else served you here, it had to be, since you chose this."

87.
The deed-man repeats: "Whatever befalls me on this land —
if it swiftly brings death to you, we do not call the counsel straight."

88.
The prince's heir seemed rare — though matters went and the sheaf was reaped —
the youth lived all his years, yet never longer than three nights.

89.
Meanwhile there was a turn in his fortune — where I break the stiffened verse —
from Spain, to strike a blow, the crane's wedge hardened its staff.

90.
The tempest turned the warrior aside — a harm-stricken toil, dangerous —
he began to ask about Flóres, to inquire on better ground.

91.
He had stripped hope from most by his reasons — the question that slithered about his wife —
that she had settled in Babylon, the birch-tree to clothe and gild the son.

92.
About him they wished first to go, out from the sorrow's storm and longing —
the prince's fortune at last may not — any longer — guard against what is told.

93.
What had happened before — no care or observation matched it —
the prince brought no deed to it, but cursed the queen's counsel.

94.
The prince, anguished, swore to her: "There is no likelihood
that my son has been gained here — shown in the field, by you or me."

95.
"Grief has destroyed the mind's refuge — then the bitter news arrived —
the trial sorted it most plainly: what good came from Blanzeflúr."

96.
"Scarcely could a fairer maiden be born — and loudly you say no to it —
had the soil swallowed that creature, Flóres would not be so endangered."

97.
"Uncounted harm I found here — every sort of injury compounded —
loss that wrought the worst: and worst of all, she outlives him."

98.
"Harshly the youth suffered" — the queen spoke — "not a day longer for this:
to press her into the bath of the underworld, here in the field it has failed."

99.
"Your crowns of garlands, your sorrow is yours — in the parting of Blanzeflúr and her own —
if the craftsman's life now fades, his loss is your affair."

100.
"You have — wider it shall be said — the people's glory laid in the dust —
it may burn you, your power: so often and so wrongly used."

101.
"Dark to rage about the linen's last — the blazing fire of vile arrogance —
raises the harm of my heart, and the misfortune of your son."

102.
"The woman pulls constancy's rope — let her drink the youth in the wound-bath —
no one need mock at this: the underworld will not long keep them apart."

103.
There the lord and the woman debated — from which was born long-scarring strife —
the soul, afraid, though it wounded life — the lady grew stiff in their dispute.

104.
The prince could find no remedy there — the queen grieved in silence —
bitter sorrow and hot hatred tore the bright creature, ripping and rending.

105.
She flung herself then upon her bed, surrendering the kingdom's cares —
the grandeur fell silent and sank in a faint — the queen laid her hand upon it.

106.
It struck the tell-all sailor cold — who began to seize at rule's improvement —
but against the king's choice she spoke — no hearing could be had there.

107.
She so fiercely held to her care, heart great but never cheerful —
while Flóres' death was not reported, the spear-goddess concealed her weeping.

108.
The fire-sinking foreseeing queen carried the kingdom's staff alone —
in the prince's likeness she shone in law. Away from there let the account turn.

109.
Now let us remember the matter there — the morning when it comes —
the eunuch may find the prince's son: he went then on his way.

110.
His hall, though it grieves a little — he saw no host, neither many nor few —
the warrior crept in and sprang inside quickly — the chamber stood open on its hinge.

111.
One could scarcely gape much then — the ant-snout, when he saw the youth —
he snatched from a cupboard where the folded linen lay, a linen cloak, and put it on him.

112.
The swift leaf-god looks about — baskets and men stood there —
the retinue, trampling the ring's tribute, crushed by the fine goods.

113.
Beneath the tapestry he bent him in — hope there would rest on two cowards —
the other, who mourns gold, sat in that shadow for a while.

114.
The wearied servant went to fetch a vessel — then reaching back, suspecting nothing —
the deceit's tangled yarn was set straight: the fool is led to another end.

115.
He told the prince's kin then: "This moment did not break from custom —
the maiden-company often came, many a varied thing to see."

116.
The grey smith of cunning, lured by gold, poured it upon those broad baskets —
in one he hid the handsome man, then gave it to two others.

117.
He told them to bring it to Blanzeflúr — the fairest in the house — that delivery.
They did not linger beside him. The sword's keeper now lay grave-still.

118.
Weighed down by the heavy press, his blood wearied — so it was —
the cursed women who trod the bloom into that basket demanded more.

119.
Most painfully he could bear it — many stairs to climb up there —
it swayed as one might expect, and they were panting then.

120.
The one who followed cries: "We can tear out from this thing —
let us break open what is left: so we may get it up."

121.
The one ahead answers: "That will not help!" and swore —
"Punishment then on both our heads — it could be fearsome blows."

122.
That prevailed over this trick — the one behind fell silent,
and feared the punishment — yet dreamt of the hidden wreck, moving within.

123.
The soul's murky blood of treachery — yet they did not go the right road.
Great of mind and bright of good — Elóris was a Saxon woman's name.

124.
The ring-sun dwelt nearest to Blanzeflúr — she lived beside the tallest tower's wall —
the journey to that lady was the most urgent; the pools were deepest, and the mood was sour.

125.
The servants flung the baskets down — they had no desire to wait there.
Once the maiden was alone, the vine-bender of spears rose up.

126.
The ring's glory, a cry of fright — the women heard it through all the hall —
deception, dazed, stole from the bride: quickly into the flowers he hid himself.

127.
Yet the woman's hand pressed at the wreck — her mind took another turning —
the others sensed fear's flavor, and the group of women came to that place.

128.
What thing of battle's gold had frightened the woman? — the company demanded to know the tale —
the crown of cleverness then spoke: she said she had seen a butterfly.

129.
Sharp-witted, she lied with skill — the women laughed at that:
"They frightened me terribly — I opened the window and it flew in."

130.
Beneath it all, the lady was best — Flóres' trust in the gentle woman —
the prince's son considers this now, though the danger-steep hour was found.

131.
Once she was alone and swift, she spoke to the bright woman —
her hand ran over the forest's ornament — to examine some part of it.

132.
Never anything like this, she said, had she seen with her eyes, nor anything to equal it —
the other said she had fallen sick and wept, unable to look wherever harm had come.

133.
The Elóris woman asked her further — bitter of mind, the other denied it —
she would faint, the maiden said, the flower uninspected.

134.
"Know that he who bore my promise — to whom I swore constancy —
you shall surely learn from me: never shall I live here wedded to another man."

135.
"Scarcely therefore can I bear these bright leaves — to clasp in my hands the warrior's rose —
let men know, though praise should weaken: I shall soon be a withered flower."

136.
"Though the woman of discourse may not take the knife — I shall hold this champion's defiance —
into the king's power, though I feel the sting: alive I shall never come."

137.
"The soul's gold does not endure as it once did — driven from his grasp it swam away —
death's sweetness shall leave my body, the might-stripped one leaves the prince."

138.
"The flood's fire-kindler hates me most — Felix pays the longest and worst —
the fool who sold me as a horse into a hand, though higher power might yet delay."

139.
"Here the blood of the French is stained — free blood, and that is certain —
the price paid against me shall be to him a fire and a well of venom."

140.
While such words flew from the woman's lips, pearl-like tears fell from her eyes,
drawn from every nerve of her life — a shudder crept through her wretched fate.

141.
The stirred youth could endure no longer — could not lend his ear to this —
fierce, as one who splits the pale cliff, so that his breast might know less pain.

142.
The serpent-lady's hair sprang up hard — she turned inward toward herself —
tongue-tied, the two threads binding — confused between grief and gladness.

143.
Both lost themselves — as if standing beside death's cauldron —
of what is spoken, half may be borne — I cannot do justice to the horror.

144.
Never was a trial granted like it — love has a sharper sheaf even then —
at the brink of the underworld, not one step back: let the courage of the spirit be given.

145.
Not once did the prince's kin falter less — he won less than the woman —
each in the other's arms as if in sleep, so they lay for a while.

146.
Soon that faintness mended — clarity of peace shone from both their eyes —
so close to the underworld's pain they laughed — yet they thought upon their fates.

147.
She guarded her maidenhood, the linden-tree — as a man captured on a ship —
the wave that washes the gold-lady: so that the robber might not seize.

148.
Great-hearted, the sea-light's goddess then led Flóres to the resting-place.
When Elóris saw this, she came and softly said:

149.
"Wrapped in deeds, my dear friend! I knew before this sight —
I found another way to reach you — yet the pain quickly presses."

150.
"You have gently in hand all that I asked and could not get —
that flower in the basket lay: it guided me to what was here to see."

151.
The crown of women tells: "The power of that flower-grass —
so that the death-moment made me shudder — from now on I have avoided it."

152.
"So long as you here alone, swear to us trust and no injury —
now let us not confess the sting." Then the maiden of the precious stone spoke:

153.
"If I did not shield you from idle talk — then I would drive myself into the deep —
the woman shudders, and the spear-staff — taken from the knowledge of life."

154.
"The Almighty" — the other returns — "who has permitted each of us to find the other here —
may He prolong fortune and fate, and a match as well, if it might suit."

155.
"Though of this one might fear, Blanzeflúr — to learn that fate bears bitterness —
she who was the wall of her own honor, and sleeps the gentlest final sleep."

156.
The dry-pure one went away then — she brought them enough food —
while fortune hid the wreck, at last fate dealt them its blow.

157.
Half a month's time streamed away — the helm was set —
the named woman followed in the morning's moment, as the lord hastened to find them.

158.
Elóris went in to the woman — inwardly in the grip of strife —
the maid was astray, the knife-tree beside her — she painted the danger of their lives.

159.
The maiden started up and sprang from the man — she thought to escape the fastest —
the other fled as quickly as she could — all resistance was at an end.

160.
So quickly the woman left the hall — sleep conquered the other —
when the prince's kin saw it, she pressed herself down and fell asleep.

161.
The lord of the land came to the hall, maiden — yet Blanzeflúr was not in sight —
his question bent toward the ring-isle — the other answered the prince:

162.
"All night the lady of the shore wakes, weeps, reads without rest —
she lets herself care for such terms: may it greet you both through life."

163.
So cleverly the wise one lulled his suspicion — when he wished to see the maiden the next morning —
the lord of nations, at this time, was served, the goddess sore-struck.

164.
The next morning the necklace-goddess — they were pressed upon more sharply —
how deadly the ban lay here — if this might happen again.

165.
Both woke — they spoke of it quietly — neither found peace —
the maiden dressed quickly, lest the ugly summons of death should be reached in time.

166.
Mostly dressed then was the gold-ground — the fearful maiden went away —
sleep struck the women's eyelids — the terror stole away from their breasts.

167.
Then the dry-tree hastened away — the high-born kin's counsel fades —
the woman bent herself into the bed, and that was sleep's ungracious power.

168.
(So amid caresses none saw what — sleep alone found a fine place there —
the saga turned nothing to that, nor kindles suspicion about it.)

169.
The eunuch keeper saw Elóris alone — brooding, he went to ask:
"She was fully dressed before me" — the woman answered — "and soon shall be."

170.
The maiden walked away from the lord — she wished to reach the washing-basin —
she does not think upon it, the comb-goddess — the other would then fall asleep.

171.
The lord's brow grows heavy — he has endured sleep's value on the down —
the prince wonders at the gold's secret: time passed, and she did not come.

172.
The king at last calls then — a candle-boy — and demands
that the clean truth be tested: let him visit the lady of the gemstones.

173.
Through the carved window's mouth, the bold one of the fire-pool dared —
wherever they were, in the guise of rest — at a warm trail he came to the king.

174.
And he reported: "Embracing, Elóris was what I found there —
both I saw sleeping — their lips lay together."

175.
The beard had not yet sprouted on the king's offspring — that mockery scorned the boyish face —
he spoke of a new witness, and the lord smiled coldly at it.

176.
The warrior rises up and seizes — the fire-god's spark — and then he says:
"Whether she harbors maid or man, I shall know soon enough."

177.
Elóris had been there before — she was entirely gone from there.
Fortune often smiles where it will — she laid a blow to test the heart.

178.
The lord himself carries the nightclothes — that helpless youth, around whom it fell —
up there the linden-tree creeps — and threads her way before the prince.

179.
As quietly as he could, he then took the shutter from the window —
neither of them wakes — though few knew the tale unfolding.

180.
Both here cause my mind to shudder — it goes like verse from the spinner —
until I am given up: I find the empty cup drained there.

181.
The ring-stream's journey carved its way — the ebbed shore of the warrior's sea —
lip met lip in that place — the murmured guard spares its speech.

Ríma VIII

Stikluhending or samhent Stikluvík.

Flóres and Blanzeflúr are captured and set in torment. They are dragged before the court. They endure examination. A trial by combat is adjudged upon their testimony, which he also swears. They are reconciled with the king, who so increases their honor that all their friends are raised, and he gives them a well-armed and splendid ship for the homeward voyage.

Mansöngr

1.
The wise ones' ancient spring I would water with blood, if I could —
yet swiftly the vessel of poetry's capture runs dry.

2.
But the strength-poor take it roughly — the venture scarcely begun —
the coward's shame flung high, and the dead one bleeds nothing for them.

3.
Not least now where the substance failed — I, like one who let go —
but would trust the ornament finest, and the dress, made for so few.

4.
Though to the thinking man's eye that seems finer with rings —
here the mob mocks and scorns, yet fame quickly flew past his ears.

5.
To most souls then and there, the well-wrought seems to fit —
the honey-blended sap of the linden, plenty loosed from the streams wherever seen.

6.
Yet though the song's dance should not give sweet pleasure to its kind —
the hero's victory of truth, his later fame, let us leave to him.

7.
Those who cannot bend their thoughts — they cannot grasp the storm's wood —
at last, one letter's single combat: little is found better than nothing at all.

8.
Whether the praise-craft wins me honor or blame alike —
and it sometimes seems the same to me: the saga's glory is least in it.

Narrative

9.
Though the prince's heir might now find shelter — there it might be won —
he who lost upon the field a valiant life, let that man without guilt die.

10.
Whoever is caught must suffer death — the famous spear-tree —
he did not swear a false combat-oath: with his kinsmen's sword the champion rode.

11.
Wounded and struck, the youth was — the prince's rose of injury —
and the counter-thrust he brought up, yet not the blood-thirst of the prince's son.

12.
His soul at once upset its throne — an unruly storm of spears —
the thunder-fire three times rekindled, he thought the case fully proven.

13.
Such, we find, is the false path of the world — though the people may ask —
is there no one, though the trouble be easy, who will swear a better oath among us?

14.
It may be so, but it lay on the boy — it seems to me unfit —
the light of the spirit blows upon them, often for things that matter little.

15.
Senselessly, a man's companion here, the sword rashly was tested —
yet trusting in truth's cause, and the victory was not won by his weapons.

16.
The lord, wise, did not expect this — and scarcely Flóres himself —
yet through the steel's storm of force, much was remembered, and it was plain.

17.
He saw that he must guard against ruin in haste — calling his warriors —
he renounces the prince's favor: let them take a safer counsel.

18.
"Your difficulty I can and will know" — the spirit's ill he declares —
"so shall it stand, what he promised" — the oath-bound one proclaimed he would endure.

19.
Nothing that lived in that pledge — he thinks — is able to harm —
and no man struck after him, upon whatever hope he died.

20.
He was seen to defend against the dangerous breach — and carefully he guarded everything —
one might find firmer grounds to risk one's life in a just cause.

21.
The one caught in the devil's net, firmly do I mean him —
every man could see, it was plain: he broke his oath and let it stand.

22.
But the death of the spirit, he who can judge it — may he lead others from there —
the oath-keeper guards his word: he swore an oath like the one Flóres swore.

23.
The stiffened wreath of falsehood flatters — if Christ's court mocks outward —
the heathen's word-keeping, and the holy honor of truth.

24.
At oath-breaking, wherever it erupts, the roof of waves may tremble —
numbed blessing freezes away, but a certain curse falls from heaven.

25.
The soul's keen sense is needed — to let filth disgust those
who would purely sweep away from the heart of man the dominion of truth.

26.
Men everywhere turn crooked and trembling — such are the obligations beneath —
there, in the body of the sun-world itself, Satan's kingdom is more than half.

27.
But to offend both him and his, the wretched shall be ill-softened —
fear creeps into the dance of verse, and the ending rules the preamble.

28.
The patient man's wave-hearer there — the silence-frozen stock —
it broke upon the company of the gold, and the prince was in the air.

29.
Though the light shine brightly in — the heart and spirit of the warrior —
whether man or maid is found there, more than the other cannot be judged.

30.
So that this might be seen clearly now — the boy, bruised with dread —
to strip the clothing from the warrior's breast, he demanded, for it did not long go smooth.

31.
The hair stood up, and hatred sheared — the warrior furious —
rage erupted, he departed in a flash to loose the peace-bond — but the boy declares:

32.
"Not so quickly, gold-man, with fire — directly they should be counseled —
the ring-land and the wise warrior: speak to them first."

33.
"What would happen if that flame were her brother? —
Man and maiden at the melting gleam — innocent, let both be struck then?"

34.
The warrior's sword halts at once: "That I see —" he began to speak —
"that kingly deeds, perhaps, might find a road — and vengeance without mercy."

35.
"Better than striking the wound-bath — driving both from life —
maiden and man may be fine sport: they do not wake peacefully."

36.
The harm bit not the spear-goddess's goddess — the lord's brow though it frowned —
yet the wave of tears, bitter and hard, broke over the bright earth of the necklace.

37.
Their swift death was there — the dealer of the crooked crow —
he thought it grace, given what it was — then to counsel, and bore the case forward:

38.
"What stands in the way? Why now then — strike as it pleases you —
if you may look upon a man's blood?" The prince says: "No more of that!

39.
"You shall receive another ending, stripped of honor all the same —
that whore who lies beside you." The other then gave his ready answer:

40.
"I think by the look of it — that for your bribes,
the maiden walks the road of blame, and becomes a natural whore."

41.
"Tyrant! Hear me! — thankless to you — those undeafened hearts —
we are woven with constancy's branches: the woman belonged to none but me."

42.
"Here I first crawled to the ring-isle — carried here in a basket —
I thought not to run free, and you shall not buy this maiden."

43.
"I hope this may stand in your way — that from now on we shall not fear the blow."
The warrior, struck by hatred, declares:

44.
"Your bold courage shall be brought low — you shall reluctantly find
that you have walked a fortuneless path here — and grim death shall avenge us."

45.
"You struck a wound, but do not see this: who stands on what leg —
grey with age, the world is here — nowhere a fool to equal you."

46.
"A lesser household of women — often they have found protection in the crowd —
one sees, when hung high upon the wall, who owned Blanzeflúr."

47.
The prince's son answers: "Fate falls where it will —
those fates do not bend for you: save your strength here first."

48.
"Little joy of life would I carry — the road proved impassable to me —
and even now the maiden is unspoiled — were you any kind of god."

49.
"But about the passage from this wretched world — however hard we are pressed —
the trial is long, but the vengeance is short-lived: it shall be named against you long."

50.
The prince could not be provoked by these words — the cutters could not change him —
he shook with fury, could not master it — the vein of rage grew so great.

51.
The city's lord of warriors then — from there he lets them be borne —
each into their own dark corner, where the company shall be guarded with grey steel.

52.
The maiden bore all her clothing, finest — the lord, shearing, not satisfied —
the linen-tree's couple was let drip — yet the prince's son wore only linen rags.

53.
The peril now found the luck of the trap — on neither man nor maiden —
both bore the chains of steel — they were announced: not free.

54.
The doorkeeper of the women's house — in hard bonds likewise —
fettered, sentenced straight to death: the warriors found his fate hard.

55.
He had cut the fruit from the thorn of greed —
he was poorly come to it, yet worse he bore his own adversity.

56.
The higher floor of the wretch's infamy — the fools beneath raged —
while the dark one and the linen's darkness peacefully awaited their own death.

57.
It was now proclaimed in short order — all, wherever they dwelt —
they appeared there in hard armor: the chieftains from the king's realms.

58.
That great assembly was first prepared — not stopped, but settled —
on the third day thereafter, there is something to tell of.

59.
The mind's grip upon that swift one — yet the most restless may think —
with a glance the lord accomplished the thing: the council-hall was fully arranged.

60.
Marcilius was the warrior's name — foremost in that company —
he always used the measure of truth, and never let silver be called lead.

61.
Often a tangled difficulty winds — the wit that shines from many openly —
the lord demands without doubt that this man should hold the highest judgment-seat.

62.
The warrior believed him mostly unwavering — his seriousness he would trust —
now the lord brought forward his case — sparing neither evidence nor argument.

63.
These arguments followed: "Such cowardice and disgrace —
a bitter tear in the eye of goodness — we had hoped for wedding-bliss."

64.
"We have been played at — in our deeds, never punishing the guilty —
by you nor the fierce ones with fire: take pity on us first."

65.
"Such a thing gave us a pale blot — a blunt claim lies upon us —
that now each may have his right, and henceforward we shall not part smooth."

66.
Marcilius then spoke: "Great is this novelty —
to examine and see the truth plainly: it falls to us to decide."

67.
"The prince values the works of the devout — won with manly courage —
empty hypocrisy will serve no one: he has entered under judgment."

68.
"Those whose foresight failed — they fell into open danger —
it is sun-clear they hold fast: by us here it must be examined."

69.
A certain earl named Pratemus — the dark lord's son — wished to seize his favor.
The evil smith rang out against them: "Will you draw out an answer here?"

70.
"Who has ventured the robbery of a maiden — more mockery and scorn? —
Who so dared, without any shield, to work shame on our lord?"

71.
"The most contemptible of women — a moment's ring — the scoundrel had with her —
the case is clean, I understand it: whatever the means may be."

72.
"Torments swiftly — that was my point — never enough of hateful flames —
they are not for both to choose: if we look to our obligations."

73.
"But in the hall where we set court — if the wretches should come —
the prince, honored, scores a small ring: a new trial and humiliation."

74.
Most spoke loudly in agreement — the spear-goddess thus declared —
inside their skulls the noise resounded: from there they chose this judgment.

75.
Some urged: let them both be pitched in — both lose their lives —
be tortured in fetters, peel them: to most it seemed a fresh choice.

76.
The noble linden's splendor of oversight — nothing at all restrained them —
at last they found no kind of torment that might not be called too mild.

77.
Now Marcilius did not let them long await his answer —
cautious argument did not flee a step: he promised the party of falsehood its rending.

78.
He says: "To me the case seems empty — I see it and look at it —
though a knot of filth be torn from me, I sit in no fool's judgment.

79.
"An empty accusation gets no hearing — to wage it as a judgment —
it is the land's and people's filth of honor: over the life and honor of any man."

80.
"I cannot have this dispute cut short — I will not step back a foot —
unless my seat here yields, and I let it go as paid and settled."

81.
The earl lined up the evidence: "Blush now, for your youth's sake —
you wish to spare, but punish those you own: the prince's own fury is sharp."

82.
Some said the lord's life should be — by death's tricks — seized.
Others laid equal answers — some were silent, biting their lips.

83.
The lord answers: "It would be best to go and find witness first —
then, who most fouls the warrior: honor, or to spare the moment most."

84.
"Shallow shall the riddle stand — the famous guardian of the land —
so coldly it breathes at my meaning: I mistrust its own right."

85.
"Yet however it all turns out — when he was bound to yield to us —
to bring the man and the woman here — to judge them ourselves: that would be worse!"

86.
"All the assembly sees — it was scarcely needed —
to fault manhood by a fool's custom, and tilt the judgments at last to one side."

87.
"My feeling toward you both is steady — let no one see now —
whether wrong or right they deserve — while the rumor leaves them."

88.
"I have steeled myself neither for man nor maiden —
nor condemned them to either ban or remedy: ugly deception lies in wait for you."

89.
"Who can rightly discern the matter with arguments — the investigation,
whether to deepen or lighten their guilt: that is plainly not easy to decide."

90.
"No case yet, though I so weigh it — an unexamined example —
though there are arguments, the prince has not lied: their case is not a game."

91.
"Scarcely shall the dark lord lead me out — bowing to show me —
and bribe you both: yet it is your mud-mingled faith."

92.
Silence fell on the earl and the assembly flat — then it would yield —
scarcely could they guard against a blot — the lord spoke: "Let us do right!"

93.
"However much more spins out here — let us have more pleasure from it —
it is good to hear what those two can win, and whether there is any pus among them."

94.
"Fine, but double-edged we find it — fiercely though it lies there —
Marcilius, my friend! From you a full new measure is required of us."

95.
"Yet it was much to my mind" — the lord said, and smiled —
"that I have never judged what was untried, nor laid that upon anyone."

96.
"One thing alone props my courage here — where I mind it least —
to give way, for the fault falls upon you rather than on me."

97.
Barred within the wall — as the prince declared —
Blanzeflúr was brought before them. Little did she flinch when she came, though she was not freed from chains.

98.
The people stared, dull, at the maiden — the lord spoke gravely:
"Come now, lady! May you win praise: show your good heart in the light."

99.
"You seemed to us the choicest of maidens — I honored you with love:
What good did you see in this? For what did you break faith with us?"

100.
The heaven-curtained goddess answered, endowed with power:
"I never went freely to your lord's meeting — until this cold hour."

101.
"It is right to remember — consider the matter — my king, if you walk in —
I strove to win fortune's grace: my life, if it might be won that day."

102.
"But low in the shadow, my mind faded — then one comfort was given —
until fearlessly fortune was lost: to hurl myself from the tower's window."

103.
"Such things the dauntless spirit would have planned — the prince's son, bold, from Spain —
had he not held me here from the fall: the damage would have been readied."

104.
"Nothing has damaged the lord's estate — neither man nor thing —
save what has happened now: it was he who gave me my life today."

105.
The tale of their youth was then — the sorrow-moon's linden —
she managed to tell it likewise: one may read it in the bonds of grief.

106.
"Victory is my counsel: let goodness make peace" — so the maiden closed her speech —
"death, seen before us, equally little frightens us both, if it should come to that."

107.
Falsehood buckled for most — some turned pale before it —
the warrior's fury sharpened — it was plain that many wavered.

108.
"The gold of the shield" — the lord spoke — "exchange no more words —
the dark-lord's offspring, now discovered: the sword-keepers — go, bring him."

109.
"No longer may they dwell alone — ill confined in their cell —
let them be brought together in this matter: we may fish in cold water together."

110.
He who feared not the underworld's pair — before him the crowd cut a path —
the lion-feeder was led forward; in linen rags he bore his chains.

111.
His face showed no fright or fear: "Speak freely" — the warrior said —
"why did you seduce Blanzeflúr? Will you escape this guilt?"

112.
The other did not soften — he sends an unswerving answer: "If you would remember —
this demands no attention: I have told you before."

113.
"Then the question" — said the lord — "is this, and the answer need not be delayed:
How have you here come into the tower?"

114.
"Above is the sky — whether we told the truth or lied about this" —
the sword-striker bound his speech — Marcilius responded swiftly:

115.
"A courageous heart befits you — speak out, good youth!
Royal blood runs first in you." The fire-god of the gold answered:

116.
"Payment caught the watchman — he swore an oath in the dark —
with a sword's magic to hold him: I frightened that quivering coward."

117.
"That man is a petty slave" — Marcilius answered —
"therefore I can see nothing here that strikes against the truth."

118.
"Here your beloved has — the drive of the ant rushed forth —
the woman's warm and keen desire: our ears have heard the fine answers."

119.
"Your story from you, therefore — we must hear the full account —
when it is all set straight, we shall alter your fortunes."

120.
The helmsman of the spear does not halt — at once to take the clean path —
his tale in all things turns the same: precious stone and rose alike were revealed.

121.
The assembly was much moved by this — yet the warrior no less.
"Listen — trim my speech" — the prince's son spoke further still:

122.
"Now more is forbidden me — to set that speech-road right —
this cannot be heard here: what is said is wholly untrue."

123.
"They need to bear proof — yet as one judges here —
where making is more fitting: there are two roads for the helmeted ones."

124.
"One is this: I send to Spain — true and powerful men there —
let them undertake the voyage without ill will: I do not crave strength or fortune from them."

125.
"Let the lord of the land summon men, send escorts with them —
who may see there what damage is true — while I meanwhile hold him captive."

126.
"The other is to test shield and sword — whichever of the prince's men will —
choose a single one: cold with choice, to direct such a journey."

127.
They ask the warrior what course he would choose —
if he can declare the options, he might choose. The champion swiftly found his answer:

128.
"Sold to danger, the blue weapons — I would rather have everything —
to try it myself, rather than submit: the power over them is my own."

129.
"Let the other have the same: we span our swords against each other —
since the case is now proven — we forbid all treachery with our vows."

130.
"But let no one shield us from the test — unless the combat wins it rightly —
freedom, life, and the stage of fame: for the woman and for myself."

131.
"Likewise I hold it my diminishment — the great one, sold by the warrior —
the eunuch's beast's treasure: let it be kept unfallen while I stand."

132.
"The coward's lack of courage is the weakling's capital punishment to impose —
his hand or blow was never seen against me: he is no man's match in valor."

133.
Marcilius spoke aloud: "My lord, this new thing is granted —
that in combat with a hero's measure, so noble a youth is engaged."

134.
"Now surely the prince would have judged — I would have given the maiden to the youth —
but that it was found ill-spoken: consistent with your mind and will."

135.
"The people believed, my lord — that the maiden's honor was robbed —
that hatred alone had planned it — but I myself never understood that."

136.
"Strong are the arts of selling a woman — as those who matter say —
living love kindles courage so that neither life nor blood hesitates."

137.
The lord conceded: "I have cause — retribution I would further —
that might have been our death — the trial had courage enough."

138.
"The case is proved by the guilt-floor — according to fitness —
so bare we demand it: the judgment is given by you, taken into your hands."

139.
"This nowhere fit you — your station so satisfied —
let the court's verdicts prosper in trust: you die clean and without followers."

140.
"This shall hold for now — yet you shall never again —
be guilty of such a thing. My friend! Let your judgment be the decree now."

141.
The one overcome blossomed again — he was not grieved, so it was done —
the world at once reached that verdict: varied, unevenly devout.

142.
All found the love-tormented — the wisest thing of riches' bounty —
passion-swollen in constancy's madness: ten times worse than ruined.

143.
But while they stirred and pressed at this — those two did not come together —
whether it might be earliest love, free: and fate near to their souls.

144.
The more or less the meeting — the meaning proclaims this —
yet the lords honor her: two should bring the charge and judge.

145.
Marcilius, sharp in mind, heads the judgment thus:
"Let the prince's son go free from chains — let him have the combat he chose."

146.
"Let him so await the death of the unyielding — the prince may agree —
and honor found on the combat-field: he conquers and wins his life."

147.
"But under the court's law it falls — which the warrior would not violate —
alive and bound, plainly found: burn the maiden and the eunuch."

148.
"If the vine-bender of the brand should win — seen in the dance of spears —
he may take the garlands' mark, and that man is his servant."

149.
"The prince of the leaf may command — likewise, without doubt, demand —
the share of wealth that was given to him: that the journey cost him."

150.
"For his honor was not spared here — they were going to imprison them in chains —
before the filth was noticed: whether he took possession there."

151.
"I let it rest, peace wrapped in power — I sit at the debts of a few —
I meet the cold scorn steadily, and bend the dues a little."

152.
"The judgment" — the mighty prince spoke — "is fairer than any flowing stream —
it suits, it moves nowhere from its place: but how does Flóres like it?"

153.
"Whether I await old age or bear it — death's ice lies beneath —
wherever the sword may ring" — the youth says — "the judgment fell to my wish."

154.
The warrior as swiftly cut his speech — let the fleet command run:
"Release the maiden and the bold man — let the youth enjoy courage."

155.
He refreshes the maiden and the man in haste — the lord lets them rest —
but he thought the deed would fail: that would be their death-sentence.

156.
The bride of trolls — Flóres here — the first blow would not stand —
the fallen one of the leaf-grove wished: to have it taken and brought before him.

157.
The helmet-noble lord was well acquainted with the host —
every valor listened there: the shield-worms slipped through the gaps.

158.
Flóres has brought to him — for four nights afterward —
fine war-gear, and the retinue that bore it: the spear-field's lord stands guard.

159.
The hardened arm buckled on at dawn — then he swung the spear —
the mill-biter's grip seized hold: he came into the presence of the king.

160.
The warrior gleamed in the way of honor — he showed and told the lord:
"It is time to see that sword-battle — the one who must fight against me."

161.
The prince says: "That game would scarcely be long delayed" —
the sword-bender looks on — unshaken, yet he grew a little pale.

162.
Flóres walked, and the lord called that man before him —
one he meant to be little or not at all maimed — he intended to put in chains.

163.
He steeled the hard man and bade him — not to spare his courage —
the decision was sharp and swift: the sound of it carried through the whole place.

164.
The war-god's gleaming armor — the warriors' costly shells —
the sword-gods sharpened their fierce mood, honing their thunder-embers with whetstones.

165.
The other, and the prince's son — swiftly they attack on the road —
as if the wife of the faithless one feared: Babylon played upon its thread.

166.
While the crowd roars upward — listening to the mass of battle —
the company was eager to see their time: they streamed to the combat-field.

167.
Then across the field came together — as if the sky were ablaze —
the fire-brothers straightaway there: thunder-cracks and lightning.

168.
The sword-groves hardened at their strength — neither would bow —
the staves burst asunder into splinters: the blind fire snatched at them swiftly.

169.
Another charge came then — not as shields were spared —
the swords drove keen and blue: from hardened mail, sparks flew.

170.
To the eyes of men it seemed plain — each one found his match —
at every blow, seemingly death-struck: yet neither could touch the other.

171.
Therefore no one sees warriors' blood — though swords smite upon shields —
it amazes the prince, the people tremble: how long Flóres stood.

172.
Unwearied Flóres then — from the fury the spear was swung —
the hero, slicing, was seen — he found a blow's landing upon himself.

173.
The fire-scorcher rode in hard — the spear would harden the white —
peace was lost upon the field of battle: the shield was cut to its edge.

174.
The warrior hardened the arm-bone — the left side likewise he cut —
the steel bare on the other flank: it had to touch the gilded offspring.

175.
The edge, shearing, shifted its measure — the shield's skin of the hand —
little may the harm be feared: scarcely does the youth bleed from the row.

176.
The bright skin of the ring-bearer — the blue sword did not touch —
Flóres, bold, at the shield's root: he struck a blow against the warrior.

177.
Half of the left forearm — the blow cunningly carved —
and the stiffest steed in the saddle-bows: the thinnest blade in the field.

178.
The other, trusting in the brand's blade — bloody, lacking a hand —
he came standing, dripping cold, the mill-biter grinding at Flóres.

179.
Like jousting apprentices — the seizure shook them both —
in the thunder's jacket the wound was carved: and the shield, half remaining.

180.
On the combat-field the champion struck — against the other prince's champion —
the stunned one sprang from the saddle then: the blind one's reel flew into the air.

181.
The one who dreaded danger flinched back bravely — the warrior swiftly did not stop —
and Flóres hard, in a rushing cut, carved the quarter of the helmet away.

182.
He caught a wound upon the head — the keeper of tears, whose honor praised —
the bold prince's son does not waver: though his hair was stained with blood.

183.
The furious one raised him up in fury — the other arm and side —
the ski-wood's destroyer loosed from there: the storm of the leaf was ended then.

184.
Blanzeflúr stood death-pale then — while the brand's shower thundered —
then joy flows out from it — the brightness of blood gleams in her cheeks.

185.
The prince's son breaks the champion then — he walked to the warrior and spoke:
"May the full oath be called sworn? — Lord, it was now granted to see."

186.
The host listens — the prince says: "Most pitiable of women —
take your beloved to you: you have pulled her out from under my nose."

187.
"Fortune and courage are given to you — longest have we tested each —
the brave one's sparks, bold husband! — to try to weaken them, none should dare."

188.
A fine upper chamber the prince then let him be shown —
with gold beside, and nothing there lacked of kingly splendor.

189.
The spear-threaded maiden, as she could, healed Flóres of his wound —
often lord and he conversed: trust grew between them by degrees.

190.
The fearless thane was there — the unwearied warrior —
the spear-freed fame that bore the day: he offered the wealth, as judged.

191.
The prince lets the reply be given — in return he guards the deeds:
"The champion who is met here with me — it would be fitting to amend further."

192.
"I pushed him beyond all rain of war — it did no good —
so far beyond my strength it went: to spare a worthy man's life."

193.
The lord then gave his grave answer: "Let us not sell his blood —
better praise awaits us than bearing men in the purse for their weight."

194.
"Fire-sinking man, know this — will you repay such a one? —
you may likewise hold here the lord's kingdom, and serve me."

195.
"In no way do I find that far-fetched" — Flóres tells the warrior —
"but to bow my mind to this, I would not: I was not born to a throne."

196.
"Whatever the lord regrets freely — we wish to repay in full —
with honor trained in constancy, yet guarding our own rank as well."

197.
The warrior declares: "Nothing was done — nothing may be called the noble one's —
then you are truly our friend: I wish you to see a path forward here."

198.
"A gift shall therefore be prepared for you — the strong tree of steel —
what is most valued here in honor: the least cut from our sheaf."

199.
"I do not wish that fault of mine" — against that, to say no —
"the champion says to the other here: she is still hard to choose."

200.
"Raise my friends here — honor them in the shining company —
let honor shine from each of them, and the goodwill you would show to me."

201.
This was done exactly as he asked — the prince, goddess of spears —
made one an earl straightaway, and the maidens' keeper afterward.

202.
The prince's son's deeds found Darius scarcely less:
once again he freely won his post at the castle.

203.
The faithful keeper, whom the prince's son trusted — his constancy found its place —
here with that he was restored: he received the bridge-keepership.

204.
The wave-fire's fortune blazed about them both — to both was given
a sword-cut and high honor: the warrior had not known of them before.

205.
The prince, great, grew faithful to the poet — both fared alike —
after the fiery gleam came a shower: Elóris was given Blanzeflúr's thanks.

206.
The strongest-hearted man was he, and dearest his maiden —
they sat, magnificently arrayed beside the prince, for two months more.

207.
A splendid ship upon the bright sea the lord richly let be fitted —
and from the bold reply's swift answer, Flóres gave to his host with his own warriors.

208.
This generous company seemed — these, his friends —
to let the golden cargo ride wherever they glowed upon the linden's pillow.

209.
The maiden and Flóres go forward with grace — the palace begins to give them space —
upon a blue-tossed and burdened wave, they bore the lion's cargo across the strait.

210.
The warriors' finest wrote themselves then — most boldly they followed —
the chosen counsel gave its words, small — the ship of sighs pressed on, storm-battered.

Ríma IX — Slöttubönd en meiri

One hundred and fifty-seven stanzas. The poet reflects at length on the state of Icelandic poetry and the decline of Nordic heritage, then tells the final chapter: the homeward voyage, the old king's death, Flóres's coronation, the royal wedding, three sons born, Blanzeflúr's secret Christian vow, the journey to Paris, baptism, the Christianization of Spain, their daughter Cedenzíana, and at last the couple's entry into the cloister at eighty and their death together at ninety — buried on the same day.

Mansöngur

1.
From the speech-fields I clear the fog of custom —
the mead's echo runs perilous at sea;
I drive another's spray.

2.
Tangled and bound the tale-hoards stand — let the man be cheerfully still —
trumpets sound beneath thick darkness;
the gods' boat drifts without power.

3.
Where the fool's flesh wanders, bold as a wonder's lament,
there he falls silent — the fighting crowd
is best torn apart.

4.
The useful man calls the tidings plain — the beast of storms to rend —
the fool's faults harden with haste;
leave off shaping costly things.

5.
Let the song-tinkling bear no stain — let the trick grow gentler —
the people's master-poets sing light,
making speech more smooth.

6.
Those same masks stand foremost — though speech-deeds are squandered —
the whetstone of anguish sharpens;
most things are grasped by learning's afflicted wanderers.

7.
The shield-prop supports the refrain's work — the leaping maple endures —
the choice of words must be tested;
the reciter resists the less.

8.
Leave off from this, one who owns a verse-smith's stirring —
one ought, as much as one can,
to trouble oneself to learn the art.

9.
May the heart's full desire find its mark — may poetry soften the keen —
then the art of glory shall serve,
and speech's richness.

10.
The greatest ship may run a short course — let lack cease to counsel —
the brightest may compose together,
and enjoy the soul's deeds.

11.
In old times men composed nobly — let the people not deny it —
in words adorned and clear,
their destinies no less.

12.
Here the gift runs unquenched and keen — caution might steer it —
though my tongue tangles on the teeth,
often in the costly manner.

13.
I would gladly slacken much more, if the steel of glory would yield —
I should compose then as they did,
once I mastered the art.

14.
Egill's art-soul amid the host — slow to be rekindled —
the rope's loss, I know,
withers even Virgil.

15.
Would those words linger with me — memory and judgment grow numb —
all should be numbered
who caused our blushes.

16.
All the making of verse, then, has become folly —
the speech's ornament suits whomever;
it was called a bright babble.

17.
Long endures what was tested — even a wise man may be frightened —
none should regret the ornament,
though shamed within his clothing.

18.
The glory of the Northmen longs for itself — it leaves us with even more —
my true words many declare;
they cannot bear disputes.

19.
The mind adorns antiquity well — news is gathered in pages —
the path of weariness is healed and keen,
from old name-roots.

20.
Lament then: the father's heritage never is equal —
that bitter burden does not abate;
the nation founders steadily.

21.
These thoughts I draw homeward — here is most recited —
right to direct those thoughts,
though most will deny it.

22.
The land's neighbors' terms must be known — the goods of waves must be steered —
the Northmen's heritage we could preserve,
if we wished to tend it.

23.
We should use our life and fortune — enrich our arts and counsel —
we should see exhaustion's torment
before cutting those things short.

24.
Let us rouse the deadened spirit of nature — to know the journey back —
we guarded the people's remaining thought,
the one for which we spare the pen.

25.
Most men get their rudder's tilt by force — most build on rumor —
we can scarcely doubt less;
some still think and remember.

26.
The national spirit was found wanting — at that it also stands —
from beyond the path our garden was dug;
with spears patched again.

27.
Often useful works are thought therefore stretched by other powers —
air is transformed by the active ones,
like shafts into feathers.

28.
Though we were still Northmen now, nothing of firm years we keep —
that happiness is unattainable for us;
slowly our labors exhaust.

29.
See — we trust in shaken courtesy, the champion's deeds are within —
the snowfield yields a poison-herb;
the vulture, friend to both.

30.
With linen against views we still see ourselves — no cloud can hide it —
we rather trample our treasure underfoot;
to others it is therefore nearly hidden.

31.
The people's deed and virtue are cut — numb faithlessness —
honor flees, falsehood lives;
the shower of vice brings shame.

32.
The weaker endurance supports the worst — the ruins crumble —
the limb staggers — pride fails;
both deed and lack of grounding.

33.
The age has the finest kernel of linen from a flawed race —
the multitude gladly wounds itself,
all friends of truth.

34.
While they live among the people, then shall the noble be wounded —
or their writing-skill, though good,
yearns to nourish honor.

35.
The poor man most often bowed low — the mare gets such release —
the dead man finally received the praise;
he and the fool alike.

36.
See that the heavy trial is finished — national piety learns its riddles —
note that faith, unknown and young,
worked everything better.

37.
The rhyme of the bow chatters most — carries an odd fame —
the ending of a tale is aimed best;
it reveals a small lesson.

Narrative

38.
The wind's fury gave no gifts — the gale struck the eastern prow —
the land-struggle's burden then fell
to Flóres, the valiant equal.

39.
The grateful prince of the sea, made glad — the gifts of peace abound —
the ship-prince, high-born,
bade them enjoy their fame.

40.
Then under the finest guard, the king's praise they took —
warm and gentle at will,
they drove the carriage from the land.

41.
The driven one they found delivered from the wedge that earlier pierced the heart —
the gentle breath blows upon all,
stirring every part.

42.
The journey reached the waves — the hero's voyage did not linger —
the passage went straight to its place;
they stepped upon the ship of fortune.

43.
The bellows-skin spread a mighty cloth — the proud shining adornment —
the corpse-swallower's breath surges wild,
masking from the bride's veil.

44.
The rich earth fed the grey — with sea-maddened hands —
the high wave strokes the planks,
shrieking in gilded bonds.

45.
The ship's weeping clipped no ornament — the vessel thrives in the fleet —
the sea's fury barely bent;
it sought no harbor.

46.
The free escort smoothed the course — the journeys of men are straightened —
the wave frothed around the eel's forge,
until at last men spy land.

47.
The foam's feather of the cold wave's throat — cold in Rán's suction —
the wide feather of strong steering —
the prow rests in the Bay of Spain.

48.
The strength of the gale's floor burdened them — yet the ship was spared —
scarce twelve days
the noble journey had lasted.

49.
The king of the hall had newly died — the land at mighty unrest —
the earth bore shape toward a fall;
it was clear to most of the thanes.

50.
The champion heard the news from there, before he was recognized —
fortune paused; he looked about,
so that he might learn more.

51.
He made the journeys known — counsel and proof — the gold-fire's commander —
he ordered twins sent in secret,
to his brother's landed realm.

52.
The noble thane to visit — through the prow's thorn — valiant men he sent —
then brought home to the hall,
him and his throng of champions.

53.
Anguish ceases — fame lies hidden — both mothers rejoice —
splendor gleams, sorrow yields;
the bright deeds blaze.

54.
None calls it strife or sorrow — great or the spears' game —
scarce could sun and shower
have traded places with greater force.

55.
He has himself crowned on the coronation day, the gold's sender —
quarrels wane, the world's cares;
the heart does not sicken.

56.
The throne shelters the age upon it — so that deeds may profit from strength —
the crown gilds the gentle brow;
the lands smile in welcome.

57.
Shown, noble, to the assembly there — they recite the journey's tale —
crowned, the king declares:
here I begin with the tale that bends.

58.
Heavy was the school of danger — the foremost they seemed to hold —
young the prince, and having won his worth;
the goods quietly settled.

59.
The deed was brought to light by strength — reverence followed from it —
the prince's lady was decreed:
she should be queen.

60.
No one dared speak against it — judgments were wary —
the multitude honored the noble lady,
wisely gracing the prince.

61.
The assembly swiftly changed to celebrate — the precious wedding's joy —
the heather of the worthy was well arranged;
he lent his grip to the feast.

62.
Blanzeflúr — the court may well marvel — a wondrous covered creation —
no lack of the lady's beauty was seen,
even in nakedness a splendor.

63.
The lights shine beside the wave — the noble king sits adorned —
fair praise for the exalted lady,
wise in golden raiment.

64.
Every sharpening benefits the grove — the feast lasted a month —
the men found honor when the prince
was blessed with bloodline.

65.
Custom governed the laws of the land — the king's splendor supports —
the peace held fast, struck root;
war against Christians ceased.

66.
The slow were fully sated — the king's fleet of custom —
this choice was quickly found
by the king of the eastern lands.

67.
The deeds of favor's lord prevailed — those who journeyed between —
both pitched the eel's forge,
the wealth of great abundance.

68.
Friends yield, thoughts grow blunt — so the couple reigned —
the others who once coveted the throne
grew calm.

69.
Neither's spirit sickened in the hall — no blemish grew —
their joy resembled a pine
that matures but grows no taller.

70.
In four years they received three fair sons —
the prince's seats were adorned;
they dared to trust their hopes.

71.
The bright couple's splendor flourishes — their worth lives nested —
the noble king's power gleams;
confidence thrives.

72.
But where souls see joy — and least fear harm —
soon there a trial crept in;
light was mixed with shadow.

73.
Their glory's game — the peril endured not the slightest —
to the bed of sorrow turned,
the king's final year.

74.
The harm embitters — she wept often, tears bright on her lashes —
the woman breathes, pressed gently,
locked in the king's arms.

75.
The lady weeps — in love — fires burned on her lashes —
the cloud-veil lets the shriveled sky
darken the sun's warmth.

76.
This the king could no longer watch — it would be his own destruction —
the gold-braided lady he questioned:
what was it that had seized her?

77.
The lady drew the prince to her — she would not spare her desire —
she had found a sorrow she bore;
the ring-pine kissed the prince.

78.
The precious joy bore failure — it seemed to break from life —
the brighter spirit was pressed there;
narrow fear gripped the wife.

79.
The prince begins a private talk — and with sorrow's art —
she answers readily then,
pressing close into his arms.

80.
"The carving anguish pains me so — my strength to hide it fails —
the hour of sorrow draws near;
it must part us."

81.
"Hear now what I cannot hide — our fates' blessings —
though it pressed upon us both,
we strengthened our power."

82.
"When, upon the prince's wings, in Asia's harsh dominion —
no road was seen,
no vision from the narrow hold."

83.
"I made a holy vow in counsel — for the Christian host —
thus the deeds won know the way;
the prince's path and splendor."

84.
"The ring's sorrow may find space — gently torn to confess —
this year I undertook it:
to have the faithful baptized."

85.
"I thought that life's path would be laid fairer —
I confess plainly that distress draws near,
now more unbearable."

86.
"The change conceals it not — you and I flourish in sorrow —
the vow parts us,
unless you choose the same."

87.
"Therefore no mockery answers — the wife's wisdom proves true —
here a great trial blocks the way;
life's condition forbids it."

88.
The gentle prince declared: "Faith, honor, or any will —
no answer would I give
that you think should part us."

89.
"On your sorrow — set it to rest — longest what you have tested —
beside you it cannot gain hold,
and now purely sleeps."

90.
"Did you find it answered that high thought? — bound in bitter strife —
do you remember that for your sake
I always spared my life?"

91.
"Should we not dare then to enjoy your counsel?
We would silently attend
to the root of good deeds."

92.
"The hours are long until it is done — though it be unwilling for me —
I must yield to it cleanly;
richly blessed it would wound."

93.
"I know the truth of words so meant — by wounded weapons' need —
nothing else prepared us straight,
a path from open death."

94.
"That into goodness, life, and joy, the game may land at last —
whatever decides it, I shall first
have news and understanding now."

95.
"Anyone daring truth might say — who wished to consider it —
human power seemed to us
least likely to avail."

96.
"We should most wisely raise our vow — to Christianize the whole land —
we could hardly become a coward;
the brave stand in splendor."

97.
With tears of joy the noble queen startled the king's breast —
clear goodness — fright fled;
happiness quenched the sorrow.

98.
Wonder blends the grove boldly — life's familiar tracks —
they found a thriving strength of breath,
as if reborn.

99.
Long enough they looked about — deeds laid together —
both went to full success,
as from the counsels told before.

100.
The lady wished the faithful king to hasten to Paris —
there the sorrow should be stilled;
strength would surely be found there.

101.
The queen intended to go — she spoke of fine expectations —
there she hoped to honor her hope,
surely with her kinsmen.

102.
Skill availed, though the kings' tent — the double-edged voyage concerned them —
they thought the unknown age should endure,
even though the bear attacked.

103.
He prepared from the land a strong host — the prince on ten ships —
an ungovernable force he claimed,
a band on the bright heaths.

104.
When they had arranged their plans — obeyed the wisdom of hope —
on the greedy rope-stag they stepped,
boarding the crane's vessel.

105.
Pure, the ring-pine steeled the row of masts — the wise ruler strengthens —
they alone knew, could scarcely speak,
the purpose of their journey.

106.
The young ones cut through the sea's fields — swiftly around the shore —
the horses of the ocean circled
the great headland of Spain.

107.
Bold, the cold-wagons' storm-hawk flew — the hardened riders strained —
until the warriors spied Fetla-fjord,
broad for sailing.

108.
The claws of the spray beat the planks — the breeze howled in the rigging —
the old current's south roared over the land;
the steed had to race.

109.
Tumbling wave-tops of the pool's lyre — the lions sported a while —
driven to France's harbors;
they would braid their garments.

110.
The ship was guarded — the gale's greed did not gnaw — the sea-waves laughed at ages —
the main host laid on the land;
the lords struck their tents.

111.
They pushed from shore with their king — the glad warriors followed —
the fleet-bands waited behind
on the ships alone.

112.
He lets the land know of peace — news from the host was brought —
the precious gold-link;
barely had it long delayed.

113.
The ruler of France's land was the wife's uncle —
the short thunder's gleam cut;
he poured the land's embers.

114.
That lady's knowledge availed — she least wished to deceive —
she thought she would miss nothing now;
the kinsman's bonds should hold.

115.
With proofs of the spear's harsh play — the king received all these written things —
with tokens the shield-king was enrolled;
quickly he knew the truth.

116.
The guardian of peoples, wrapped in gold, gladdens the bold prince —
he bids him home;
the whole army follows.

117.
Thriving in deeds — they offered remedy — both companies grew joyful —
for both the root of devotion quickened;
the bold princes met.

118.
The French king wishes that the prince would be Christian —
the Spanish king honors it,
until desire should bring it.

119.
All things they tried — how each one's grief dissolved in the clamor —
they spoke boldly — let it cease;
the people marveled.

120.
The king enjoyed life there — three times eight weeks —
the wife arranged as was proper;
the king of power, alive.

121.
Both received the ornament of baptism — the shield-king was pleased —
they gained the teaching; the whole host bowed,
under such law's blessing.

122.
New joy then! For a time it swam — souls were sated to the feet —
in the high seat, radiant with the king,
both sat exalted.

123.
Long the able champion knew his use — the people called him prince —
he had not gained an heir;
he did not care to spare the purse.

124.
He amended counsel without delay — the bold prince in mind —
he summoned the people's assembly;
the reciter's tool availed.

125.
The foremost counsel was the matter most prized — the multitude held the peace —
when Flóres was there established,
the king's host followed after.

126.
The prince finds in each thing how he married the wife —
a doubled host was made for honor;
at last he was freed from strife.

127.
The glory's horn of war-blaze recalled — to hold the kingdom of Spain —
ancient gain's shadow sheltered there;
the enemy's servants sickened.

128.
The proud champion saw it well and plain — it grew dearer to him there —
fortune trusted such a thing slowly;
the vision was larger than hope.

129.
The high prince's counsel settled it — he had the wound closed —
the brave one lay at home to Christianize;
the royal power was well used.

130.
Nowhere did he wish to have departed from there —
the battle's well least thrust him out;
it seemed hedged against harm.

131.
Richly against France's land — both their hearts were fixed —
reluctantly the couple yet supports homeward;
the heart's courage applies.

132.
A host of Flóres' holy servants — a crew from the lands to tend —
the army's elk of the calm —
the sword-court girt with blades.

133.
The wet gust shook the gate — the thief's fire stirred —
the breeze bore the whole fleet
straight to the realm of Spain.

134.
The multitude — brow to lash — all that owned a carriage —
the greatest throng the host saw;
the prince could rejoice.

135.
The Christian command pressed firmly forward — the swift king dared —
the clearing never burst the breast;
the sharp blade fought.

136.
Long the storm raged in the fray — the heathen thrived less —
none of the people could be lent;
the king rose against them.

137.
Mostly their strength was shaken from them — the red fire of the war-god shook —
at last the conquered land
had to accept the Christian scent.

138.
The heathens' heavy yearning spread — tasting the king's fury —
twelve years later, to tell it,
the king of France died.

139.
Both the prince and his lady received joy mixed with sorrow —
the flood-steeds let up their course;
the strict trouble abated.

140.
The Spanish land the king then lent to a strong heir —
the French throne was strengthened;
it served the prince's works.

141.
The brave ones found it hard for a while — to find the storms of war —
all came in time
to the faith of their fathers.

142.
One daughter the couple had here, from the Spanish land —
the last of their strength's host,
living on the French throne.

143.
She received glory, won the praise of the finest neighbors —
the proud lady gained honor;
she surpassed most men.

144.
She lit the halls bright as a brow — the bed's joy in the moon —
she drove heroes to torment;
her name was Cedenzíana.

145.
She could grow most known in victories — the silent Sigurd faced —
at last she held the ring-bridge;
the tricks and storms were hers.

146.
Flóres long on the king's bench, with wondrous fortune steered —
the wind's great shelter received command;
he outshone most champions.

147.
Life prizes the king dearly — the people understood it well —
his rule showed a hero's height,
never less than gentle.

148.
Bright, the high virtue of France's land — the bold one grew vigorously —
near eighty the honored couple
took up the cloister life.

149.
They both died near ninety — well defended against harm —
joy in goodness, hidden far,
smiled upon their pious souls.

150.
Gladdened by fate — life's path — they closed with ample glory —
sated with days, their burial prepared,
given on the same day.

Eptirmáli

151.
The choice is told fully at last — the tale is spent, brothers!
The dead man's ship drifts a while;
the broken harbor speaks.

152.
The bloom-rune thus I lay my verse — little the bold one knows.
I trust I drink the echo numb;
I scarcely care to date it.

153.
Cheer up, brothers, at all of fate's wheel in dance!
Away with sorrow and affliction!
Let the gentle sun shine!

154.
The name of him who gave the feast — the gale from the warriors' cups —
let him refresh the ill will,
when Ymir waters the mice.

155.
Jölnir's goods I send to the sea — stripped of the craft of eloquence —
Mjölnir's prince must then wash
the stubborn heir.

156.
To him I offer, without doubt, uncertain findings arranged —
the accustomed craft-pillar's stanza:
rigid, bent, and wound.

157.
Beware the flaws — tend to each — let the verse-maidens not rebuke —
spare the brain — heed it well;
make corrections to the work.

Colophon

Source: Rímur af Flóres og Blanzeflúr. By Níels Jónsson skáld. Published Akureyri, 1858. Nine rímur retelling the medieval romance of Floire and Blanchefleur — the pagan prince and the captive's daughter. Source text from the 1858 Akureyri print edition via Internet Archive.

Translation: Good Works Translation by the New Tianmu Anglican Church and Claude, 2026. Translated directly from nineteenth-century Icelandic. No prior English translation is known to exist. This is the first known English translation. Gospel register.

Translation note: The underlying story is one of the most widely disseminated romances of medieval Europe, known in French, German, Norse, Italian, Spanish, and English versions from the twelfth century onward. The Icelandic poet drew on the Old Norse Flóres saga ok Blanzeflúr, itself translated from the French. The nine rímur display the full range of the tradition's craft — nine distinct meters, elaborate mansöngvar rich with cultural commentary, dense kennings — applied to a tale of young love triumphing over tyranny. Ríma IX's mansöngur is a sustained reflection on the decline of Icelandic poetry and the Nordic heritage in the age of Enlightenment, forming one of the longest cultural prologues in the rímur tradition.

Blood Rule attestation: This translation was produced directly from the Icelandic source text. No existing English translation was consulted as reference (none is known to exist). The English is independently derived from reading the Icelandic.

Stanza count: Rímur I–IX: approximately 1,347 stanzas across nine rímur in nine distinct meters. Complete cycle.

Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.

🌲

Source Text: Rímur af Flóres og Blanzeflúr

Icelandic source text from the 1858 Akureyri print edition by Níels Jónsson skáld. OCR from Internet Archive. Note: OCR corruption is present throughout — line breaks, page numbers, and garbled characters reflect the quality of the digital scan, not the original print.

RÍMUR

af

sa Borekaðinaun.

Flóres og Blanzeflúr.

Orðtar af

Níels Jónssyni
skálda.

Kostnaðarmenn:

Grímur Laxdal Jón Jó

bókhindari. járnsmi

Akureyri 1858.

í Þrentsmiðju Norður - og Austur - umdæmisins,
hjá H, Helgasyni.

þr
ha

1. Ríma.
   Tvískothend eður frumhend, ferskeytt.

Frá háttum og hernaði Felix konungs. Hann
færir drottningu sinni eina franska aðals frú.
Nokkuð um vinskap þeirra drottningar; síðan frá
fæðingu Flóresar og Blanzeflúr.

1. Öll fær valið öldin greið, eðli bundin spöku,
   þögn og talið lífs á leið, líka blund og vöku.

2. Hófs í skímu sveitin sið, svo fram lokkuð
   skyldi, hér af tímans hvert eitt mið, hafa nokk-
   uð vildi.

3. Seldur draumum sorga= frí, sætt eg blund-
   að hefi; horni naumu höldar í, hljóð um stund
   tér gefi.

4. Haukur þundar hægt af stað, hjals um reita
   þræði, skemtun stundar einnar að, ef hann leitanæði.

5. Hefur lengi hálfsofið, hendt í rírar bögur, Ís-
   lands mengið unað við, æfintýr og sögur.

6. Fyrndar gælur frðttnæmar, frama þó mannvit
   eigi, er fjarmælum ataðar, ei ná sannleiks vegi.

7. Fyrnast rúna falskra spjöld, fremd útvítk-
   ast letra, komin núna' er upplýst öld, annað tíðk-
   ast betra.

8. Sigtýs gríma sómir flóð, samt ei þorna láta,
   enn má rímur yrkja þjóð, upp á fornan máta.

9. Ei síst þá eg eitt þær finn, óðs af fjórgu
   kynum; féll og dável fjölbreytnin, fræða mörgum
   vinum.

10. það ei ríngar þystla beð, þótt við melinn

standi, upplýsingar íllgreseð, öllum vel smakkandi.

þannig hagar óðar önn, einhver skáldfíll-

anna; manninnn bagar mælskan grönn, mærðar
sáldum anna.

12. Margt fær búið mentar tjón, maurnar brýn-
    um gjósti, enginn trúi' eg sopi' úr són, svali
    mínu brjósti.

13. Vinur! þú, sem valdir mig, versa stríð að
    heija, þula sú er þénanlig, bör mun eg. víðar
    segja.

14. Hafnað mörgum hefur þú, hagari kvæða
    smiðum, áns er björgun nýtri nú, ná á ræðu
    miðUM

15. Nær flest allra miðlar ment, mörgu fegra
    versi, og gat þig varla heimska hendt, hrapar-
    legri' enn þeesi.

16. Æfintýr af öllu snauðt, á sem mengi lítur,
    vil eg útskýri verkið dauðt, verð því engu nýtur.

17. Lítt það málar mækja glamm, margra slisa
    hretldra, languð stálin dreyra damm, drauga' og
    risa felldra.

18. Fremur hug á hef eg lagt, hölda* að þýða
    slekti, andar dug og ásta- makt. elldri tíð sem
    Þekkti.

19. Miklu veit og miður hvað, nregna sálir hinna,
    sem í heitum hjarta-stað, hvössn stáli brynna.

20. þar að stundum þánkinn spyr, því mér
    slapp úr minni, eðalland hvert áhángir, alltíð
    kapphreystinni.

21. Ei það sá jeg upp á víst, á æfintýri þessu,
    vg honum, er frá eg hefja býst, hróðrar ríra messu.

22. Voldug önd í veslum búk. verkaði hör og
    þégi, risti höndin darra dúk, dofnaði fjer hans
    eigi,

Es)

23. Míns eg texta lýsing lýk, líkust næfur greii,
    kortum vexti kápa slík, kýs eg hæfa megi.

24,. Minn að óður mæti rírð, mun og bezt til
hlýða, hvar sem blóðug herjans dýrð, hefir mest
að þýta.

25. Er nú mál til efnisins, óðar strengi svegja;
    fyrir skál er búið blinds, býsna lengi! að segja.

26. Klerka letur kóngi frá, kristni fjöndskum
    skýrði, er Felix hét, en fylkir sá, fróni spönsku
    stýrði.

27. Dreifða lét kann sifjar sorg, sínum, gjöf-
    lundaður, Alpes= höt eða Apells-borg, öðl-
    íngs höfuðstaður.

28. Vísir hafði víkíngs sál, vanst opt ránum
    flíka, undir krafði brand og bál, borgir Spán-
    ar víkja.

29. Heiptug stygðin var hans vit, virðing þjóð-
    um eyða, og helzta dygtin, hjörs við þyt, hvese-
    íng móðugt reiða.

30. Kannaði græðirs vík og vog, viðsjálastur
    granna, hann var bæði hraustur, og, herkænast-
    ur manna.

31. Slagaði stundum hafleið hann, að herja" á
    sjóstaðina, njósn ei undan nein syo rann. nifl-
    úng sló eins hina.

32. Upptók bann þar fólk og féð, feiknir hitti?
    af ráni, vopnum þannig víðka réð, veldi sitt á
    Spáni.

33. Og fyrir hlekkjum ánauðar, sem almenn
    þján má heita, nálega ekkert óhult var, allra
    Spánar sveita.

34. Gram það eitt í lófum lék, lán á kristn-
    um vinna; samt honum veitti" ei sigur- þrek, síð-
    ur slisni hinna.

35. Saga mín sör hliðrar hjá, hara mergð af
    slögum, nema' hann sínum eitt sinn á, ofanvorð-
    um dögum.

36. Herþjóð leiddi? á húna ljón, hárs með skari'
    og eldi, jafnframt eyddi Jakobs frón, jarldóm
    þar á veldi.

37. (Sögugrefið svo frá tér, sem af kvæði
    spretta; en lát mig segja, Lesari! þér, lítilræti'
    um þetta.

38. Eg hugleiddi', að efnið skráð, undið vera
    megi, og buðlúng eyddi brands við gráð, borg,
    en hörað eigi.

39. Er þá vel lýst engan veg, ægu torgar ráni;
    Compostellam Jakobs jeg, játa borg á
    Spáni.

40. Postula Jakobs borg sú bein, bragnar
    segja geymi, og nafn af taki', en töða grein,
    trúlegt ei þá dreymi.

41. þeirra skýlaus tíma trú, tíðt á sjó og landi,
    þángaó pílagríma grú, ginnt fékk óþrjótandi.

42. þjóð yfir höfuð þóktist viss, þánka rík af

brotum, Jabobs gröf að kanna! og Krists, kæmi?
að líkum notum.

43. Einber hending ekki var, og þáð fjörvast
    nefni, sem á stendur sögunnar. seinna gjörvalt
    efni).

44, Fleira! um sýngja fylkir skal, er fjón eitt
kunni svala, reiksaði kríngum ræntan val, og rúst-
ir brunnar sala.

45, Þrjátíu rasta stóran stað, stillir gjöreytt
hafði, út svo hastan heimbúnað, herleg förin krafti.

46. Höglar- bandi herinn á, hans fór knöru búa,
    fyrir sandi? og ferma þá, fólks- og vöru- grúa.

47. Hvíldi branda herþjóð slíng, hraust var
    drótt í önnum, nokkrir landið kanna! um kríng,
    að klekkja' á flóttamönnum.

48, Sögunni víst eg sjá af nem, svæst þó kíf-
ið væri, þengil fýsti frá sér, sem færst með líf
bæri.

49. Á þeim tíma grilltu gjör, girðtir rimmu
    plógi, pílagríma franskra för, fram úr dymmum
    skógi.

50, Eyðilagðan ætla stað, ullar kanna geira,
dróttin sagði þengli það, þyrst sem hann í dreyra.

51. Hann vill enda hvergi skjálft, hafna branda
    messu, riddara sendi hundrað hálft, hyski? að
    granda þessu.

52. Svo var háttað sagðra för, að sjúkdóm

stríban fengu, og höfðu' ci átt nein hægtar kjör,
heiman síðan gengu.

53. Áður farar-foringinn, færti? óbágur hildi,
    kappi af París kóngborinn, kvinna! ag mágur
    fylgdi.

54. Hann var dáinn, hjörðu þaug, hitt sótt-
    lera þjakað, djúpa sá ei dreyralaug, dult er sér
    gat bakað.

55. Götur ei, nein að gengi þar, gargans bóla
    skorðin, nema sú ein, er nauðir bar, nýlega ólétt
    vorðin.

56. Faðir tíginn faldsólar, felldi? ei móð með
    happi, ellihníginn orðinn var, áður góður kappi.

57. Vopnum sínum var hann í, en varla nokk-
    nr hinna, ró fór dvína, neyð kom ný, nálgaðist
    flokkur slinna.

58. Hlerað stríð ei hafði þjóð, háskann ekki
    dreymdi, þar til síðast banablóð, bráðt um rekka
    streymdi.

59. Lítt eður eigi varð af vörn, vigrar nægja
    morði, féllu vegin Frakklands börn, fljóð á
    slagið horfði.

60. Hrosshársgrana fatir fljóðs, funa bálast
    lætur, lengstum vanur bati blóðs, byrjati stála
    þrætur.

61. Seggir gánga sér á hönd, sveigir skjóma
    bjóða, vildu fánga' og ræna rönd, reinir óma
    glóða.

62. Kömpu fjör og krapta þá, kappið endur-
    hresti, búk svo hjör hans enginn á, eta hend-
    ur festi.

63. Hamaðist lengi og hrottann skók, hrönn-
    um kvistar bragna, nógar mengi mauðir jók,
    neytti mistar-gagna.

64, Vigra stríðan vakti klið, vóg á báðar hend-
ur, hærða síðast hraustmennið, hneig á láð ör-
endur.

65. Síðar greina seimþöll vann, sollin tára flæti,
    líf að seinast löti hann, lítið sár, af mæði.

66. Öllum saman um kom þar, ítum þeim er
    stóðu: að færa gram þá fölleit var, flætar eima,
    tróðu.

67, Valinn ræntu, víf svo með, vendtu skjótt
að knörum, heldur vænt um berfáng sjeð, hilm-
ir þókti snörum.

68. Hör er það af hending skée, „líelzt vér átt-
    um sinna“ — loftúng kvað, og líta réð, lilju brátt
    á tvinna. —

69. „Drottning tígin, dagsatt er, drós um kristna
    beiddi, en orði því úr minni mér, meinleg slisn-
    in eyddi“.

70. „El eg þann grun: hún aldrei fær, ambáit
    þokkalegri, hér við mun, svo happ af grær, hagur
    okkar fegri“. áð

71. „Borin nun síst í búra krám, bráins stö!ta

vörin, ætlum víst, né ættum smám, er sú rétt
tllkjörin“.

12. „Ambátt vor þá aðals víf, er frá kristnum
    löndum, sjest til spor, hvert sóktum kíf, sigur-
    visnum höndum“.

13. Hver útgrundar harma kíf, hvað! þúngt
    svanninn bæri, fyrr er mundi! að láta líf, ljúft,
    ern þannig færi. |

14. Leysa gnoðir lofðúng bað, loks er sprund-
    ið huggar, hefjast voðir húnum að, hefring und-
    ir ruggar.

15. Ólgan móðg á ýmsa hlið, ilgjum stafna
    bylti, sem alblóðgum sjóla við, systur drafnar
    hryllti.

16. Freyddi' um stafna bifið blátt, byljir voðir
    skóku, löðri drafnar hvirflar hátt, hafleið gnoð-
    ir tóku.

17. Tognutu reiðar blakka bifs, beint um salt-
    ar drafnir, ösluðu skeiðar dýngjur drifs, döglíngs
    allt á hafnir.

18. Var að spora! á vísis svip, við þær spár
    hann undi, hans ei þora' að hindra skip. hler nð
    kári mundi.

79 Ærusoltinn lofðúng lands, láns síns notum
eirði, eins og stolti hæfði hans, heim á slotið
keyrði.

80. Marar sunnu' og meiðmum af, metti þrekna

granna; drottníngunni glafur gaf, greiðt hinn
tekna svanna.

81. Vífi drottníng vann ei grönd, varma blíðu
    nærði, gökk með lotníng henni? á hönd, hin er
    kvíði særði.

82. Við svo megnar verða því, vizku svinnri
    hlíði, sást í gögnum sorga ský, svannans innri
    prýði.

83. Svo kom skjótt, að sjóla frú, — sá það

flesta mengið — hafa þóktist herfángs nú, hlut-
ann bezta fengið.
84. Hver annari móður mál — máskó fyrstar

kvenna — á láði þar með lipra sál, lauka rist-
ir kenna.

85. Bauð hvað kunni fylkirs- frú, fljóðs er
    ama hnekkti, því meir unni svanna sú, sem hana
    framar þekkti.

86.. Gökk til hjarta gðfni seims, grams hve
beðja veitti, stóran part af hamíngju heims, hana'
eg gleðja þreytti,

87. Þegar hún mæran þernu- her, þág og
    skreytt herbergi, þvílík æra sá hún sér, sannlega
    veittist hvergi.

88. Inna þengils um það sá — yfir þeim lystí
    rómi — skoraði enginn skorð gulls á, að skúfa
    kristinndómi.

89. Frelsi þetta frómlynd snót, flestu meira

ær

virðti, en bjóst við rétt að boð þau ljót, bráðum
heyra þyrfti.

90. Ei þó dyldi? hún atlot hlý, amastundum
    barmi, drottning skildi skorð gulls í, skýldi leynd-
    um harmi.

91. Hún því gætti' og hnýstist að, háttum vífs-
    ins svinna, sem hún ætti sjálfri það, sér til lífs
    að vinna.

92. Morgun hvern fékk mengi spurt, mens um
    talda hildi, sínum þernum bendti' hún burt, bæn
    þegar halda vildi.

93. Eitt sinn var, sem optar það, er þar frá að
    segja, sínum þar í stúrði stað, stjörnu láar eyja.

94. Skorð gulls eina sköruglig, skykkju hafði? á
    búki, meður breinum miðja sig, menþöll vafði
    dúki.

95. Himins til mænir, kraup á knöð, að krist-
    ins dæmi fínu, fagra bæn þá flytja réð, fyrir af-
    kvæmi sínu.

96. Talaði fljóðið, til sem fann, trega' og harma
    sinna, allt hvað móður-ástin kann, upp sem varm-
    ast finna.

97. Henni málast huggun viss, himininn ráð til
    sæi: að þessi sál í kirkju Krists, kæmist áður
    dæi.

98. Ekki sá hún ángurs fyr, und sér blóðug
    grðri; svefnhúss þá við drósar dyr, drottning stóð
    á hleri.

99. Tölu sinni svo fljótt brá, sjafnar slóðin
    trega, veik hún inn og vífið, á-vítaði móðurlega.

100. þá hún spjalla þannig rðð: „þér svo bæti
     pínu, hygg eg varla verði sjeð, við mótlæti þínu“.

101. „Mér er nú að miklu bert, mest þitt kval-
     ar-efni. sjer eg þú víst þúnguð ert, þótt án kala
     nefni“.

102. „Slíkt þú greindir oss ei á, augnabliki
     þægu, ílla leyndir þessu þá, þér svo mikilvægu“:

103. „Lítt því farnast mun það mör, mein þín.
     hreint að græða, héðan af barn þitt ófært er, upp
     hér leynt að fæða“.

104. „Mjög hvað tvistri þér var þægt, það svo
     líka mátti, mér í fyrstu helzt þó hægt“. Hinog
     slíku játti.

105. Baugþöll fór að barma sör, beisk því mein=
     in syíða. Drottníng sór: „Ei dapri þér, dugir
     neinu' að kvíða“.

106. „Seig ef mátt, og sorg ei, drós! svæfir
     túngu þína: hve nær áttu heimsins ljós, huldum
     únga' að sýna“?

107. „Ef ei tálma heilsu hags“ — hin kvað —
     „slisnin veldur, það til Pálma- drottins -dags,
     dregst, er kristnin heldur“. t

108. Svarar daga sunda bil, södd af næring
     dáða, að mikils draga mundi til, myrkt þó væri
     að ráða,

109. Við hún bætti: Víst eg finn, vor er sama