two famous Northmen, Egil Skalagrim and Gunnlaug Serpent-tongue. "In England," says Dr. Metcalfe, basing his remarks on those of Jon Sigurdson, "the age of Northern poetry may be said to have lasted down to the Norman conquest, or about the middle of the eleventh century; in Denmark and Sweden, to the middle of the thirteenth; in Norway, till a little over the end of that century."

Finally, I may quote one interesting poem of the nature common to all the Northern races. It occurs in the Hervorar Saga, which has been attributed to the thirteenth century; but the poem in question bears so strong an old Norse impress that the German critic Müller places its composition as certainly not later than the tenth or at least the eleventh century. The story is interesting as setting forth the record of one of those Amazonian heroines who occur in every popular literature. This heroine was named Hervor. She was the daughter of a famous knight, Angantyr, who for love's sake fought a duel with the famous Hjalmar on Samsö, an island off Jutland. Though Angantyr fought with the sword Tyrfing, forged by the trolls Dvalin and Dulin, which never missed its aim, he perhaps forgot the other quality of the sword, that it always brought death to its owner. The result was that he and all his Berserkers were slain on this remote island. His daughter Hervor, when she grew up, really turned viking; "daubing her lily-white hands with pitch and tar," as the skald wrote. She became a viking in fact, and assumed the name of Herward. So in the course of time she came to the haven of Munarvoe in Samsö, where her father Angantyr lay buried in the green mound. At sunset she goes alone on shore, and there she meets a shepherd. The dialogue between them, and the weird scene of the cairns flaming into life, are graphically told, as also the appearance of Angantyr himself.

Then the herdsman fled
To the forest near,
Frightened by the speech
Of this manly maid.

Of undaunted mettle
Fashioned, Hervor's breast

Swelled within her fiercely

At the shepherd's fright.

She now sees the cairns all alight and the howe-dwellers standing outside, but is not afraid; passes through the only reek, till she gets to the Berserker's howe.

flame as if it were

Then she speaks:

HERWARD

Wake thee, Angantyr;
Hervor waketh thee.
I'm the only daughter

Of Tofa and of thee:

Give me from the howe

That sword whetted sharp,

Which for Swarfurlam

Was forged by the dwarves.

Hervard and Hjorvard,
Hran and Angantyr!

I wake you, ye buried

Under the forest roots,

With your helm and mail-sark,

With your whetted sword,

With your polished shields,

And your bloody darts.

Ye are turned indeed,
Arngrim's sons so bold,
Such redoubted champions,

To poor bits of mold,

If of Eyfur's sons,

Not one dares with me

To come and hold discourse

Here in Munarvoe.

Hervard and Hjorvard,

Hran and Angantyr!

May it be to all

Of you within your hearts

As if you were in ant-hills,
With torments dire bested,
Unless to me the sword
Ye give that Dvalin forged.
It not beseemeth Draugies
Such weapons choice to hide.

ANGANTYR

Hervor, my daughter, why
Dost thou cry out so loud?
Thou'rt hastening to destruction,
Past all redemption, maid!
'Tis mad you are become,
Bereft of sober sense;

You must be wandering, surely,

To wake up men long dead.

HERWARD

One thing tell me true,
So may Odin shield thee:

In thy ancient cairn,
Tell me, hast thou there
The sword Tyrfing hight?

Oh, you're very slow

A small boon to grant
To your single heir.

[The cairn opens, and it seems all ablaze.]

ANGANTYR

Hell gates have sunk down,

Opened is the cairn;

See, the island's shore

Is all bathed in flame;

All abroad are sights

Fearful to behold.

Haste thee, while there's time,

Maiden, to thy ships.

HERWARD

Were you burning bright,

Like bale-fire at night,

I'd not fear a jot;

Your fierce burning flame

Quakes not maiden's heart:
'Tis of sterner stuff,
Gibbering ghosts though she
In the doorway see.

ANGANTYR

Listen, Hervor mine!
I'll a tale unfold;
Listen, daughter wise!
I'll thy fate foretell.
Trow my words or not,
Tyrfing's fate is this:
'Twill to all thy kin
Naught but mishap bring.

HERWARD

I will sure bewitch

All these champions slain;

Ye shall fated be

Ever and aye to lie

With the Draugies dead,
Rotting in your graves.

Give me, Angantyr,

Out your cairn straightway

Sword to harness dangerous,

Young Hjalmar's bane.

ANGANTYR

Maiden, I aver you're
Not of human mold,

Roaming 'mong the cairns
In the dead of night,

With engraved spear,

With a sword beside,

With helmet and with hauberk

My hell-door before.

HERWARD

Meseemed I altogether

Was framed in human mold

'Fore I visit paid

To your halls of death.

Hand me from the cairn