LITMIR.BIZ

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folk of the war-wand's forgers wrought never better steel

       Since first the burg of heaven uprose for man-folk's weal.

       Now let the man among you whose heart and hand may shift

       To pluck it from the oakwood e'en take it for my gift.

       Then ne'er, but his own heart falter, its point and edge shall fail

       Until the night's beginning and the ending of the tale.

       Be merry Earls of the Goth-folk, O Volsung Sons be wise

       And reap the battle-acre that ripening for you lies:

       For they told me in the wild wood, I heard on the mountain side,

       That the shining house of heaven is wrought exceeding wide,

       And that there the Early-comers shall have abundant rest

       While Earth grows scant of great ones, and fadeth from its best,

       And fadeth from its midward and groweth poor and vile:—

       All hail to thee King Volsung! farewell for a little while!"

      So sweet his speaking sounded, so wise his words did seem,

       That moveless all men sat there, as in a happy dream

       We stir not lest we waken; but there his speech had end,

       And slowly down the hall-floor, and outward did he wend;

       And none would cast him a question or follow on his ways,

       For they knew that the gift was Odin's, a sword for the world to praise.

      But now spake Volsung the King: "Why sit ye silent and still?

       Is the Battle-Father's visage a token of terror and ill?

       Arise O Volsung Children, Earls of the Goths arise,

       And set your hands to the hilts as mighty men and wise!

       Yet deem it not too easy; for belike a fateful blade

       Lies there in the heart of the Branstock for a fated warrior made."

      Now therewith spake King Siggeir: "King Volsung give me a grace

       To try it the first of all men, lest another win my place

       And mere chance-hap steal my glory and the gain that I might win."

      Then somewhat laughed King Volsung, and he said: "O Guest, begin;

       Though herein is the first as the last, for the Gods have long to live,

       Nor hath Odin yet forgotten unto whom the gift he would give."

      Then forth to the tree went Siggeir, the Goth-folk's mighty lord,

       And laid his hand on the gemstones, and strained at the glorious sword

       Till his heart grew black with anger; and never a word he said

       As he wended back to the high-seat: but Signy waxed blood-red

       When he sat him adown beside her; and her heart was nigh to break

       For the shame and the fateful boding: and therewith King Volsung spake:

      "Thus comes back empty-handed the mightiest King of Earth,

       And how shall the feeble venture? yet each man knows his worth;

       And today may a great beginning from a little seed upspring

       To o'erpass many a great one that hath the name of King:

       So stand forth free and unfree; stand forth both most and least:

       But first ye Earls of the Goth-folk, ye lovely lords we feast."

      Upstood the Earls of Siggeir, and each man drew anigh

       And deemed his time was coming for a glorious gain and high;

       But for all their mighty shaping and their deeds in the battle-wood,

       No looser in the Branstock that gift of Odin stood.

       Then uprose Volsung's homemen, and the fell-abiding folk;

       And the yellow-headed shepherds came gathering round the Oak,

       And the searchers of the thicket and the dealers with the oar:

       And the least and the worst of them all was a mighty man of war.

       But for all their mighty shaping, and the struggle and the strain

       Of their hands, the deft in labour, they tugged thereat in vain;

       And still as the shouting and jeers, and the names of men and the laughter

       Beat backward from gable to gable, and rattled o'er roof-tree and rafter,

       Moody and still sat Siggeir; for he said: "They have trained me here

       As a mock for their woodland bondsmen; and yet shall they buy it dear."

      Now the tumult sank a little, and men cried on Volsung the King

       And his sons, the hedge of battle, to try the fateful thing.

       So Volsung laughed, and answered: "I will set me to the toil,

       Lest these my guests of the Goth-folk should deem I fear the foil.

       Yet nought am I ill-sworded, and the oldest friend is best;

       And this, my hand's first fellow, will I bear to the grave-mound's rest,

       Nor wield meanwhile another: Yea, this shall I have in hand

       When mid the host of Odin in the Day of Doom I stand."

      Therewith from his belt of battle he raised the golden sheath,

       And showed the peace-strings glittering about the hidden death:

       Then he laid his hand on the Branstock, and cried: "O tree beloved,

       I thank thee of thy good-heart that so little thou art moved:

       Abide thou thus, green bower, when I am dead and gone

       And the best of all my kindred a better day hath won!"

      Then as a young man laughed he, and on the hilts of gold

       His hand, the battle-breaker, took fast and certain hold,

       And long he drew and strained him, but mended not the tale,

       Yet none the more thereover his mirth of heart did fail;

       But he wended to the high-seat and thence began to cry:

      "Sons I have gotten and cherished, now stand ye forth to try;

       Lest Odin tell in God-home how from the way he strayed,

       And how to the man he would not he gave away his blade."

       So therewithal rose Rerir, and wasted might and main;

       Then Gunthiof, and then Hunthiof, they wearied them in vain;

       Nought was the might of Agnar; nought Helgi could avail;

       Sigi the tall and Solar no further brought the tale,

       Nor Geirmund the priest of the temple, nor Gylfi of the wood.

      At last by the side of the Branstock Sigmund the Volsung stood,

       And with right hand wise in battle the precious sword-hilt caught,

       Yet in a careless fashion, as he deemed it all for nought:

       When lo, from floor to rafter went up a shattering shout,

       For aloft in the hand of Sigmund the naked blade shone out

       As high o'er his head he shook it: for the sword had come away

       From the grip of the heart of the Branstock, as though all loose it lay.

       A little while he stood there mid the glory of the hall,

       Like the best of the trees of the garden, when the April sunbeams fall

       On its blossomed boughs in the morning, and tell of the days to be;

      

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