The Story of Sigurd the Volsung | Page 7

of Siggeir the Goth, And there had he broken the wedding, but for plighted promise and troth. But those twain were beheld of Siggeir, and he deemed of the Volsung kin, That amid their might and their malice small honour should he win; Yet thereof made he no semblance, but abided times to be, And laughed out with the loudest, amid the hope and the glee. And nought of all saw Volsung, as he dreamed of the coming glory, And how the Kings of his kindred should fashion the round world's story.
So round about the Branstock they feast in the gleam of the gold; And though the deeds of man-folk were not yet waxen old, Yet had they tales for songcraft, and the blossomed garth of rhyme; Tales of the framing of all things and the entering in of time From the halls of the outer heaven; so near they knew the door. Wherefore uprose a sea-king, and his hands that loved the oar Now dealt with the rippling harp-gold, and he sang of the shaping of earth, And how the stars were lighted, and where the winds had birth, And the gleam of the first of summers on the yet untrodden grass. But e'en as men's hearts were hearkening some heard the thunder pass O'er the cloudless noontide heaven; and some men turned about And deemed that in the doorway they heard a man laugh out. Then into the Volsung dwelling a mighty man there strode, One-eyed and seeming ancient, yet bright his visage glowed: Cloud-blue was the hood upon him, and his kirtle gleaming-grey As the latter morning sundog when the storm is on the way: A bill he bore on his shoulder, whose mighty ashen beam Burnt bright with the flame of the sea and the blended silver's gleam. And such was the guise of his raiment as the Volsung elders had told Was borne by their fathers' fathers, and the first that warred in the wold.
So strode he to the Branstock nor greeted any lord, But forth from his cloudy raiment he drew a gleaming sword, And smote it deep in the tree-hole, and the wild hawks overhead Laughed 'neath the naked heaven as at last he spake and said:
"Earls of the Goths, and Volsungs, abiders on the earth, Lo there amid the Branstock a blade of plenteous worth! The 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