Here are we for the last time face to face,Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speedUpon thy perilous journey to that placeFor which I have done on thee pilgrim's weed,Striving to get thee all things for thy need——I love thee, whatso time or men may sayOf the poor singer of an empty day.Good reason why I love thee, e'en if thouBe mocked or clean forgot as time wears on;For ever as thy fashioning did grow,Kind word and praise because of thee I wonFrom those without whom were my world all gone,My hope fallen dead, my singing cast away,And I set soothly in an empty day.I love thee; yet this last time must it be,That thou must hold thy peace and I must speak,Lest if thou babble I begin to seeThy gear too thin, thy limbs and heart too weak,To find the land thou goest forth to seek——Though what harm if thou die upon the way,Thou idle singer of an empty day?But though this land desired thou never reach,Yet folk who know it mayst thou meet or death;Therefore a word unto thee would I teachTo answer these, who, noting thy weak breath,Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little faith,May make thy fond desire a sport and play,Mocking the singer of an empty day.That land's name, say'st thou? and the road thereto?Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou know'st it not;Surely no book of verse I ever knewBut ever was the heart within him hotTo gain the Land of Matters Unforgot——There, now we both laugh—as the whole world may,At us poor singers of an empty day.Nay, let it pass, and hearken! Hast thou heardThat therein I believe I have a friend,Of whom for love I may not be afeard?It is to him indeed I bid thee wend;Yea, he perchance may meet thee ere thou end,Dying so far off from the hedge of bay,Thou idle singer of an empty day!Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the road,And if it hap that midst of thy defeat,Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load,My Master,Geoffrey Chaucer, thou do meet,Then shalt thou win a space of rest full sweet;Then be thou bold, and speak the words I say,The idle singer of an empty day!"O Master, O thou great of heart and tongue,Thou well mayst ask me why I wander here,In raiment rent of stories oft besung!But of thy gentleness draw thou anear,And then the heart of one who held thee dearMayst thou behold! So near as that I layUnto the singer of an empty day."For this he ever said, who sent me forthTo seek a place amid thy company;That howsoever little was my worth,Yet was he worth e'en just so much as I;He said that rhyme hath little skill to lie:Nor feigned to cast his worser part awayIn idle singing for an empty day."I have beheld him tremble oft enoughAt things he could not choose but trust to me,Although he knew the world was wise and rough:And never did he fail to let me seeHis love,—his folly and faithlessness, may be;And still in turn I gave him voice to praySuch prayers as cling about an empty day."Thou, keen-eyed, reading me, mayst read him through,For surely little is there left behind;No power great deeds unnameable to do;No knowledge for which words he may not find,No love of things as vague as autumn wind——Earth of the earth lies hidden by my clay,The idle singer of an empty day!"Children we twain are, saith he, late made wiseIn love, but in all else most childish still,And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes,And what our ears with sweetest sounds may fill;Not fearing Love, lest these things he should kill;Howe'er his pain by pleasure doth he lay,Making a strange tale of an empty day."Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant;Life have we loved, through green leaf and through sere,Though still the less we knew of its intent:The Earth and Heaven through countless year on year,Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair,Hung round about a little room, where playWeeping and laughter of man's empty day."O Master, if thine heart could love us yet,Spite of things left undone, and wrongly done,Some place in loving hearts then should we get,For thou, sweet-souled, didst never stand alone,But knew'st the joy and woe of many an one——By lovers dead, who live through thee we pray,Help thou us singers of an empty day!"Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou mayst gainLest he should scorn thee, and thereof thou die?Nay, it shall not be.—Thou mayst toil in vain,And never draw the House of Fame anigh;Yet he and his shall know whereof we cry,Shall call it not ill done to strive to layThe ghosts that crowd about life's empty day.Then let the others go! and if indeedIn some old garden thou and I have wrought,And made fresh flowers spring up from hoarded seed,And fragrance of old days and deeds have broughtBack to folk weary; all was not for nought.—No little part it was for me to play—The idle singer of an empty day.
Here are we for the last time face to face,Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speedUpon thy perilous journey to that placeFor which I have done on thee pilgrim's weed,Striving to get thee all things for thy need——I love thee, whatso time or men may sayOf the poor singer of an empty day.Good reason why I love thee, e'en if thouBe mocked or clean forgot as time wears on;For ever as thy fashioning did grow,Kind word and praise because of thee I wonFrom those without whom were my world all gone,My hope fallen dead, my singing cast away,And I set soothly in an empty day.I love thee; yet this last time must it be,That thou must hold thy peace and I must speak,Lest if thou babble I begin to seeThy gear too thin, thy limbs and heart too weak,To find the land thou goest forth to seek——Though what harm if thou die upon the way,Thou idle singer of an empty day?But though this land desired thou never reach,Yet folk who know it mayst thou meet or death;Therefore a word unto thee would I teachTo answer these, who, noting thy weak breath,Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little faith,May make thy fond desire a sport and play,Mocking the singer of an empty day.That land's name, say'st thou? and the road thereto?Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou know'st it not;Surely no book of verse I ever knewBut ever was the heart within him hotTo gain the Land of Matters Unforgot——There, now we both laugh—as the whole world may,At us poor singers of an empty day.Nay, let it pass, and hearken! Hast thou heardThat therein I believe I have a friend,Of whom for love I may not be afeard?It is to him indeed I bid thee wend;Yea, he perchance may meet thee ere thou end,Dying so far off from the hedge of bay,Thou idle singer of an empty day!Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the road,And if it hap that midst of thy defeat,Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load,My Master,Geoffrey Chaucer, thou do meet,Then shalt thou win a space of rest full sweet;Then be thou bold, and speak the words I say,The idle singer of an empty day!"O Master, O thou great of heart and tongue,Thou well mayst ask me why I wander here,In raiment rent of stories oft besung!But of thy gentleness draw thou anear,And then the heart of one who held thee dearMayst thou behold! So near as that I layUnto the singer of an empty day."For this he ever said, who sent me forthTo seek a place amid thy company;That howsoever little was my worth,Yet was he worth e'en just so much as I;He said that rhyme hath little skill to lie:Nor feigned to cast his worser part awayIn idle singing for an empty day."I have beheld him tremble oft enoughAt things he could not choose but trust to me,Although he knew the world was wise and rough:And never did he fail to let me seeHis love,—his folly and faithlessness, may be;And still in turn I gave him voice to praySuch prayers as cling about an empty day."Thou, keen-eyed, reading me, mayst read him through,For surely little is there left behind;No power great deeds unnameable to do;No knowledge for which words he may not find,No love of things as vague as autumn wind——Earth of the earth lies hidden by my clay,The idle singer of an empty day!"Children we twain are, saith he, late made wiseIn love, but in all else most childish still,And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes,And what our ears with sweetest sounds may fill;Not fearing Love, lest these things he should kill;Howe'er his pain by pleasure doth he lay,Making a strange tale of an empty day."Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant;Life have we loved, through green leaf and through sere,Though still the less we knew of its intent:The Earth and Heaven through countless year on year,Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair,Hung round about a little room, where playWeeping and laughter of man's empty day."O Master, if thine heart could love us yet,Spite of things left undone, and wrongly done,Some place in loving hearts then should we get,For thou, sweet-souled, didst never stand alone,But knew'st the joy and woe of many an one——By lovers dead, who live through thee we pray,Help thou us singers of an empty day!"Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou mayst gainLest he should scorn thee, and thereof thou die?Nay, it shall not be.—Thou mayst toil in vain,And never draw the House of Fame anigh;Yet he and his shall know whereof we cry,Shall call it not ill done to strive to layThe ghosts that crowd about life's empty day.Then let the others go! and if indeedIn some old garden thou and I have wrought,And made fresh flowers spring up from hoarded seed,And fragrance of old days and deeds have broughtBack to folk weary; all was not for nought.—No little part it was for me to play—The idle singer of an empty day.
Love is enough; though the World be a-waningAnd the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,And this day draw a veil over all deeds, passed over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alterThese lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
Love is enough; though the World be a-waningAnd the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,And this day draw a veil over all deeds, passed over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alterThese lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
Love is enough: it grew up without heedingIn the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure,And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasureHad no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding,As the morning and evening passed over its treasure.And what do ye say then?—that Spring long departedHas brought forth no child to the softness and showers;—That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers;We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-heartedFound Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.Nay, Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason,And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was endedIn her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;But this is the harvest and the garnering season,And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding,Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure,Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure;There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding,But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure.
Love is enough: it grew up without heedingIn the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure,And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasureHad no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding,As the morning and evening passed over its treasure.And what do ye say then?—that Spring long departedHas brought forth no child to the softness and showers;—That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers;We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-heartedFound Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.Nay, Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason,And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was endedIn her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;But this is the harvest and the garnering season,And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding,Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure,Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure;There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding,But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure.
Love is enough: draw near and behold meYe who pass by the way to your rest and your laughter,And are full of the hope of the dawn coming afterFor the strong of the world have bought me and sold meAnd my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter.—Pass by me, and hearken, and think of me not!Cry out and come near; for my ears may not hearken,And my eyes are grown dim as the eyes of the dying.Is this the grey rack o'er the sun's face a-flying?Or is it your faces his brightness that darken?Comes a wind from the sea, or is it your sighing?—Pass by me and hearken, and pity me not!Ye know not how void is your hope and your living:Depart with your helping lest yet ye undo me!Ye know not that at nightfall she draweth near to me,There is soft speech between us and words of forgivingTill in dead of the midnight her kisses thrill through me.—Pass by me and hearken, and waken me not!Wherewith will ye buy it, ye rich who behold me?Draw out from your coffers your rest and your laughter,And the fair gilded hope of the dawn coming after!Nay this I sell not,—though ye bought me and sold me,—For your house stored with such things from threshold to rafter.—Pass by me, I hearken, and think of you not!
Love is enough: draw near and behold meYe who pass by the way to your rest and your laughter,And are full of the hope of the dawn coming afterFor the strong of the world have bought me and sold meAnd my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter.—Pass by me, and hearken, and think of me not!Cry out and come near; for my ears may not hearken,And my eyes are grown dim as the eyes of the dying.Is this the grey rack o'er the sun's face a-flying?Or is it your faces his brightness that darken?Comes a wind from the sea, or is it your sighing?—Pass by me and hearken, and pity me not!Ye know not how void is your hope and your living:Depart with your helping lest yet ye undo me!Ye know not that at nightfall she draweth near to me,There is soft speech between us and words of forgivingTill in dead of the midnight her kisses thrill through me.—Pass by me and hearken, and waken me not!Wherewith will ye buy it, ye rich who behold me?Draw out from your coffers your rest and your laughter,And the fair gilded hope of the dawn coming after!Nay this I sell not,—though ye bought me and sold me,—For your house stored with such things from threshold to rafter.—Pass by me, I hearken, and think of you not!
Love is enough: ho ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it,And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;These know the Cup with the roses around it;These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out, the World heedeth not, "Love, lead us home!"He leadeth, He hearkeneth, He cometh to you-ward;Set your faces as steel to the fears that assembleRound his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward:Lo! his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!Lo! his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!Cry out, for he heedeth, "O Love, lead us home!"O hearken the words of his voice of compassion:"Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sickenOf the weary unrest and the world's passing fashion!As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken,But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken,As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home."Come—pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending!Come—fear ye shall have, mid the sky's overcasting!Come—change ye shall have, for far are ye wending!Come—no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting,But the kissed lips of Love and fair life everlasting!Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth you home!"Is he gone? was he with us?—ho ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it?Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving;Here is the Cup with the roses around it;The World's Wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.
Love is enough: ho ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it,And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;These know the Cup with the roses around it;These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out, the World heedeth not, "Love, lead us home!"He leadeth, He hearkeneth, He cometh to you-ward;Set your faces as steel to the fears that assembleRound his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward:Lo! his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!Lo! his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!Cry out, for he heedeth, "O Love, lead us home!"O hearken the words of his voice of compassion:"Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sickenOf the weary unrest and the world's passing fashion!As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken,But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken,As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home."Come—pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending!Come—fear ye shall have, mid the sky's overcasting!Come—change ye shall have, for far are ye wending!Come—no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting,But the kissed lips of Love and fair life everlasting!Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth you home!"Is he gone? was he with us?—ho ye who seek saving,Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it?Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving;Here is the Cup with the roses around it;The World's Wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it:Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.
Now this is the first book of the life and death of Sigurd the Volsung, and therein is told of the birth of him, and of his dealings with Regin the master of masters, and of his deeds in the waste places of the earth.
Peacelay on the land of the Helper and the house of Elf his son;There merry men went bedward when their tide of toil was done,And glad was the dawn's awakening, and the noontide fair and glad:There no great store had the franklin, and enough the hireling had;And a child might go unguarded the length and breadth of the landWith a purse of gold at his girdle and gold rings on his hand.'Twas a country of cunning craftsmen, and many a thing they wrought,That the lands of storm desired, and the homes of warfare sought.But men deemed it o'er-well warded by more than its stems of fight,And told how its earth-born watchers yet lived of plenteous might.So hidden was that country, and few men sailed its sea,And none came o'er its mountains of men-folk's company.But fair-fruited, many-peopled, it lies a goodly strip,'Twixt the mountains cloudy-headed and the sea-flood's surging lip,And a perilous flood is its ocean, and its mountains, who shall tellWhat things in their dales deserted and their wind-swept heaths may dwell.Now a man of the Kings, called Gripir, in this land of peace abode:The son of the Helper's father, though never lay his loadIn the womb of the mother of Kings that the Helper's brethren bore;But of Giant kin was his mother, of the folk that are seen no more;Though whiles as ye ride some fell-road across the heath there comesThe voice of their lone lamenting o'er their changed and conquered homes.A long way off from the sea-strand and beneath the mountains' feetIs the high-built hall of Gripir, where the waste and the tillage meet;A noble and plentiful house, that a little men-folk fear,But beloved of the crag-dwelling eagles and the kin of the woodland deer.A man of few words was Gripir, but he knew of all deeds that had been,And times there came upon him, when the deeds to be were seen:No sword had he held in his hand since his father fell to field,And against the life of the slayer he bore undinted shield:Yet no fear in his heart abided, nor desired he aught at all,But he noted the deeds that had been, and looked for what should befall.Again, in the house of the Helper there dwelt a certain manBeardless and low of stature, of visage pinched and wan:So exceeding old was Regin, that no son of man could tellIn what year of the days passed over he came to that land to dwell;But the youth of King Elf had he fostered, and the Helper's youth thereto,Yes and his father's father's: the lore of all men he knew,And was deft in every cunning, save the dealings of the sword:So sweet was his tongue-speech fashioned, that men trowed his every word;His hand with the harp-strings blended was the mingler of delightWith the latter days of sorrow; all tales he told aright;The Master of the Masters in the smithying craft was he;And he dealt with the wind and the weather and the stilling of the sea;Nor might any learn him leech-craft, for before that race was made,And that man-folk's generation, all their life-days had he weighed.In this land abideth Hiordis amid all people's praiseTill cometh the time appointed: in the fulness of the daysThrough the dark and the dusk she travailed, till at last in the dawning hourHave the deeds of the Volsungs blossomed, and born their latest flower;In the bed there lieth a man child, and his eyes look straight on the sun,And lo, the hope of the people, and the days of a king are begun.Men say of the serving-women, when they cried on the joy of the morn,When they handled the linen raiment, and washed the king new-born,When they bore him back unto Hiordis, and the weary and happy breast,And bade her be glad to behold it, how the best was sprung from the best,Yet they shrank in their rejoicing before the eyes of the child,So bright and dreadful were they; yea though the spring morn smiled,And a thousand birds were singing round the fair familiar home,And still as on other mornings they saw folk go and come,Yet the hour seemed awful to them, and the hearts within them burnedAs though of fateful matters their souls were newly learned.But Hiordis looked on the Volsung, on her grief and her fond desire,And the hope of her heart was quickened, and her joy was a living fire;And she said: "Now one of the earthly on the eyes of my child hath gazedNor shrunk before their glory, nor stayed her love amazed:I behold thee as Sigmund beholdeth,—and I was the home of thine heart—Woe's me for the day when thou wert not, and the hour when we shall part!"Then she held him a little season on her weary and happy breastAnd she told him of Sigmund and Volsung and the best sprung forth from the best:She spake to the new-born baby as one who might understand,And told him of Sigmund's battle, and the dead by the sea-flood's strand,And of all the wars passed over, and the light with darkness blent.So she spake, and the sun rose higher, and her speech at last was spent,And she gave him back to the women to bear forth to the people's kings,That they too may rejoice in her glory and her day of happy things.But there sat the Helper of Men with King Elf and Earls in the hall,And they spake of the deeds that had been, and told of the times to befall,And they hearkened and heard sweet voices and the sound of harps draw nigh,Till their hearts were exceeding merry and they knew not wherefore or why:Then, lo, in the hall white raiment, as thither the damsels came,And amid the hands of the foremost was the woven gold aflame."O daughters of earls," said the Helper, "what tidings then do ye bear?Is it grief in the merry morning, or joy or wonder or fear?"Quoth the first: "It is grief for the foemen that the Masters of God-home would grieve."Said the next: "'Tis a wonder of wonders, that the hearkening world shall believe.""A fear of all fears," said the third, "for the sword is uplifted on men.""A joy of all joys," said the fourth, "once come, it comes not again!""Lo, son," said the ancient Helper, "glad sit the earls and the lords!Lookst thou not for a token of tidings to follow such-like words?"Saith King Elf: "Great words of women! or great hath our dwelling become."Said the women: "Words shall be greater, when all folk shall praise our home.""What then hath betid," said King Elf, "do the high Gods stand in our gate?""Nay," said they, "else were we silent, and they should be telling of fate.""Is the bidding come," said the Helper, "that we wend the Gods to see?""Many summers and winters," they said, "ye shall live on the earth, it may be."Said a young man: "Will ye be telling that all we shall die no more?""Nay," they answered, "nay, who knoweth but the change may be hard at the door?""Come ships from the sea," said an elder, "with all gifts of the Eastland gold?""Was there less than enough," said the women, "when last our treasure was told?""Speak then," said the ancient Helper, "let the worst and the best be said."Quoth they: "'Tis the Queen of the Isle-folk, she is weary-sick on her bed."Said King Elf: "Yet ye come rejoicing; what more lieth under the tongue?"They said: "The earth is weary; but the tender blade hath sprung,That shall wax till beneath its branches fair bloom the meadows green;For the Gods and they that were mighty were glad erewhile with the Queen."Said King Elf: "How say ye, women? Of a King new-born do ye tellBy a God of the Heavens begotten in our fathers' house to dwell?""By a God of the Earth," they answered; "but greater yet is the son,Though long were the days of Sigmund, and great are the deeds he hath done."Then she with the golden burden to the kingly high-seat steppedAnd away from the new-born baby the purple cloths she swept,And cried: "O King of the people, long mayst thou live in bliss,As our hearts to-day are happy! Queen Hiordis sends thee this,And she saith that the world shall call it by the name that thou shalt name;Now the gift to thee is given, and to thee is brought the fame."
Peacelay on the land of the Helper and the house of Elf his son;There merry men went bedward when their tide of toil was done,And glad was the dawn's awakening, and the noontide fair and glad:There no great store had the franklin, and enough the hireling had;And a child might go unguarded the length and breadth of the landWith a purse of gold at his girdle and gold rings on his hand.'Twas a country of cunning craftsmen, and many a thing they wrought,That the lands of storm desired, and the homes of warfare sought.But men deemed it o'er-well warded by more than its stems of fight,And told how its earth-born watchers yet lived of plenteous might.So hidden was that country, and few men sailed its sea,And none came o'er its mountains of men-folk's company.But fair-fruited, many-peopled, it lies a goodly strip,'Twixt the mountains cloudy-headed and the sea-flood's surging lip,And a perilous flood is its ocean, and its mountains, who shall tellWhat things in their dales deserted and their wind-swept heaths may dwell.Now a man of the Kings, called Gripir, in this land of peace abode:The son of the Helper's father, though never lay his loadIn the womb of the mother of Kings that the Helper's brethren bore;But of Giant kin was his mother, of the folk that are seen no more;Though whiles as ye ride some fell-road across the heath there comesThe voice of their lone lamenting o'er their changed and conquered homes.A long way off from the sea-strand and beneath the mountains' feetIs the high-built hall of Gripir, where the waste and the tillage meet;A noble and plentiful house, that a little men-folk fear,But beloved of the crag-dwelling eagles and the kin of the woodland deer.A man of few words was Gripir, but he knew of all deeds that had been,And times there came upon him, when the deeds to be were seen:No sword had he held in his hand since his father fell to field,And against the life of the slayer he bore undinted shield:Yet no fear in his heart abided, nor desired he aught at all,But he noted the deeds that had been, and looked for what should befall.Again, in the house of the Helper there dwelt a certain manBeardless and low of stature, of visage pinched and wan:So exceeding old was Regin, that no son of man could tellIn what year of the days passed over he came to that land to dwell;But the youth of King Elf had he fostered, and the Helper's youth thereto,Yes and his father's father's: the lore of all men he knew,And was deft in every cunning, save the dealings of the sword:So sweet was his tongue-speech fashioned, that men trowed his every word;His hand with the harp-strings blended was the mingler of delightWith the latter days of sorrow; all tales he told aright;The Master of the Masters in the smithying craft was he;And he dealt with the wind and the weather and the stilling of the sea;Nor might any learn him leech-craft, for before that race was made,And that man-folk's generation, all their life-days had he weighed.In this land abideth Hiordis amid all people's praiseTill cometh the time appointed: in the fulness of the daysThrough the dark and the dusk she travailed, till at last in the dawning hourHave the deeds of the Volsungs blossomed, and born their latest flower;In the bed there lieth a man child, and his eyes look straight on the sun,And lo, the hope of the people, and the days of a king are begun.Men say of the serving-women, when they cried on the joy of the morn,When they handled the linen raiment, and washed the king new-born,When they bore him back unto Hiordis, and the weary and happy breast,And bade her be glad to behold it, how the best was sprung from the best,Yet they shrank in their rejoicing before the eyes of the child,So bright and dreadful were they; yea though the spring morn smiled,And a thousand birds were singing round the fair familiar home,And still as on other mornings they saw folk go and come,Yet the hour seemed awful to them, and the hearts within them burnedAs though of fateful matters their souls were newly learned.But Hiordis looked on the Volsung, on her grief and her fond desire,And the hope of her heart was quickened, and her joy was a living fire;And she said: "Now one of the earthly on the eyes of my child hath gazedNor shrunk before their glory, nor stayed her love amazed:I behold thee as Sigmund beholdeth,—and I was the home of thine heart—Woe's me for the day when thou wert not, and the hour when we shall part!"Then she held him a little season on her weary and happy breastAnd she told him of Sigmund and Volsung and the best sprung forth from the best:She spake to the new-born baby as one who might understand,And told him of Sigmund's battle, and the dead by the sea-flood's strand,And of all the wars passed over, and the light with darkness blent.So she spake, and the sun rose higher, and her speech at last was spent,And she gave him back to the women to bear forth to the people's kings,That they too may rejoice in her glory and her day of happy things.But there sat the Helper of Men with King Elf and Earls in the hall,And they spake of the deeds that had been, and told of the times to befall,And they hearkened and heard sweet voices and the sound of harps draw nigh,Till their hearts were exceeding merry and they knew not wherefore or why:Then, lo, in the hall white raiment, as thither the damsels came,And amid the hands of the foremost was the woven gold aflame."O daughters of earls," said the Helper, "what tidings then do ye bear?Is it grief in the merry morning, or joy or wonder or fear?"Quoth the first: "It is grief for the foemen that the Masters of God-home would grieve."Said the next: "'Tis a wonder of wonders, that the hearkening world shall believe.""A fear of all fears," said the third, "for the sword is uplifted on men.""A joy of all joys," said the fourth, "once come, it comes not again!""Lo, son," said the ancient Helper, "glad sit the earls and the lords!Lookst thou not for a token of tidings to follow such-like words?"Saith King Elf: "Great words of women! or great hath our dwelling become."Said the women: "Words shall be greater, when all folk shall praise our home.""What then hath betid," said King Elf, "do the high Gods stand in our gate?""Nay," said they, "else were we silent, and they should be telling of fate.""Is the bidding come," said the Helper, "that we wend the Gods to see?""Many summers and winters," they said, "ye shall live on the earth, it may be."Said a young man: "Will ye be telling that all we shall die no more?""Nay," they answered, "nay, who knoweth but the change may be hard at the door?""Come ships from the sea," said an elder, "with all gifts of the Eastland gold?""Was there less than enough," said the women, "when last our treasure was told?""Speak then," said the ancient Helper, "let the worst and the best be said."Quoth they: "'Tis the Queen of the Isle-folk, she is weary-sick on her bed."Said King Elf: "Yet ye come rejoicing; what more lieth under the tongue?"They said: "The earth is weary; but the tender blade hath sprung,That shall wax till beneath its branches fair bloom the meadows green;For the Gods and they that were mighty were glad erewhile with the Queen."Said King Elf: "How say ye, women? Of a King new-born do ye tellBy a God of the Heavens begotten in our fathers' house to dwell?""By a God of the Earth," they answered; "but greater yet is the son,Though long were the days of Sigmund, and great are the deeds he hath done."Then she with the golden burden to the kingly high-seat steppedAnd away from the new-born baby the purple cloths she swept,And cried: "O King of the people, long mayst thou live in bliss,As our hearts to-day are happy! Queen Hiordis sends thee this,And she saith that the world shall call it by the name that thou shalt name;Now the gift to thee is given, and to thee is brought the fame."
Then e'en as a man astonied King Elf the Volsung took,While his feast-hall's ancient timbers with the cry of the earl-folk shook;For the eyes of the child gleamed on him till he was as one who seesThe very Gods arising mid their carven images:To his ears there came a murmur of far seas beneath the windAnd the tramp of fierce-eyed warriors through the outland forest blind;The sound of hosts of battle, cries round the hoisted shield,Low talk of the gathered wise-ones in the Goth-folk's holy field:So the thought in a little moment through King Elf the Mighty ranOf the years and their building and burden, and toil of the sons of man,The joy of folk and their sorrow, and the hope of deeds to do:With the love of many peoples was the wise king smitten through,As he hung o'er the new-born Volsung: but at last he raised his head,And looked forth kind o'er his people, and spake aloud and said:"O Sigmund King of Battle; O man of many days,Whom I saw mid the shields of the fallen and the dead men's silent praise,Lo, how hath the dark tide perished and the dawn of day begun!And now, O mighty Sigmund, wherewith shall we name thy son?"But there rose up a man most ancient, and he cried: "Hail Dawn of the Day!How many things shalt thou quicken, how many shalt thou slay!How many things shalt thou waken, how many lull to sleep!How many things shalt thou scatter, how many gather and keep!O me, how thy love shall cherish, how thine hate shall wither and burn!How the hope shall be sped from thy right hand, nor the fear to thy left return!O thy deeds that men shall sing of! O thy deeds that the Gods shall see!O SIGURD, Son of the Volsungs, O Victory yet to be!"Men heard the name and they knew it, and they caught it up in the air,And it went abroad by the windows and the doors of the feast-hall fair,It went through street and market; o'er meadow and acre it went,And over the wind-stirred forest and the dearth of the sea-beat bent,And over the sea-flood's welter, till the folk of the fishers heard,And the hearts of the isle-abiders on the sun-scorched rocks were stirred.But the Queen in her golden chamber, the name she hearkened and knew;And she heard the flock of the women, as back to the chamber they drew,And the name of Sigurd entered, and the body of Sigurd was come,And it was as if Sigmund were living and she still in her lovely home;Of all folk of the world was she well, and a soul fulfilled of restAs alone in the chamber she wakened and Sigurd cherished her breast.But men feast in the merry noontide, and glad is the April greenThat a Volsung looks on the sunlight and the night and the darkness have been.Earls think of marvellous stories, and along the golden stringsFlit words of banded brethren and names of war-fain Kings:All the days of the deeds of Sigmund who was born so long ago;All deeds of the glorious Signy, and her tarrying-tide of woe;Men tell of the years of Volsung, and how long agone it wasThat he changed his life in battle, and brought the tale to pass:Then goeth the word of the Giants, and the world seems waxen oldFor the dimness of King Rerir and the tale of his warfare told:Yet unhushed are the singers' voices, nor yet the harp-strings ceaseWhile yet is left a rumour of the mirk-wood's broken peace,And of Sigi the very ancient, and the unnamed Sons of God,Of the days when the Lords of Heaven full oft the world-ways trod.So stilleth the wind in the even and the sun sinks down in the sea,And men abide the morrow and the Victory yet to be.
Then e'en as a man astonied King Elf the Volsung took,While his feast-hall's ancient timbers with the cry of the earl-folk shook;For the eyes of the child gleamed on him till he was as one who seesThe very Gods arising mid their carven images:To his ears there came a murmur of far seas beneath the windAnd the tramp of fierce-eyed warriors through the outland forest blind;The sound of hosts of battle, cries round the hoisted shield,Low talk of the gathered wise-ones in the Goth-folk's holy field:So the thought in a little moment through King Elf the Mighty ranOf the years and their building and burden, and toil of the sons of man,The joy of folk and their sorrow, and the hope of deeds to do:With the love of many peoples was the wise king smitten through,As he hung o'er the new-born Volsung: but at last he raised his head,And looked forth kind o'er his people, and spake aloud and said:"O Sigmund King of Battle; O man of many days,Whom I saw mid the shields of the fallen and the dead men's silent praise,Lo, how hath the dark tide perished and the dawn of day begun!And now, O mighty Sigmund, wherewith shall we name thy son?"But there rose up a man most ancient, and he cried: "Hail Dawn of the Day!How many things shalt thou quicken, how many shalt thou slay!How many things shalt thou waken, how many lull to sleep!How many things shalt thou scatter, how many gather and keep!O me, how thy love shall cherish, how thine hate shall wither and burn!How the hope shall be sped from thy right hand, nor the fear to thy left return!O thy deeds that men shall sing of! O thy deeds that the Gods shall see!O SIGURD, Son of the Volsungs, O Victory yet to be!"Men heard the name and they knew it, and they caught it up in the air,And it went abroad by the windows and the doors of the feast-hall fair,It went through street and market; o'er meadow and acre it went,And over the wind-stirred forest and the dearth of the sea-beat bent,And over the sea-flood's welter, till the folk of the fishers heard,And the hearts of the isle-abiders on the sun-scorched rocks were stirred.But the Queen in her golden chamber, the name she hearkened and knew;And she heard the flock of the women, as back to the chamber they drew,And the name of Sigurd entered, and the body of Sigurd was come,And it was as if Sigmund were living and she still in her lovely home;Of all folk of the world was she well, and a soul fulfilled of restAs alone in the chamber she wakened and Sigurd cherished her breast.But men feast in the merry noontide, and glad is the April greenThat a Volsung looks on the sunlight and the night and the darkness have been.Earls think of marvellous stories, and along the golden stringsFlit words of banded brethren and names of war-fain Kings:All the days of the deeds of Sigmund who was born so long ago;All deeds of the glorious Signy, and her tarrying-tide of woe;Men tell of the years of Volsung, and how long agone it wasThat he changed his life in battle, and brought the tale to pass:Then goeth the word of the Giants, and the world seems waxen oldFor the dimness of King Rerir and the tale of his warfare told:Yet unhushed are the singers' voices, nor yet the harp-strings ceaseWhile yet is left a rumour of the mirk-wood's broken peace,And of Sigi the very ancient, and the unnamed Sons of God,Of the days when the Lords of Heaven full oft the world-ways trod.So stilleth the wind in the even and the sun sinks down in the sea,And men abide the morrow and the Victory yet to be.
Now waxeth the son of Sigmund in might and goodliness,And soft the days win over, and all men his beauty bless.But amidst the summer season was the Isle-queen Hiordis wedTo King Elf the son of the Helper, and fair their life-days sped.Peace lay on the land for ever, and the fields gave good increase,And there was Sigurd waxing mid the plenty and the peace.Now hath the child grown greater, and is keen and eager of witAnd full of understanding, and oft hath the joy to sitAmid talk of weighty matters when the wise men meet for speech;And joyous he is moreover and blithe and kind with each.But Regin the wise craftsmaster heedeth the youngling well,And before the Kings he cometh, and saith such words to tell."I have fostered thy youth, King Elf, and thine O Helper of men,And ye wot that such a master no king shall see again;And now would I foster Sigurd; for, though he be none of thy blood,Mine heart of his days that shall be speaketh abundant good."Then spake the Helper of men-folk: "Yea, do herein thy will:For thou art the Master of Masters, and hast learned me all my skill:But think how bright is this youngling, and thy guile from him withhold;For this craft of thine hath shown me that thy heart is grim and cold,Though three men's lives thrice over thy wisdom might not learn;And I love this son of Sigmund, and mine heart to him doth yearn."Then Regin laughed, and answered: "I doled out cunning to thee;But nought with him will I measure: yet no cold-heart shall he be,Nor grim, nor evil-natured: for whate'er my will might frame,Gone forth is the word of the Norns, that abideth ever the same.And now, despite my cunning, how deem ye I shall die?"And they said he would live as he listed, and at last in peace should lieWhen he listed to live no longer; so mighty and wise he was.But again he laughed and answered: "One day it shall come to pass,That a beardless youth shall slay me: I know the fateful doom;But nought may I withstand it, as it heaves up dim through the gloom."So is Sigurd now with Regin, and he learns him many things;Yea, all save the craft of battle, that men learned the sons of kings:The smithying sword and war-coat; the carving runes aright;The tongues of many countries, and soft speech for men's delight;The dealing with the harp-strings, and the winding ways of song.So wise of heart waxed Sigurd, and of body wondrous strong:And he chased the deer of the forest, and many a wood-wolf slew,And many a bull of the mountains: and the desert dales he knew,And the heaths that the wind sweeps over; and seaward would he fare,Far out from the outer skerries, and alone the sea-wights dare.On a day he sat with Regin amidst the unfashioned gold,And the silver grey from the furnace; and Regin spake and toldSweet tales of the days that have been, and the Kings of the bold and wise;Till the lad's heart swelled with longing and lit his sunbright eyes.Then Regin looked upon him: "Thou too shalt one day rideAs the Volsung Kings went faring through the noble world and wide.For this land is nought and narrow, and Kings of the carles are these,And their earls are acre-biders, and their hearts are dull with peace."But Sigurd knit his brows, and in wrathful wise he said:"Ill words of those thou speakest that my youth have cherished,And the friends that have made me merry, and the land that is fair and good."Then Regin laughed and answered: "Nay, well I see by thy moodThat wide wilt thou ride in the world like thy kin of the earlier days:And wilt thou be wroth with thy master that he longs for thy winning the praise?And now if the sooth thou sayest, that these King-folk cherish thee well,Then let them give thee a gift whereof the world shall tell:Yea hearken to this my counsel, and crave for a battle-steed."Yet wroth was the lad and answered: "I have many a horse to my need,And all that the heart desireth, and what wouldst thou wish me more?"Then Regin answered and said: "Thy kin of the Kings of yoreWere the noblest men of men-folk; and their hearts would never restWhatso of good they had gotten, if their hands held not the best.Now do thou after my counsel, and crave of thy fosterers hereThat thou choose of the horses of Gripir whichso thine heart holds dear."He spake and his harp was with him, and he smote the strings full sweet,And sang of the host of the Valkyrs, how they ride the battle to meet,And the dew from the dear manes drippeth as they ride in the first of the sun,And the tree-boughs open to meet it when the wind of the dawning is done:And the deep dales drink its sweetness and spring into blossoming grass,And the earth groweth fruitful of men, and bringeth their glory to pass.Then the wrath ran off from Sigurd, and he left the smithying steadWhile the song yet rang in the doorway: and that eve to the Kings he said:"Will ye do so much for mine asking as to give me a horse to my will?For belike the days shall come, that shall all my heart fulfill,And teach me the deeds of a king."Then answered King Elf and spake:"The stalls of the Kings are before thee to set aside or to take,And nought we begrudge thee the best."Yet answered Sigurd again;For his heart of the mountains aloft and the windy drift was fain:"Fair seats for the knees of Kings! but now do I ask for a giftSuch as all the world shall be praising, the best of the strong and the swift.Ye shall give me a token for Gripir, and bid him to let me chooseFrom out of the noble stud-beasts that run in his meadow loose.But if overmuch I have asked you, forget this prayer of mine,And deem the word unspoken, and get ye to the wine."Then smiled King Elf, and answered: "A long way wilt thou ride,To where unpeace and troubles and the griefs of the soul abide,Yea unto the death at the last: yet surely shalt thou winThe praise of many a people: so have thy way herein.Forsooth no more may we hold thee than the hazel copse may holdThe sun of the early dawning, that turneth it all unto gold."Then sweetly Sigurd thanked them; and through the night he layMid dreams of many a matter till the dawn was on the way;Then he shook the sleep from off him, and that dwelling of Kings he leftAnd wended his ways unto Gripir. On a crag from the mountain reftWas the house of the old King builded; and a mighty house it was,Though few were the sons of men that over its threshold would pass:But the wild ernes cried about it, and the vultures toward it flew,And the winds from the heart of the mountains searched every chamber through,And about were meads wide-spreading; and many a beast thereon,Yea some that are men-folk's terror, their sport and pasture won.So into the hall went Sigurd; and amidst was Gripir setIn a chair of the sea-beast's tooth; and his sweeping beard nigh metThe floor that was green as the ocean, and his gown was of mountain-goldAnd the kingly staff in his hand was knobbed with the crystal cold.Now the first of the twain spake Gripir: "Hail King with the eyen bright!Nought needest thou show the token, for I know of thy life and thy light.And no need to tell of thy message; it was wafted here on the wind,That thou wouldst be coming to-day a horse in my meadow to find:And strong must he be for the bearing of those deeds of thine that shall be.Now choose thou of all the way-wearers that are running loose in my lea,And be glad as thine heart will have thee and the fate that leadeth thee on,And I bid thee again come hither when the sword of worth is won,And thy loins are girt for thy going on the road that before thee lies;For a glimmering over its darkness is come before mine eyes."Then again gat Sigurd outward, and adown the steep he ranAnd unto the horse-fed meadow: but lo, a grey-clad man,One-eyed and seeming-ancient, there met him by the way:And he spake: "Thou hastest, Sigurd; yet tarry till I sayA word that shall well bestead thee: for I know of these mountains wellAnd all the lea of Gripir, and the beasts that thereon dwell.""Wouldst thou have red gold for thy tidings? art thou Gripir's horse-herd then?Nay sure, for thy face is shining like battle-eager menMy master Regin tells of: and I love thy cloud-grey gownAnd thy visage gleams above it like a thing my dreams have known.""Nay whiles have I heeded the horse-kind," then spake that elder of days,"And sooth do the sages say, when the beasts of my breeding they praise.There is one thereof in the meadow, and, wouldst thou cull him out,Thou shalt follow an elder's counsel, who hath brought strange things about,Who hath known thy father aforetime, and other kings of thy kin."So Sigurd said, "I am ready; and what is the deed to win?"He said: "We shall drive the horses adown to the water-side,That cometh forth from the mountains, and note what next shall betide."Then the twain sped on together, and they drave the horses onTill they came to a rushing river a water wide and wan;And the white mews hovered o'er it; but none might hear their cryFor the rush and the rattle of waters, as the downlong flood swept by.So the whole herd took the river and strove the stream to stem,And many a brave steed was there; but the flood o'ermastered them:And some, it swept them down-ward, and some won back to bank,Some, caught by the net of the eddies, in the swirling hubbub sank;But one of all swam over, and they saw his mane of greyToss over the flowery meadows, a bright thing far away:Wide then he wheeled about them, then took the stream againAnd with the waves' white horses mingled his cloudy mane.Then spake the elder of days: "Hearken now, Sigurd, and hear;Time was when I gave thy father a gift thou shalt yet deem dear,And this horse is a gift of my giving:—heed nought where thou mayst ride:For I have seen thy fathers in a shining house abide,And on earth they thought of its threshold, and the gifts I had to give;Nor prayed for a little longer, and a little longer to live."Then forth he strode to the mountains, and fain was Sigurd nowTo ask him many a matter: but dim did his bright shape grow,As a man from the litten doorway fades into the dusk of night;And the sun in the high-noon shone, and the world was exceeding bright.So Sigurd turned to the river and stood by the wave-wet strand,And the grey horse swims to his feet and lightly leaps aland,And the youngling looks upon him, and deems none beside him good.And indeed, as tells the story, he was come of Sleipnir's blood,The tireless horse of Odin: cloud-grey he was of hue,And it seemed as Sigurd backed him that Sigmund's son he knew,So glad he went beneath him. Then the youngling's song aroseAs he brushed through the noon-tide blossoms of Gripir's mighty close,Then he singeth the song of Greyfell, the horse that Odin gave,Who swam through the sweeping river, and back through the toppling wave.
Now waxeth the son of Sigmund in might and goodliness,And soft the days win over, and all men his beauty bless.But amidst the summer season was the Isle-queen Hiordis wedTo King Elf the son of the Helper, and fair their life-days sped.Peace lay on the land for ever, and the fields gave good increase,And there was Sigurd waxing mid the plenty and the peace.Now hath the child grown greater, and is keen and eager of witAnd full of understanding, and oft hath the joy to sitAmid talk of weighty matters when the wise men meet for speech;And joyous he is moreover and blithe and kind with each.But Regin the wise craftsmaster heedeth the youngling well,And before the Kings he cometh, and saith such words to tell."I have fostered thy youth, King Elf, and thine O Helper of men,And ye wot that such a master no king shall see again;And now would I foster Sigurd; for, though he be none of thy blood,Mine heart of his days that shall be speaketh abundant good."Then spake the Helper of men-folk: "Yea, do herein thy will:For thou art the Master of Masters, and hast learned me all my skill:But think how bright is this youngling, and thy guile from him withhold;For this craft of thine hath shown me that thy heart is grim and cold,Though three men's lives thrice over thy wisdom might not learn;And I love this son of Sigmund, and mine heart to him doth yearn."Then Regin laughed, and answered: "I doled out cunning to thee;But nought with him will I measure: yet no cold-heart shall he be,Nor grim, nor evil-natured: for whate'er my will might frame,Gone forth is the word of the Norns, that abideth ever the same.And now, despite my cunning, how deem ye I shall die?"And they said he would live as he listed, and at last in peace should lieWhen he listed to live no longer; so mighty and wise he was.But again he laughed and answered: "One day it shall come to pass,That a beardless youth shall slay me: I know the fateful doom;But nought may I withstand it, as it heaves up dim through the gloom."So is Sigurd now with Regin, and he learns him many things;Yea, all save the craft of battle, that men learned the sons of kings:The smithying sword and war-coat; the carving runes aright;The tongues of many countries, and soft speech for men's delight;The dealing with the harp-strings, and the winding ways of song.So wise of heart waxed Sigurd, and of body wondrous strong:And he chased the deer of the forest, and many a wood-wolf slew,And many a bull of the mountains: and the desert dales he knew,And the heaths that the wind sweeps over; and seaward would he fare,Far out from the outer skerries, and alone the sea-wights dare.On a day he sat with Regin amidst the unfashioned gold,And the silver grey from the furnace; and Regin spake and toldSweet tales of the days that have been, and the Kings of the bold and wise;Till the lad's heart swelled with longing and lit his sunbright eyes.Then Regin looked upon him: "Thou too shalt one day rideAs the Volsung Kings went faring through the noble world and wide.For this land is nought and narrow, and Kings of the carles are these,And their earls are acre-biders, and their hearts are dull with peace."But Sigurd knit his brows, and in wrathful wise he said:"Ill words of those thou speakest that my youth have cherished,And the friends that have made me merry, and the land that is fair and good."Then Regin laughed and answered: "Nay, well I see by thy moodThat wide wilt thou ride in the world like thy kin of the earlier days:And wilt thou be wroth with thy master that he longs for thy winning the praise?And now if the sooth thou sayest, that these King-folk cherish thee well,Then let them give thee a gift whereof the world shall tell:Yea hearken to this my counsel, and crave for a battle-steed."Yet wroth was the lad and answered: "I have many a horse to my need,And all that the heart desireth, and what wouldst thou wish me more?"Then Regin answered and said: "Thy kin of the Kings of yoreWere the noblest men of men-folk; and their hearts would never restWhatso of good they had gotten, if their hands held not the best.Now do thou after my counsel, and crave of thy fosterers hereThat thou choose of the horses of Gripir whichso thine heart holds dear."He spake and his harp was with him, and he smote the strings full sweet,And sang of the host of the Valkyrs, how they ride the battle to meet,And the dew from the dear manes drippeth as they ride in the first of the sun,And the tree-boughs open to meet it when the wind of the dawning is done:And the deep dales drink its sweetness and spring into blossoming grass,And the earth groweth fruitful of men, and bringeth their glory to pass.Then the wrath ran off from Sigurd, and he left the smithying steadWhile the song yet rang in the doorway: and that eve to the Kings he said:"Will ye do so much for mine asking as to give me a horse to my will?For belike the days shall come, that shall all my heart fulfill,And teach me the deeds of a king."Then answered King Elf and spake:"The stalls of the Kings are before thee to set aside or to take,And nought we begrudge thee the best."Yet answered Sigurd again;For his heart of the mountains aloft and the windy drift was fain:"Fair seats for the knees of Kings! but now do I ask for a giftSuch as all the world shall be praising, the best of the strong and the swift.Ye shall give me a token for Gripir, and bid him to let me chooseFrom out of the noble stud-beasts that run in his meadow loose.But if overmuch I have asked you, forget this prayer of mine,And deem the word unspoken, and get ye to the wine."Then smiled King Elf, and answered: "A long way wilt thou ride,To where unpeace and troubles and the griefs of the soul abide,Yea unto the death at the last: yet surely shalt thou winThe praise of many a people: so have thy way herein.Forsooth no more may we hold thee than the hazel copse may holdThe sun of the early dawning, that turneth it all unto gold."Then sweetly Sigurd thanked them; and through the night he layMid dreams of many a matter till the dawn was on the way;Then he shook the sleep from off him, and that dwelling of Kings he leftAnd wended his ways unto Gripir. On a crag from the mountain reftWas the house of the old King builded; and a mighty house it was,Though few were the sons of men that over its threshold would pass:But the wild ernes cried about it, and the vultures toward it flew,And the winds from the heart of the mountains searched every chamber through,And about were meads wide-spreading; and many a beast thereon,Yea some that are men-folk's terror, their sport and pasture won.So into the hall went Sigurd; and amidst was Gripir setIn a chair of the sea-beast's tooth; and his sweeping beard nigh metThe floor that was green as the ocean, and his gown was of mountain-goldAnd the kingly staff in his hand was knobbed with the crystal cold.Now the first of the twain spake Gripir: "Hail King with the eyen bright!Nought needest thou show the token, for I know of thy life and thy light.And no need to tell of thy message; it was wafted here on the wind,That thou wouldst be coming to-day a horse in my meadow to find:And strong must he be for the bearing of those deeds of thine that shall be.Now choose thou of all the way-wearers that are running loose in my lea,And be glad as thine heart will have thee and the fate that leadeth thee on,And I bid thee again come hither when the sword of worth is won,And thy loins are girt for thy going on the road that before thee lies;For a glimmering over its darkness is come before mine eyes."Then again gat Sigurd outward, and adown the steep he ranAnd unto the horse-fed meadow: but lo, a grey-clad man,One-eyed and seeming-ancient, there met him by the way:And he spake: "Thou hastest, Sigurd; yet tarry till I sayA word that shall well bestead thee: for I know of these mountains wellAnd all the lea of Gripir, and the beasts that thereon dwell.""Wouldst thou have red gold for thy tidings? art thou Gripir's horse-herd then?Nay sure, for thy face is shining like battle-eager menMy master Regin tells of: and I love thy cloud-grey gownAnd thy visage gleams above it like a thing my dreams have known.""Nay whiles have I heeded the horse-kind," then spake that elder of days,"And sooth do the sages say, when the beasts of my breeding they praise.There is one thereof in the meadow, and, wouldst thou cull him out,Thou shalt follow an elder's counsel, who hath brought strange things about,Who hath known thy father aforetime, and other kings of thy kin."So Sigurd said, "I am ready; and what is the deed to win?"He said: "We shall drive the horses adown to the water-side,That cometh forth from the mountains, and note what next shall betide."Then the twain sped on together, and they drave the horses onTill they came to a rushing river a water wide and wan;And the white mews hovered o'er it; but none might hear their cryFor the rush and the rattle of waters, as the downlong flood swept by.So the whole herd took the river and strove the stream to stem,And many a brave steed was there; but the flood o'ermastered them:And some, it swept them down-ward, and some won back to bank,Some, caught by the net of the eddies, in the swirling hubbub sank;But one of all swam over, and they saw his mane of greyToss over the flowery meadows, a bright thing far away:Wide then he wheeled about them, then took the stream againAnd with the waves' white horses mingled his cloudy mane.Then spake the elder of days: "Hearken now, Sigurd, and hear;Time was when I gave thy father a gift thou shalt yet deem dear,And this horse is a gift of my giving:—heed nought where thou mayst ride:For I have seen thy fathers in a shining house abide,And on earth they thought of its threshold, and the gifts I had to give;Nor prayed for a little longer, and a little longer to live."Then forth he strode to the mountains, and fain was Sigurd nowTo ask him many a matter: but dim did his bright shape grow,As a man from the litten doorway fades into the dusk of night;And the sun in the high-noon shone, and the world was exceeding bright.So Sigurd turned to the river and stood by the wave-wet strand,And the grey horse swims to his feet and lightly leaps aland,And the youngling looks upon him, and deems none beside him good.And indeed, as tells the story, he was come of Sleipnir's blood,The tireless horse of Odin: cloud-grey he was of hue,And it seemed as Sigurd backed him that Sigmund's son he knew,So glad he went beneath him. Then the youngling's song aroseAs he brushed through the noon-tide blossoms of Gripir's mighty close,Then he singeth the song of Greyfell, the horse that Odin gave,Who swam through the sweeping river, and back through the toppling wave.
Now yet the days pass over, and more than words may tellGrows Sigurd strong and lovely, and all children love him well.But oft he looks on the mountains and many a time is fainTo know of what lies beyond them, and learn of the wide world's gain.And he saith: "I dwell in a land that is ruled by none of my blood;And my mother's sons are waxing, and fair kings shall they be and good;And their servant or their betrayer—not one of these will I be.Yet needs must I wait for a little till Odin calls for me."Now again it happed on a day that he sat in Regin's hallAnd hearkened many tidings of what had chanced to fall,And of kings that sought their kingdoms o'er many a waste and wild,And at last saith the crafty master:"Thou art King Sigmund's child:Wilt thou wait till these kings of the carles shall die in a little land,Or wilt thou serve their sons and carry the cup to their hand;Or abide in vain for the day that never shall come about,When their banners shall dance in the wind and shake to the war-gods' shout?"Then Sigurd answered and said: "Nought such do I look to be.But thou, a deedless man, too much thou eggest me:And these folk are good and trusty, and the land is lovely and sweet,And in rest and in peace it lieth as the floor of Odin's feet:Yet I know that the world is wide, and filled with deeds unwrought;And for e'en such work was I fashioned, lest the song-craft come to nought,When the harps of God-home tinkle, and the Gods are at stretch to hearken;Lest the hosts of the Gods be scanty when their day hath begun to darken,When the bonds of the Wolf wax thin, and Loki fretteth his chain.And sure for the house of my fathers full oft my heart is fain,And meseemeth I hear them talking of the day when I shall come,And of all the burden of deeds, that my hand shall bear them home.And so when the deed is ready, nowise the man shall lack:But the wary foot is the surest, and the hasty oft turns back."Then answered Regin the guileful: "The deed is ready to hand,Yet holding my peace is the best, for well thou lovest the land;And thou lovest thy life moreover, and the peace of thy youthful days,And why should the full-fed feaster his hand to the rye-bread raise?Yet they say that Sigmund begat thee and he looked to fashion a man.Fear nought; he lieth quiet in his mound by the sea-waves wan."So shone the eyes of Sigurd, that the shield against him hungCast back their light as the sunbeams; but his voice to the roof-tree rung:"Tell me, thou Master of Masters, what deed is the deed I shall do?Nor mock thou the son of Sigmund lest the day of his birth thou rue."Then answered the Master of Sleight: "The deed is the righting of wrong,And the quelling a bale and a sorrow that the world hath endured o'erlong,And the winning a treasure untold, that shall make thee more than the kings;Thereof is the Helm of Aweing, the wonder of earthly things,And thereof is its very fellow, the War-coat all of gold,That has not its like in the heavens, nor has earth of its fellow told."Then answered Sigurd the Volsung: "How long hereof hast thou known?And what unto thee is this treasure, that thou seemest to give as thine own?""Alas!" quoth the smithying master, "it is mine, yet none of mineSince my heart herein avails not, and my hand is frail and fine—It is long since I first came hither to seek a man for my need;For I saw by a glimmering light that hence would spring the deed,And many a deed of the world: but the generations passed,And the first of the days was as near to the end that I sought as the last;Till I looked on thine eyes in the cradle: and now I deem through thee,That the end of my days of waiting, and the end of my woes shall be."Then Sigurd awhile was silent; but at last he answered and said:"Thou shalt have thy will and the treasure, and shalt take the curse on thine headIf a curse the gold enwrappeth: but the deed will I surely do,For to-day the dreams of my childhood have bloomed in my heart anew:And I long to look on the world and the glory of the earthAnd to deal in the dealings of men, and garner the harvest of worth.But tell me, thou Master of Masters, where lieth this measureless wealth;Is it guarded by swords of the earl-folk, or kept by cunning and stealth?Is it over the main sea's darkness, or beyond the mountain wall?Or e'en in these peaceful acres anigh to the hands of all?"Then Regin answered sweetly: "Hereof must a tale be told:Bide sitting, thou son of Sigmund, on the heap of unwrought gold,And hearken of wondrous matters, and of things unheard, unsaid,And deeds of my beholding ere the first of Kings was made."And first ye shall know of a sooth, that I never was born of the raceWhich the masters of God-home have made to cover the fair earth's face;But I come of the Dwarfs departed; and fair was the earth whileomeEre the short-lived thralls of the Gods amidst its dales were come:—And how were we worse than the Gods, though maybe we lived not as long?Yet no weight of memory maimed us; nor aught we knew of wrong.What felt our souls of shaming, what knew our hearts of love?We did and undid at pleasure, and repented nought thereof.—Yea we were exceeding mighty—bear with me yet, my son;For whiles can I scarcely think it that our days are wholly done.And trust not thy life in my hands in the day when most I seemLike the Dwarfs that are long departed, and most of my kindred I dream."So as we dwelt came tidings that the Gods amongst us were,And the people come from Asgard: then rose up hope and fear,And strange shapes of things went flitting betwixt the night and the eve,And our sons waxed wild and wrathful, and our daughters learned to grieve.Then we fell to the working of metal, and the deeps of the earth would know,And we dealt with venom and leechcraft, and we fashioned spear and bow,And we set the ribs to the oak-keel, and looked on the landless sea;And the world began to be such-like as the Gods would have it to be.In the womb of the woeful Earth had they quickened the grief and the gold."It was Reidmar the Ancient begat me; and now was he waxen old,And a covetous man and a king; and he bade, and I built him a hall,And a golden glorious house; and thereto his sons did he call,And he bade them be evil and wise, that his will through them might be wrought.Then he gave unto Fafnir my brother the soul that feareth nought,And the brow of the hardened iron, and the hand that may never fail,And the greedy heart of a king, and the ear that hears no wail."But next unto Otter my brother he gave the snare and the netAnd the longing to wend through the wild-wood, and wade the highways wet:And the foot that never resteth, while aught be left aliveThat hath cunning to match man's cunning or might with his might to strive."And to me, the least and the youngest, what gift for the slaying of ease?Save the grief that remembers the past, and the fear that the future sees;And the hammer and fashioning-iron, and the living coal of fire;And the craft that createth a semblance, and fails of the heart's desire;And the toil that each dawning quickens and the task that is never done,And the heart that longeth ever, nor will look to the deed that is won."Thus gave my father the gifts that might never be taken again;Far worse were we now than the Gods, and but little better than men.But yet of our ancient might one thing had we left us still:We had craft to change our semblance, and could shift us at our willInto bodies of the beast-kind, or fowl, or fishes cold;For belike no fixed semblance we had in the days of old,Till the Gods were waxen busy, and all things their form must takeThat knew of good and evil, and longed to gather and make.
Now yet the days pass over, and more than words may tellGrows Sigurd strong and lovely, and all children love him well.But oft he looks on the mountains and many a time is fainTo know of what lies beyond them, and learn of the wide world's gain.And he saith: "I dwell in a land that is ruled by none of my blood;And my mother's sons are waxing, and fair kings shall they be and good;And their servant or their betrayer—not one of these will I be.Yet needs must I wait for a little till Odin calls for me."Now again it happed on a day that he sat in Regin's hallAnd hearkened many tidings of what had chanced to fall,And of kings that sought their kingdoms o'er many a waste and wild,And at last saith the crafty master:"Thou art King Sigmund's child:Wilt thou wait till these kings of the carles shall die in a little land,Or wilt thou serve their sons and carry the cup to their hand;Or abide in vain for the day that never shall come about,When their banners shall dance in the wind and shake to the war-gods' shout?"Then Sigurd answered and said: "Nought such do I look to be.But thou, a deedless man, too much thou eggest me:And these folk are good and trusty, and the land is lovely and sweet,And in rest and in peace it lieth as the floor of Odin's feet:Yet I know that the world is wide, and filled with deeds unwrought;And for e'en such work was I fashioned, lest the song-craft come to nought,When the harps of God-home tinkle, and the Gods are at stretch to hearken;Lest the hosts of the Gods be scanty when their day hath begun to darken,When the bonds of the Wolf wax thin, and Loki fretteth his chain.And sure for the house of my fathers full oft my heart is fain,And meseemeth I hear them talking of the day when I shall come,And of all the burden of deeds, that my hand shall bear them home.And so when the deed is ready, nowise the man shall lack:But the wary foot is the surest, and the hasty oft turns back."Then answered Regin the guileful: "The deed is ready to hand,Yet holding my peace is the best, for well thou lovest the land;And thou lovest thy life moreover, and the peace of thy youthful days,And why should the full-fed feaster his hand to the rye-bread raise?Yet they say that Sigmund begat thee and he looked to fashion a man.Fear nought; he lieth quiet in his mound by the sea-waves wan."So shone the eyes of Sigurd, that the shield against him hungCast back their light as the sunbeams; but his voice to the roof-tree rung:"Tell me, thou Master of Masters, what deed is the deed I shall do?Nor mock thou the son of Sigmund lest the day of his birth thou rue."Then answered the Master of Sleight: "The deed is the righting of wrong,And the quelling a bale and a sorrow that the world hath endured o'erlong,And the winning a treasure untold, that shall make thee more than the kings;Thereof is the Helm of Aweing, the wonder of earthly things,And thereof is its very fellow, the War-coat all of gold,That has not its like in the heavens, nor has earth of its fellow told."Then answered Sigurd the Volsung: "How long hereof hast thou known?And what unto thee is this treasure, that thou seemest to give as thine own?""Alas!" quoth the smithying master, "it is mine, yet none of mineSince my heart herein avails not, and my hand is frail and fine—It is long since I first came hither to seek a man for my need;For I saw by a glimmering light that hence would spring the deed,And many a deed of the world: but the generations passed,And the first of the days was as near to the end that I sought as the last;Till I looked on thine eyes in the cradle: and now I deem through thee,That the end of my days of waiting, and the end of my woes shall be."Then Sigurd awhile was silent; but at last he answered and said:"Thou shalt have thy will and the treasure, and shalt take the curse on thine headIf a curse the gold enwrappeth: but the deed will I surely do,For to-day the dreams of my childhood have bloomed in my heart anew:And I long to look on the world and the glory of the earthAnd to deal in the dealings of men, and garner the harvest of worth.But tell me, thou Master of Masters, where lieth this measureless wealth;Is it guarded by swords of the earl-folk, or kept by cunning and stealth?Is it over the main sea's darkness, or beyond the mountain wall?Or e'en in these peaceful acres anigh to the hands of all?"Then Regin answered sweetly: "Hereof must a tale be told:Bide sitting, thou son of Sigmund, on the heap of unwrought gold,And hearken of wondrous matters, and of things unheard, unsaid,And deeds of my beholding ere the first of Kings was made."And first ye shall know of a sooth, that I never was born of the raceWhich the masters of God-home have made to cover the fair earth's face;But I come of the Dwarfs departed; and fair was the earth whileomeEre the short-lived thralls of the Gods amidst its dales were come:—And how were we worse than the Gods, though maybe we lived not as long?Yet no weight of memory maimed us; nor aught we knew of wrong.What felt our souls of shaming, what knew our hearts of love?We did and undid at pleasure, and repented nought thereof.—Yea we were exceeding mighty—bear with me yet, my son;For whiles can I scarcely think it that our days are wholly done.And trust not thy life in my hands in the day when most I seemLike the Dwarfs that are long departed, and most of my kindred I dream."So as we dwelt came tidings that the Gods amongst us were,And the people come from Asgard: then rose up hope and fear,And strange shapes of things went flitting betwixt the night and the eve,And our sons waxed wild and wrathful, and our daughters learned to grieve.Then we fell to the working of metal, and the deeps of the earth would know,And we dealt with venom and leechcraft, and we fashioned spear and bow,And we set the ribs to the oak-keel, and looked on the landless sea;And the world began to be such-like as the Gods would have it to be.In the womb of the woeful Earth had they quickened the grief and the gold."It was Reidmar the Ancient begat me; and now was he waxen old,And a covetous man and a king; and he bade, and I built him a hall,And a golden glorious house; and thereto his sons did he call,And he bade them be evil and wise, that his will through them might be wrought.Then he gave unto Fafnir my brother the soul that feareth nought,And the brow of the hardened iron, and the hand that may never fail,And the greedy heart of a king, and the ear that hears no wail."But next unto Otter my brother he gave the snare and the netAnd the longing to wend through the wild-wood, and wade the highways wet:And the foot that never resteth, while aught be left aliveThat hath cunning to match man's cunning or might with his might to strive."And to me, the least and the youngest, what gift for the slaying of ease?Save the grief that remembers the past, and the fear that the future sees;And the hammer and fashioning-iron, and the living coal of fire;And the craft that createth a semblance, and fails of the heart's desire;And the toil that each dawning quickens and the task that is never done,And the heart that longeth ever, nor will look to the deed that is won."Thus gave my father the gifts that might never be taken again;Far worse were we now than the Gods, and but little better than men.But yet of our ancient might one thing had we left us still:We had craft to change our semblance, and could shift us at our willInto bodies of the beast-kind, or fowl, or fishes cold;For belike no fixed semblance we had in the days of old,Till the Gods were waxen busy, and all things their form must takeThat knew of good and evil, and longed to gather and make.