The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs. William Morris

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СКАЧАТЬ 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;

       Then back unto the high-seat he wended soberly;

       For this was the thought within him; Belike the day shall come

       When I shall bide here lonely amid the Volsung home,

       Its glory and sole avenger, its after-summer seed.

       Yea, I am the hired of Odin, his workday will to speed,

       And the harvest-tide shall be heavy.—What then, were it come and past

       And I laid by the last of the sheaves with my wages earned at the last?

      He lifted his eyes as he thought it, for now was he come to his place,

       And there he stood by his father and met Siggeir face to face,

       And he saw him blithe and smiling, and heard him how he spake:

       "O best of the sons of Volsung, I am merry for thy sake

       And the glory that thou hast gained us; but whereas thine hand and heart

       Are e'en now the lords of the battle, how lack'st thou for thy part

       A matter to better the best? Wilt thou overgild fine gold

       Or dye the red rose redder? So I prithee let me hold

       This sword that comes to thine hand on the day I wed thy kin.

       For at home have I a store-house; there is mountain-gold therein

       The weight of a war-king's harness; there is silver plenteous store;

       There is iron, and huge-wrought amber, that the southern men love sore,

       When they sell me the woven wonder, the purple born of the sea;

       And it hangeth up in that bower; and all this is a gift for thee:

       But the sword that came to my wedding, methinketh it meet and right,

       That it lie on my knees in the council and stead me in the fight."

      But Sigmund laughed and answered, and he spake a scornful word:

       "And if I take twice that treasure, will it buy me Odin's sword,

       And the gift that the Gods have given? will it buy me again to stand

       Betwixt two mightiest world-kings with a longed-for thing in mine hand

       That all their might hath missed of? when the purple-selling men

       Come buying thine iron and amber, dost thou sell thine honour then?

       Do they wrap it in bast of the linden, or run it in moulds of earth?

       And shalt thou account mine honour as a matter of lesser worth?

       Came the sword to thy wedding, Goth-king, to thine hand it never came,

       And thence is thine envy СКАЧАТЬ