The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs Part 13

But now when the moon was at full and the undark May begun, Went Sigurd unto Regin mid the slumber of the sun, And amidst the fire-hall's pavement the King of the Dwarf-kind stood Like an image of deeds departed and days that once were good; And he seemed but faint and weary, and his eyes were dim and dazed As they met the glory of Sigurd where the fitful candles blazed.

Then he spake: "Hail, Son of the Volsungs, the corner-stone is laid, I have toiled and thou hast desired, and, lo, the fateful blade!"

Then Sigurd saw it lying on the ashes slaked and pale, Like the sun and the lightning mingled mid the even's cloudy bale, For ruddy and great were the hilts, and the edges fine and wan, And all adown to the blood-point a very flame there ran That swallowed the runes of wisdom wherewith its sides were scored.

No sound did Sigurd utter as he stooped adown for his sword, But it seemed as his lips were moving with speech of strong desire.

White leapt the blade o'er his head, and he stood in the ring of its fire As. .h.i.ther and thither it played, till it fell on the anvil's strength, And he cried aloud in his glory, and held out the sword full length, As one who would show it the world; for the edges were dulled no whit, And the anvil was cleft to the pavement with the dreadful dint of it.

But Regin cried to his harp-strings: "Before the days of men I smithied the Wrath of Sigurd, and now is it smithied again: And my hand alone hath done it, and my heart alone hath dared To bid that man to the mountain, and behold his glory bared.

Ah, if the son of Sigmund might wot of the thing I would, Then how were the ages bettered, and the world all waxen good!

Then how were the past forgotten and the weary days of yore, And the hope of man that dieth and the waste that never bore!

How should this one live through the winter and know of all increase!

How should that one spring to the sunlight and bear the blossom of peace!

No more should the long-lived wisdom o'er the waste of the wilderness stray; Nor the clear-eyed hero hasten to the deedless ending of day.

And what if the hearts of the Volsungs for this deed of deeds were born, How then were their life-days evil and the end of their lives forlorn?"

There stood Sigurd the Volsung, and heard how the harp-strings rang, But of other things they told him than the hope that the Master sang; And his world lay far away from the Dwarf-king's eyeless realm And the road that leadeth nowhere, and the s.h.i.+p without a helm: But he spake: "How oft shall I say it, that I shall work thy will?

If my father hath made me mighty, thine heart shall I fulfill With the wisdom and gold thou wouldest, before I wend on my ways; For now hast thou failed me nought, and the sword is the wonder of days."

No word for a while spake Regin; but he hung his head adown As a man that pondereth sorely, and his voice once more was grown As the voice of the smithying-master as he spake: "This Wrath of thine Hath cleft the hard and the heavy; it shall shear the soft and the fine: Come forth to the night and prove it."

So they twain went forth abroad, And the moon lay white on the river and lit the sleepless ford, And down to its pools they wended, and the stream was swift and full; Then Regin cast against it a lock of fine-spun wool, And it whirled about on the eddy till it met the edges bared, And as clean as the careless water the laboured fleece was sheared.

Then Regin spake: "It is good, what the smithying-carle hath wrought: Now the work of the King beginneth, and the end that my soul hath sought.

Thou shalt toil and I shall desire, and the deed shall be surely done: For thy Wrath is alive and awake and the story of bale is begun."

Therewith was the Wrath of Sigurd laid soft in a golden sheath And the peace-strings knit around it; for that blade was fain of death; And 'tis ill to show such edges to the broad blue light of day, Or to let the hall-glare light them, if ye list not play the play.

_Of Gripir's Foretelling._

Now Sigurd backeth Greyfell on the first of the morrow morn, And he rideth fair and softly through the acres of the corn; The Wrath to his side is girded, but hid are the edges blue, As he wendeth his ways to the mountains, and rideth the horse-mead through.

His wide grey eyes are happy, and his voice is sweet and soft, As amid the mead-lark's singing he casteth song aloft: Lo, lo, the horse and the rider! So once maybe it was, When over the Earth unpeopled the youngest G.o.d would pa.s.s; But never again meseemeth shall such a sight betide, Till over a world unwrongful new-born shall Baldur ride.

So he comes to that ness of the mountains, and Gripir's garden steep, That bravely Greyfell breasteth, and adown by the door doth he leap And his war-gear rattleth upon him; there is none to ask or forbid As he wendeth the house clear-lighted, where no mote of the dust is hid, Though the sunlight hath not entered: the walls are clear and bright, For they cast back each to other the golden Sigurd's light; Through the echoing ways of the house bright-eyed he wendeth along, And the mountain-wind is with him, and the hovering eagles' song; But no sound of the children of men may the ears of the Volsung hear, And no sign of their ways in the world, or their will, or their hope or their fear.

So he comes to the hall of Gripir, and gleaming-green is it built As the house of under-ocean where the wealth of the greedy is spilt; Gleaming and green as the sea, and rich as its rock-strewn floor, And fresh as the autumn morning when the burning of summer is o'er.

There he looks and beholdeth the high-seat, and he sees it strangely wrought, Of the tooth of the sea-beast fas.h.i.+oned ere the Dwarf-kind came to nought; And he looks, and thereon is Gripir, the King exceeding old, With the sword of his fathers girded, and his raiment wrought of gold; With the ivory rod in his right-hand, with his left on the crystal laid, That is round as the world of men-folk, and after its image made, And clear is it wrought to the eyen that may read therein of Fate, Though little indeed be its sea, and its earth not wondrous great.

There Sigurd stands in the hall, on the sheathed Wrath doth he lean.

All his golden light is mirrored in the gleaming floor and green; But the smile in his face upriseth as he looks on the ancient King, And their glad eyes meet and their laughter, and sweet is the welcoming: And Gripir saith: "Hail Sigurd! for my bidding hast thou done, And here in the mountain-dwelling are two Kings of men alone."

But Sigurd spake: "Hail father! I am girt with the fateful sword And my face is set to the highway, and I come for thy latest word."

Said Gripir: "What wouldst thou hearken ere we sit and drink the wine?"

"Thy word and the Norns'," said Sigurd, "but never a word of mine."

"What sights wouldst thou see," said Gripir, "ere mine hand shall take thine hand?"

"As the G.o.ds would I see," said Sigurd, "though Death light up the land."

"What hope wouldst thou hope, O Sigurd, ere we kiss, we twain, and depart?"

"Thy hope and the G.o.ds'," said Sigurd, "though the grief lie hard on my heart."

Nought answered the ancient wise-one, and not a whit had he stirred Since the clash of Sigurd's raiment in his mountain-hall he heard; But the ball that imaged the earth was set in his hand grown old; And belike it was to his vision, as the wide-world's ocean rolled, And the forests waved with the wind, and the corn was gay with the lark, And the gold in its nether places grew up in the dusk and the dark, And its children built and departed, and its King-folk conquered and went, As over the crystal image his all-wise face was bent: For all his desire was dead, and he lived as a G.o.d shall live, Whom the prayers of the world hath forgotten, and to whom no hand may give.

But there stood the mighty Volsung, and leaned on the hidden Wrath; As the earliest sun's uprising o'er the sea-plain draws a path Whereby men sail to the Eastward and the dawn of another day, So the image of King Sigurd on the gleaming pavement lay.

Then great in the hall fair-pillared the voice of Gripir arose, And it ran through the glimmering house-ways, and forth to the sunny close; There mid the birds' rejoicing went the voice of an o'er-wise King Like a wind of midmost winter come back to talk with spring.

But the voice cried: "Sigurd, Sigurd! O great, O early born!

O hope of the Kings first fas.h.i.+oned! O blossom of the morn!

Short day and long remembrance, fair summer of the North!

One day shall the worn world wonder how first thou wentest forth!

"Arise, O Sigurd, Sigurd! In the night arise and go, Thou shalt smite when the day-dawn glimmers through the folds of G.o.d-home's foe:

"There the child in the noon-tide smiteth; the young King rendeth apart, The old guile by the guile encompa.s.sed, the heart made wise by the heart.

"Bind the red rings, O Sigurd; bind up to cast abroad!

That the earth may laugh before thee rejoiced by the Waters' h.o.a.rd.

"Ride on, O Sigurd, Sigurd! for G.o.d's word goes forth on the wind, And he speaketh not twice over; nor shall they loose that bind: But the Day and the Day shall loosen, and the Day shall awake and arise, And the Day shall rejoice with the Dawning, and the wise heart learn of the wise.

"O fair, O fearless, O mighty, how green are the garths of Kings, How soft are the ways before thee to the heart of their war-farings!

"How green are the garths of King-folk, how fair is the lily and rose In the house of the Cloudy People, 'neath the towers of kings and foes!

"Smite now, smite now in the noontide! ride on through the hosts of men!

Lest the dear remembrance perish, and today come not again.

"Is it day?--But the house is darkling--But the hand would gather and hold, And the lips have kissed the cloud-wreath, and a cloud the arms enfold.

"In the dusk hath the Sower arisen; in the dark hath he cast the seed, And the ear is the sorrow of Odin and the wrong, and the nameless need!

"Ah the hand hath gathered and garnered, and empty is the hand, Though the day be full and fruitful mid the drift of the Cloudy Land!

"Look, look on the drift of the clouds, how the day and the even doth grow As the long-forgotten dawning that was a while ago!

"Dawn, dawn, O mighty of men! and why wilt thou never awake, When the holy field of the Goth-folk cries out for thy love and thy sake?

"Dawn, now; but the house is silent, and dark is the purple blood On the breast of the Queen fair-fas.h.i.+oned; and it riseth up as a flood Round the posts of the door beloved; and a deed there lieth therein: The last of the deeds of Sigurd; the worst of the Cloudy Kin-- The slayer slain by the slain within the door and without.

--O dawn as the eve of the birth-day! O dark world c.u.mbered with doubt!

"Shall it never be day any more, nor the sun's uprising and growth?

Shall the kings of earth lie sleeping and the war-dukes wander in sloth Through the last of the winter twilight? is the word of the wise-ones said Till the five-fold winter be ended and the trumpet waken the dead?

"Short day and long remembrance! great glory for the earth!

O deeds of the Day triumphant! O word of Sigurd's worth!

It is done, and who shall undo it of all who were ever alive?