The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs, William Morris [historical books to read txt] 📗
- Author: William Morris
Book online «The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs, William Morris [historical books to read txt] 📗». Author William Morris
forest, or hath the shield-hung fir
Brought war from the outer ocean to their fish-belovèd stream?
Or have the piping shepherds beheld the war-gear gleam
Adown the flowery sheep-dales? or betwixt the poplars grey
Have the neat-herds seen the banners of the drivers of the prey?
Brought war from the outer ocean to their fish-belovèd stream?
Or have the piping shepherds beheld the war-gear gleam
Adown the flowery sheep-dales? or betwixt the poplars grey
Have the neat-herds seen the banners of the drivers of the prey?
No, the forest shall be empty of the Lymdale men this morn,
And the wells of the Lymdale river have heard no battle-horn,
Nor the sheep in the flowery hollows seen any painted shield,
And nought from the fear of warriors bide the neat-herds from the field;
Yet full is the hall of Heimir with eager earls of war,
And the long-locked happy shepherds are gathered round the door,
And the smith has left his stithy, and the wife has left her rock,
And the bright thrums hang unwinded by the maiden's weaving-stock:
And there is the wife and the maiden, the elder and the boy;
And scarce shall you tell what moves them, much sorrow or great joy.
And the wells of the Lymdale river have heard no battle-horn,
Nor the sheep in the flowery hollows seen any painted shield,
And nought from the fear of warriors bide the neat-herds from the field;
Yet full is the hall of Heimir with eager earls of war,
And the long-locked happy shepherds are gathered round the door,
And the smith has left his stithy, and the wife has left her rock,
And the bright thrums hang unwinded by the maiden's weaving-stock:
And there is the wife and the maiden, the elder and the boy;
And scarce shall you tell what moves them, much sorrow or great joy.
But lo, as they gather and hearken by the door of Heimir's hall,
The wave of a mighty music on the souls of men doth fall,
And they bow their heads and hush them, because for a dear guest's sake
Is Heimir's hand in the harp-strings and the ancient song is awake,
And the words of the Gods' own fellow, and the hope of days gone by;
[Pg 169]Then deep is that song-speech laden with the deeds that draw anigh,
And many a hope accomplished, and many an unhoped change,
And things of all once spoken, now grown exceeding strange;
Then keen as the battle-piercer the stringèd speech arose,
And the hearts of men went with it, as of them that meet the foes;
Then soared the song triumphant as o'er the world well won,
Till sweet and soft it ended as a rose falls 'neath the sun;
But thereafter was there silence till the earls cast up the shout,
And the whole house clashed and glittered as the tramp of men bore out,
And folk fell back before them; then forth the earl-folk pour,
And forth comes Heimir the Ancient and stands by his fathers' door:
And then is the feast-hall empty and none therein abides:
For forth on the cloudy Greyfell the Son of Sigmund rides,
And the Helm of Awe he beareth, and the Mail-coat all of gold,
That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told,
And the Wrath to his side is girded, though the peace-strings wind it round,
Yet oft and again it singeth, and strange is its sheathèd sound:
But beneath the King in his war-gear and beneath the wondrous Sword
Are the red rings of the Treasure, and the gems of Andvari's Hoard,
And light goes Greyfell beneath it, and oft and o'er again
He neighs out hope of battle, for the heart of the beast is fain.
The wave of a mighty music on the souls of men doth fall,
And they bow their heads and hush them, because for a dear guest's sake
Is Heimir's hand in the harp-strings and the ancient song is awake,
And the words of the Gods' own fellow, and the hope of days gone by;
[Pg 169]Then deep is that song-speech laden with the deeds that draw anigh,
And many a hope accomplished, and many an unhoped change,
And things of all once spoken, now grown exceeding strange;
Then keen as the battle-piercer the stringèd speech arose,
And the hearts of men went with it, as of them that meet the foes;
Then soared the song triumphant as o'er the world well won,
Till sweet and soft it ended as a rose falls 'neath the sun;
But thereafter was there silence till the earls cast up the shout,
And the whole house clashed and glittered as the tramp of men bore out,
And folk fell back before them; then forth the earl-folk pour,
And forth comes Heimir the Ancient and stands by his fathers' door:
And then is the feast-hall empty and none therein abides:
For forth on the cloudy Greyfell the Son of Sigmund rides,
And the Helm of Awe he beareth, and the Mail-coat all of gold,
That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told,
And the Wrath to his side is girded, though the peace-strings wind it round,
Yet oft and again it singeth, and strange is its sheathèd sound:
But beneath the King in his war-gear and beneath the wondrous Sword
Are the red rings of the Treasure, and the gems of Andvari's Hoard,
And light goes Greyfell beneath it, and oft and o'er again
He neighs out hope of battle, for the heart of the beast is fain.
So there sitteth Sigurd the Volsung, and is dight to ride his ways,
For the world lies fair before him and the field of the people's praise;
And he kisseth the ancient Heimir, and haileth the folk of the land,
And he crieth kind and joyous as the reins lie loose in his hand:
"Farewell, O folk of Lymdale, and your joy of the summer-tide!
For the acres whiten, meseemeth, and the harvest-field is wide:
Who knows of the toil that shall be, when the reaping-hook gleams grey,
And the knees of the strong are loosened in the afternoon of day?
Who knows of the joy that shall be, when the reaper cometh again,
And his sheaves are crowned with the blossoms, and the song goes up from the wain?
But now let the Gods look to it, to hinder or to speed!
[Pg 170]But the love and the longing I know, and I know the hand and the deed."
For the world lies fair before him and the field of the people's praise;
And he kisseth the ancient Heimir, and haileth the folk of the land,
And he crieth kind and joyous as the reins lie loose in his hand:
"Farewell, O folk of Lymdale, and your joy of the summer-tide!
For the acres whiten, meseemeth, and the harvest-field is wide:
Who knows of the toil that shall be, when the reaping-hook gleams grey,
And the knees of the strong are loosened in the afternoon of day?
Who knows of the joy that shall be, when the reaper cometh again,
And his sheaves are crowned with the blossoms, and the song goes up from the wain?
But now let the Gods look to it, to hinder or to speed!
[Pg 170]But the love and the longing I know, and I know the hand and the deed."
And he gathered the reins together, and set his face to the road,
And the glad steed neighed beneath him as they fared from the King's abode,
And out past the dewy closes; but the shouts went up to the sky,
Though some for very sorrow forbore the farewell cry,
Nor was any man but heavy that the godlike guest should go;
And they craved for that glad heart guileless, and that face without a foe.
But Greyfell fareth onward, and back to the dusky hall
Now goeth the ancient Heimir, and back to bower and stall,
And back to hammer and shuttle go earl and carle and quean;
And piping in the noontide adown the hollows green
Go the yellow-headed shepherds amidst the scattered sheep;
And all hearts a dear remembrance and a hope of Sigurd keep.
And the glad steed neighed beneath him as they fared from the King's abode,
And out past the dewy closes; but the shouts went up to the sky,
Though some for very sorrow forbore the farewell cry,
Nor was any man but heavy that the godlike guest should go;
And they craved for that glad heart guileless, and that face without a foe.
But Greyfell fareth onward, and back to the dusky hall
Now goeth the ancient Heimir, and back to bower and stall,
And back to hammer and shuttle go earl and carle and quean;
And piping in the noontide adown the hollows green
Go the yellow-headed shepherds amidst the scattered sheep;
And all hearts a dear remembrance and a hope of Sigurd keep.
But forth by dale and lealand doth the Son of Sigmund wend,
Till far away lies Lymdale and the folk of the forest's end;
And he rides a heath unpeopled and holds the westward way,
Till a long way off before him come up the mountains grey;
Grey, huge beyond all telling, and the host of the heapèd clouds,
The black and the white together, on that rock-wall's coping crowds;
But whiles are rents athwart them, and the hot sun pierceth through,
And there glow the angry cloud-caves 'gainst the everlasting blue,
And the changeless snow amidst it; but down from that cloudy head
The scars of fires that have been show grim and dusky-red;
And lower yet are the hollows striped down by the scanty green,
And lingering flecks of the cloud-host are tangled there-between,
White, pillowy, lit by the sun, unchanged by the drift of the wind.
Till far away lies Lymdale and the folk of the forest's end;
And he rides a heath unpeopled and holds the westward way,
Till a long way off before him come up the mountains grey;
Grey, huge beyond all telling, and the host of the heapèd clouds,
The black and the white together, on that rock-wall's coping crowds;
But whiles are rents athwart them, and the hot sun pierceth through,
And there glow the angry cloud-caves 'gainst the everlasting blue,
And the changeless snow amidst it; but down from that cloudy head
The scars of fires that have been show grim and dusky-red;
And lower yet are the hollows striped down by the scanty green,
And lingering flecks of the cloud-host are tangled there-between,
White, pillowy, lit by the sun, unchanged by the drift of the wind.
Long Sigurd looked and marvelled, and up-raised his heart and his mind;
For he deemed that beyond that rock-wall bode his changèd love and life
On the further side of the battle, and the hope, and the shifting strife:
So up and down he rideth, till at even of the day
[Pg 171]A hill's brow he o'ertoppeth that had hid the mountains grey;
Huge, blacker they showed than aforetime, white hung the cloud-flecks there,
But red was the cloudy crown, for the sun was sinking fair:
A wide plain lay beneath him, and a river through it wound
Betwixt the lea and the acres, and the misty orchard ground;
But forth from the feet of the mountains a ridgèd hill there ran
That upreared at its hithermost ending a builded burg of man;
And Sigurd deemed in his heart as he looked on the burg from afar,
That the high Gods scarce might win it, if thereon they fell with war;
So many and great were the walls, so bore the towers on high
The threat of guarded battle, and the tale of victory.
Then swift he hasteneth downward, lest day be wholly spent
Ere he come to the gate well warded, and the walls' beleaguerment;
For his heart is eager to hearken what men-folk therein dwell
And the name of that noble dwelling, and the tale that it hath to tell.
So he rides by the tilth of the acres, 'twixt the overhanging trees,
And but seldom now and again a glimpse of the burg he sees,
Till he comes to the flood of the river, and looks up from the balks of the bridge;
Then how was the plain grown little 'neath that mighty burg of the ridge
O'erhung by the cloudy mountains and the ash of another day,
Whereto the slopes clomb upward till the green died out in the grey,
And the grey in the awful cloud-land, where the red rents went and came
Round the snows no summers minish and the far-off sunset flame:
But lo, the burg at the ridge-end! have the Gods been building again
Since they watched the aimless Giants pile up the wall of the plain,
The house for none to dwell in? Or in what days lived the lord
Who 'neath those thunder-forges upreared that battle's ward?
Or was not the Smith at his work, and the blast of his forges awake,
And the world's heart poured from the mountain for that ancient people's sake?
For as waves on the iron river of the days whereof nothing is told
Stood up the many towers, so stark and sharp and cold;
But dark-red and worn and ancient as the midmost mountain-sides
Is the wall that goeth about them; and its mighty compass hides
[Pg 172]Full many a dwelling of man whence the reek now goeth aloft,
And the voice of the house-abiders, the sharp sounds blent with the soft:
But one house in the midst is unhidden and high up o'er the wall it goes;
Aloft in the wind of the mountains its golden roof-ridge glows,
And down mid its buttressed feet is the wind's voice never still;
And the day and the night pass o'er it and it changes to their will,
And whiles is it glassy and dark, and whiles is it white and dead,
And whiles is it grey as the sea-mead, and whiles is it angry red;
And it shimmers under the sunshine and grows black to the threat of the storm,
And dusk its gold roof glimmers when the rain-clouds over it swarm,
And bright in the first of the morning its flame doth it uplift,
When the light clouds rend before it and along its furrows drift.
For he deemed that beyond that rock-wall bode his changèd love and life
On the further side of the battle, and the hope, and the shifting strife:
So up and down he rideth, till at even of the day
[Pg 171]A hill's brow he o'ertoppeth that had hid the mountains grey;
Huge, blacker they showed than aforetime, white hung the cloud-flecks there,
But red was the cloudy crown, for the sun was sinking fair:
A wide plain lay beneath him, and a river through it wound
Betwixt the lea and the acres, and the misty orchard ground;
But forth from the feet of the mountains a ridgèd hill there ran
That upreared at its hithermost ending a builded burg of man;
And Sigurd deemed in his heart as he looked on the burg from afar,
That the high Gods scarce might win it, if thereon they fell with war;
So many and great were the walls, so bore the towers on high
The threat of guarded battle, and the tale of victory.
Then swift he hasteneth downward, lest day be wholly spent
Ere he come to the gate well warded, and the walls' beleaguerment;
For his heart is eager to hearken what men-folk therein dwell
And the name of that noble dwelling, and the tale that it hath to tell.
So he rides by the tilth of the acres, 'twixt the overhanging trees,
And but seldom now and again a glimpse of the burg he sees,
Till he comes to the flood of the river, and looks up from the balks of the bridge;
Then how was the plain grown little 'neath that mighty burg of the ridge
O'erhung by the cloudy mountains and the ash of another day,
Whereto the slopes clomb upward till the green died out in the grey,
And the grey in the awful cloud-land, where the red rents went and came
Round the snows no summers minish and the far-off sunset flame:
But lo, the burg at the ridge-end! have the Gods been building again
Since they watched the aimless Giants pile up the wall of the plain,
The house for none to dwell in? Or in what days lived the lord
Who 'neath those thunder-forges upreared that battle's ward?
Or was not the Smith at his work, and the blast of his forges awake,
And the world's heart poured from the mountain for that ancient people's sake?
For as waves on the iron river of the days whereof nothing is told
Stood up the many towers, so stark and sharp and cold;
But dark-red and worn and ancient as the midmost mountain-sides
Is the wall that goeth about them; and its mighty compass hides
[Pg 172]Full many a dwelling of man whence the reek now goeth aloft,
And the voice of the house-abiders, the sharp sounds blent with the soft:
But one house in the midst is unhidden and high up o'er the wall it goes;
Aloft in the wind of the mountains its golden roof-ridge glows,
And down mid its buttressed feet is the wind's voice never still;
And the day and the night pass o'er it and it changes to their will,
And whiles is it glassy and dark, and whiles is it white and dead,
And whiles is it grey as the sea-mead, and whiles is it angry red;
And it shimmers under the sunshine and grows black to the threat of the storm,
And dusk its gold roof glimmers when the rain-clouds over it swarm,
And bright in the first of the morning its flame doth it uplift,
When the light clouds rend before it and along its furrows drift.
Upriseth the heart of Sigurd, but ever he rideth forth
Till he comes to the garth and the gateway built up in the face of the north:
Then e'en as a wind from the mountains he heareth the warders' speech,
As aloft in the mighty towers they clamour each to each:
Then horn to horn blew token, and far and shrill they cried,
And he heard, as the fishers hearken the cliff-fowl over the tide:
But he rode in under the gate, that was long and dark as a cave
Bored out in the isles of the northland by the beat of the restless wave;
And the noise of the winds was within it, and the sound of swords unseen,
As the night when the host is stirring and the hearts of Kings are keen.
But no man stayed or hindered, and the dusk place knew his smile,
And into the court of the warriors he came forth after a while,
And looked aloft to the hall-roof, high up and grey as the cloud,
For the sun was wholly perished; and there he crieth aloud:
Till he comes to the garth and the gateway built up in the face of the north:
Then e'en as a wind from the mountains he heareth the warders' speech,
As aloft in the mighty towers they clamour each to each:
Then horn to horn blew token, and far and shrill they cried,
And he heard, as the fishers hearken the cliff-fowl over the tide:
But he rode in under the gate, that was long and dark as a cave
Bored out in the isles of the northland by the beat of the restless wave;
And the noise of the winds was within it, and the sound of swords unseen,
As the night when the host is stirring and the hearts of Kings are keen.
But no man stayed or hindered, and the dusk place knew his smile,
And into the court of the warriors he came forth after a while,
And looked aloft to the hall-roof, high up and grey as the cloud,
For the sun was wholly perished; and there he crieth aloud:
"Ho, men of this mighty burg, to what folk of the world am I come?
And who is the King of battles who dwells in this lordly home?
Or perchance are ye of the Elf-kin? are ye guest-fain, kind at the boards
Or murder-churls and destroyers to gain and die by the sword?"
[Pg 173]
And who is the King of battles who dwells in this lordly home?
Or perchance are ye of the Elf-kin? are ye guest-fain, kind at the boards
Or murder-churls and destroyers to gain and die by the sword?"
[Pg 173]
Then the spears in the forecourt glittered and the swords shone over the wall,
But the song of smitten harp-strings came faint from the cloudy hall.
And he hearkened a voice and a crying:
But the song of smitten harp-strings came faint from the cloudy hall.
And he hearkened a voice and a crying:
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