thou have me toil for ever, nor win the wages due?"
And mid the hedge of foemen his blunted sword he threw,
And, laid like the oars of a longship the level war-shafts pressed
On 'gainst the unshielded elder, and clashed amidst his breast,
And dead he fell, thrust backward, and rang on the dead men's gear:
But still for a certain season durst no man draw anear.
For 'twas e'en as a great God's slaying, and they feared the wrath of the sky;
And they deemed their hearts might harden if awhile they should let him lie.
Lo, now as the plotting was long, so short is the tale to tell
How a mighty people's leaders in the field of murder fell.
For but feebly burned the battle when Volsung fell to field,
And all who yet were living were borne down before the shield:
So sinketh the din and the tumult; and the earls of the Goths ring round
That crown of the Kings of battle laid low upon the ground,
Looking up to the noon-tide heavens from the place where first he stood:
But the songful sing above him and they tell how his end is as good
As the best of the days of his life-tide; and well as he was loved
By his friends ere the time of his changing, so now are his foemen moved
With a love that may never be worsened, since all the strife is o'er,
And the warders look for his coming by Odin's open door.
But his sons, the stay of battle, alive with many a wound,
Borne down to the earth by the shield-rush amid the dead lie bound,
And belike a wearier journey must those lords of battle bide
Ere once more in the Hall of Odin they sit by their father's side.
Woe's me for the boughs of the Branstock and the hawks that cried on the fight!
Woe's me for the tireless hearthstones and the hangings of delight, That the women dare not look on lest they see them sweat with blood! Woe's me for the carven pillars where the spears of the Volsungs stood! And who next shall shake the locks, or the silver door-rings meet? Who shall pace the floor beloved, worn down by the Volsung feet? Who shall fill the gold with the wine, or cry for the triumphing? Shall it be kindred or foes, or thief, or thrall, or king?
So there the earls of the Goth-folk lay Volsung 'neath the grass
On the last earth he had trodden; but his children bound must pass,
When the host is gathered together, amidst of their array
To the high-built dwelling of Siggeir; for sooth it is to say,
That he came not into the battle, nor faced the Volsung sword.
So now as he sat in his high-seat there came his chiefest lord,
And he said: "I bear thee tidings of the death of the best of the brave,
For thy foes are slain or bondsmen; and have thou Sigmund's glaive,
If a token thou desirest; and that shall be surely enough.
And I do thee to wit, King Siggeir, that the road was exceeding rough,
And that many an earl there stumbled, who shall evermore lie down.
And indeed I deem King Volsung for all earthly kingship's crown."
Then never a word spake Siggeir, save: "Where be Volsung's sons?"
And he said: "Without are they fettered, those battle-glorious ones:
And methinks 'twere a deed for a king, and a noble deed for thee,
To break their bonds and heal them, and send them back o'er the sea,
And abide their wrath and the bloodfeud for this matter of Volsung's slaying:"
"Witless thou waxest," said Siggeir, "nor heedest the wise man's saying;
'Slay thou the wolf by the house-door, lest he slay thee in the wood.'
Yet since I am the overcomer, and my days henceforth shall be good,
I will quell them with no death-pains; let the young men smite them down,
But let me not behold them when my heart is angrier grown."
E'en as he uttered the word was Signy at the door,
And with hurrying feet she gat her apace to the high-seat floor,
As wan as the dawning-hour, though never a tear she had:
And she cried: "I pray thee, Siggeir, now thine heart is merry and glad
With the death and the bonds of my kinsmen, to grant me this one prayer,
This one time and no other; let them breathe the earthly air
For a day, for a day or twain, ere they wend the way of death,
For 'sweet to eye while seen,' the elders' saying saith."
Quoth he: "Thou art mad with sorrow; wilt thou work thy friends this woe?
When swift and untormented e'en I would let them go:
Yet now shalt thou have thine asking, if it verily is thy will:
Nor forsooth do I begrudge them a longer tide of ill."
She said: "I will it, I will it—O sweet to eye while seen!"
Then to his earl spake Siggeir: "There lies a wood-lawn green
In the first mile of the forest; there fetter these Volsung men
To the mightiest beam of the wild-wood, till Queen Signy come again
And pray me a boon for her brethren, the end of their latter life."
So the Goth-folk led to the woodland those gleanings of the strife,
And smote down a great-boled oak-tree, the mightiest they might find,
And thereto with bonds of iron the Volsungs did they bind,
And left them there on the wood-lawn, mid the yew-trees' compassing,
And went back by the light of the moon to the dwelling of the king.
But he sent on the morn of the morrow to see how his foemen fared,
