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EACH VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY. 
 
 COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHORS 
 
 TAICHNITZ EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 2378. 
 POEMS BY WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 LEIPZIG: BEllNHARl) TAUCHNITZ. 
 
 PARIS: C, REIKWALD, l5, RUE DES SAINTS PERES. 
 
 PARIS : THE GALIGNANI LIBRARY, 224, RUE DE RIVOLI 
 AKD AT NICE, 15, QUAI MASSENA. 
 
 This Collection 
 
 is published loith copyright fo)' Continental circulation, hut all 
 
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 into England or into any P,ritish Colony. 
 
Ai 
 
 9' 
 
 10 
 
COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHOES 
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 2378. 
 POEMS BY WILLIAM MOKRIS. 
 
 IN ONE VOLTIlfE. 
 
A SELECTION 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR 
 
 BY FRANCIS HUEFFER. \ 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 
 
 1886. 
 
 The Right cj Transiation is reserved. 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 William Morris, poet, decorative designer and 
 socialist, was born in 1834 at Clay Street, Waltham- 
 stow, now almost a suburb of London, at that time a 
 country village in Essex. He went to school at Marl- 
 borough College and thence to Exeter College, Oxford, 
 where he took his degree in 1857. During his stay 
 in the University the subsequent mode of his life was 
 prepared and foreshadowed in two important direc- 
 tions. Like most poets Morris was not what is 
 called very assiduous "at his book"; the routine 
 of college training was no more an attraction to 
 him than the ordinary amusements and dissipations 
 of undergraduate existence. But he was studious all 
 the same, reading the classics in his own somewhat 
 spasmodic way and exploring with even greater zeal 
 the mysteries of mediaeval lore. His fellow-worker 
 in these studies and his most intimate friend was and 
 is at the present day Mr. Burne Jones, the famous 
 painter, at that time a student of divinity. Artistic 
 and literary pursuits thus went hand in hand, and 
 
6 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 received additional zest when the two young men be- 
 came acquainted with Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Holman 
 Hunt and other painters of the Pre-Raphaelite school 
 who came to Oxford to execute the frescoes still dimly- 
 visible on the ceiling of the Union Debating Hall. 
 Of the aims and achievements of the Pre-Raphaelite 
 Brotherhood, and of the revival of mediaeval feeling in 
 art and literature originally advocated by its members 
 ample account has been given in the memoir of Rossetti 
 prefixed to his poems in the Tauchnitz edition. Its 
 influence on Morris's early work, both in matter and 
 form, will strike every observant reader of the opening 
 ballads of the present collection. Later on the poet 
 worked out for himself a distinct and individual phase of 
 the mediaeval movement, as will be mentioned by and by. 
 At one time little was wanting to make Morris follow 
 his friend Burne Jones's example and leave the pen 
 for the brush. There is indeed still extant from his 
 hand an unfinished picture evincing a remarkable 
 sense of colour. He also for a short time became a 
 pupil of the late Mr. G. E. Street, the architect, to whose 
 genius London owes its finest modern Gothic building 
 — the Law Courts in the Strand. On second thoughts, 
 however, Morris came to the conclusion that poetry was 
 his true field of action. His first literary venture was 
 a monthly periodical started under his auspices in 
 1856 and called The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine. 
 It contained, amongst other contributions from Morris's 
 pen, a prose tale of a highly romantic character, and 
 was, as regards artistic tendencies, essentially a sequel 
 of The Germ, the organ of the Pre-Raphaelite Brother- 
 hood, begun and continued for three numbers only, six 
 years before. Several of the contributors to the earlier 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 7 
 
 venture, including Rossetti, also supported its offshoot. 
 Neither, however, gained popular favour, and after a 
 year's struggling existence The Oxford and Cambridge 
 Magazine also came to an untimely end. At present 
 both are eagerly sought for by collectors and fetch 
 high prices at antiquarian sales. So changeable is 
 the fate of books. 
 
 In 1859 Morris married, after having the year be- 
 fore brought out his first volume of verse entitled The 
 Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems. The book fell 
 dead from the press, and it was not till it was repub- 
 lished 2 5 years later that the world recognised in it some 
 of the freshest and most individual efforts of its author, 
 whose literary position was by that time established 
 beyond cavil. That position the poet owed in the first 
 instance to two works published in rapid succession, 
 The Life and Death of fas on, and The Earthly Paradise, 
 the latter a collection of tales in verse filling«four stout 
 volumes. His remaining original works are Love is 
 enough, a "morality" in the mediaeval sense of the word, 
 and The Story of Sigurd the Volsung, his longest and, 
 in the opinion of some, his most perfect epic. In addi- 
 tion to these should be mentioned the translations 
 from the old Norse undertaken in conjunction with Mr. 
 Magnusson the well-known Icelandic scholar, and com- 
 prising The Story of Grettir the Strong (1869), The 
 Volsunga Saga, with certain songs from the Elder 
 Edda (1870), and Three Northern Love Stories (1875); 
 and finally a metrical rendering of The ^neids of 
 Virgil. 
 
 For a critical discussion or a detailed analysis of 
 Morris's work this is not the place. It must be suf- 
 ficient to indicate briefly the ideas which underlie that 
 
8 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 work and give it its literary cachet. Two main cur- 
 rents, derivable perhaps from a common source • but 
 running in different directions can be easily discerned. 
 The subjects of his tales are almost without exception 
 derived either from Greek myth or from mediaeval folk- 
 lore. After all that has been said and written of the 
 gulf that divides the classic from the romantic feeling 
 — '■^ Barharen und Hellenen"^ as Heine puts it, such a 
 conjunction might appear incongruous. But the con- 
 necting link has here been found in the poet's mind. He 
 looks upon his classical subject-matter through a me- 
 diaeval atmosphere, in other words he writes about 
 Venus and Cupid and Psyche and Medea as a poet of 
 Chaucer's age might have done, barring of course the 
 differences of language, although in this respect also it 
 may be noted that the archaisms of expression affected 
 by the modern poet appear indifferently in the Greek 
 and the mediaeval tales. The phenomenon is by no 
 means unique in literature. Let the reader compare 
 Chapman's Homer with Pope's, or let him open 
 Morris's Jason where the bells of Colchis "melo- 
 diously begin to ring", and the meaning of the afore- 
 mentioned "mediaeval atmosphere" will at once be 
 as palpable to him as it was to Keats when, reading 
 Chapman's rude verse, after Pope's polished stanzas, 
 he felt 
 
 like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken. 
 
 It was the romantic chord of Keats's nature, that 
 chord which vibrates in La belle Dame sans Merci, 
 which was harmoniously struck and made the great 
 master of form overlook the formal imperfection of 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. <) 
 
 the earlier poet. To the same element such stories 
 as Jason , or The Love of Alcestis and the Bellerophon 
 in The Earthly Paradise owe their charm. 
 
 Morris's position towards mediaeval subjects did not 
 at first essentially differ from that of other poets of 
 similar tendency. In his first volume English and 
 French knights and damsels figure prominently, and 
 the beautiful and frail wife of King Arthur is the 
 heroine of the chief poem and has given her name 
 to the book. But in the interval which elapsed be- 
 tween that volume and the Earthly Paradise a con- 
 siderable change had come over the poet's dream. 
 By the aid of Mr. Magnusson he had become acquainted 
 with the treasure of northern folklore hidden in the 
 Icelandic sagas, the two Eddas, the story of the Volsungs 
 (of which a masterly translation is due to the two 
 friends), the Laxdsela saga and other tales of more 
 or less remote antiquity. 
 
 In the Earthly Paradise the double current of the 
 poet's fancy above alluded to is most strikingly ap- 
 parent. The ver)'- framework in which the various 
 tales are set seems to have been designed with that 
 view. Guided probably by a vague tradition of a 
 pre-Columbian discovery of America by the Vikings, 
 the prologue relates how during a terrible pestilence 
 certain mariners leave their northern home in search 
 of the land where old age and death are not and 
 where life is rounded by unbroken pleasure. Sailing 
 west they come to a fair country. They gaze on 
 southern sunshine and virgin forest and fertile cham- 
 paign, but death meets them at every step, and hap- 
 piness is farthest from their grasp when the people 
 worship them as gods and sacrifice at their shrine. 
 
10 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 Escaping from this golden thraldom they regain their 
 ship, and after many dangers and privations are 
 driven by the wind to an island inhabited by descen- 
 dants of the ancient Greeks, who have preserved their 
 old worship and their old freedom. Here the weary 
 wanderers of the main are hospitably received, and 
 here they resolve to dwell in peace, forgetful of their 
 vain search for the earthly paradise. At the beginning 
 and the middle of every month the elders of the 
 people and their guests meet together to while away 
 the time with song and friendly converse. The 
 islanders relate the traditions of their Grecian home, 
 the mariners relate the sagas of the North, and Laur- 
 ence, a Swabian priest who had joined the Norsemen 
 in their quest, contributes the legends of Tannhauser 
 and of the ring given to Venus by the Roman youth. 
 Here then there is full scope for the quaint beauty of 
 romantic classicism and for the weird glamour of 
 northern myth. Without encroaching upon the field of 
 criticism proper the writer may state that, in his 
 opinion, amongst the classic tales none is more grace- 
 ful and finished than "The Golden Apples", and 
 amongst the northern none more grandly developed 
 and more epical in the strict sense of the word than 
 The Lovers of Gudrun based upon the Icelandic Lax- 
 daela saga. The latter, unfortunately, cannot find a 
 place in this volume for reasons of space. 
 
 Every student of old northern literature is aware 
 that amongst its remains none are more interesting as 
 literary monuments, none more characteristic of the 
 people from which they sprang than the two Eddas 
 and the Volsunga Saga. Next to the Siege of Troy 
 and the Arthurian legends perhaps no story or agglo- 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. I 1 
 
 meration of stories has left so many and so important 
 traces in international fiction as the tale of Sigurd 
 or Siegfried and his race, the heroic god-born Volsungs. 
 Considering indeed the political insignificance and 
 remoteness in which that story took its earliest sur- 
 viving form this enormous success — if the modern term 
 may be applied — seems at first singularly out of pro- 
 portion. But it must be remembered that Iceland was 
 little more than the storehouse of these old traditions 
 which were the common property of the Teuto-Scan- 
 dinavian race long before the Norsemen set foot on 
 the northern isle. Of the two modern versions of the 
 tale which are most thoroughly inspired by the ancient 
 myth one, that of Wagner in his tetralogy Der Ring 
 des Nibelungen^ is dramatic in form, the other, Morris's 
 The Story of Sigurd the Volsung, bears all the charac- 
 teristics of the epic. To this difference of artistic 
 aim, the difference of shape which the tale takes in 
 the hands of the two poets may be traced. In one 
 point however they agree. Both Wagner and Morris 
 go back to the old Icelandic sources in preference to 
 the mediaeval German version of the tale embodied 
 in the Nibelungenlied. From this the German poet 
 borrows little more than the localization of his drama 
 on the banks of the river Rhine, the English poet 
 scarcely anything but his metre — the Langzeile or 
 long-line with six hightoned, and any number of un- 
 accentuated syllables. 
 
 The ordinary modern reader taking up the Vol- 
 sunga Saga or either of the Eddas without preparation 
 would probably see in them little more than a confused 
 accumulation of impossible adventures and deeds of 
 prowess with an admixture of incest, fratricide and 
 
12 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 Other horrors. But on looking closer one discovers a 
 certain plan in this entanglement, a plan much ob- 
 scured by the unbridled fancy of the old narrators, 
 and hardly realised by themselves, but which, if pro- 
 perly sifted, amounts to what we should call a 
 moral or idea. To "point this moral," to consistently 
 develop this idea, is the task of the modern poet 
 courageous enough to grapple with such a subject. 
 Two ways are open to him. Either he may wholly 
 abandon the sequence of the old tale, and group its 
 disjecta membra round a leading idea as a centre, or 
 else he may adhere to the order and essence of the 
 legend as originally told, only emphasising such points 
 as are essential to the significance of the story, and 
 omitting or throwing into comparative shade those in- 
 cidents which by their nature betray themselves to be 
 arbitrary additions of later date. Wagner has chosen 
 the former way, Morris the latter. This fact, and the 
 divergent requirements of the drama and the epic, 
 sufficiently account for their difference of treatment. 
 The leading idea in both cases remains the same; it is 
 the fatal curse which attaches to the gold or, which is 
 the same in a moral sense, to the desire for gold — 
 auri sacra fames. 
 
 At first sight the tale of Sigurd, Fafnir's bane, 
 seems to have little connection with this idea. It is 
 briefly this. Sigurd, the son of Sigmund the Volsung, 
 is brought up at the court of King Elf, the second hus- 
 band of his mother, after Sigmund has been slain in 
 battle. With a sword, fashioned from the shards of 
 his father's weapon, he slays Fafnir, a huge worm 
 or dragon, and possesses himself of the treasure 
 watched by the monster, including a ring and the 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 13 
 
 "helm of aweing," the latter in the Nibelungenlied, 
 converted into the "Tarnkappe", a magic cap which 
 makes the bearer invisible and endows him with super- 
 natural strength. Tasting of the blood of the dragon, 
 he understands the language of birds, and an eagle 
 tells him of a beautiful maiden lying asleep on a rock 
 called Hindfell, surrounded by a wall of wavering fire. 
 Through it Sigurd rides and awakes Brynhild the 
 sword maiden, or Valkyrie, from her magic slumber. 
 Love naturally follows. The pair live together on 
 Hindfell for a season and Brynhild teaches the youth 
 the runes of her wisdom, a conception of woman's re- 
 fining and civilising mission frequently met with in old 
 Germanic tales. When Sigurd leaves her to seek new 
 adventures they plight the troth of eternal love, and 
 
 Then he set the ring on her finger, and once if ne'er again 
 
 They kissed and clung together, and their hearts were full and fain. 
 
 From Brynhild's rock Sigurd journeys to a realm 
 "south of the Rhine" where dwell the kingly brothers, 
 Gunnar, Hogni, and Guttorm, the Niblungs, together 
 with their sister Gudrun, "the fairest of maidens", and 
 their mother Grimhild, "a wise wife" and a fierce- 
 hearted woman, as the Volsunga Saga alternately de- 
 scribes her. It is through a love-philter brewed by 
 her that Sigurd forgets the vows exchanged with Bryn- 
 hild, and becomes enamoured of Gudrun, whom he 
 soon after weds. So powerful is the charm that the 
 very name of his former love has been wuped from 
 Sigurd's memory, and he willingly undertakes the task 
 to woo and win Brynhild for his brother Gunnar. For 
 that purpose he, by means of his magic cap, assumes 
 Gunnar's semblance, and after having once more 
 
14 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 crossed the wall of wavering flame compels Brynhild 
 to become his bride. But, faithful to his promise, he 
 places a drawn sword between himself and the maid 
 "as they lie on one bed together." On parting from 
 her he receives back from Brynhild his own ring given 
 to her at Hind fell in the days of their bliss. Sigurd 
 then returns to Gunnar and resumes his own form, 
 and all return home, the King leading his unwilling 
 bride in triumph. 
 
 The subsequent events are the outgrowth of the 
 tragic guilt thus incurred. Sigurd reveals the secret 
 of Brynhild's wooing to his wife, and allows her to 
 take possession of the fatal ring, which she during a 
 quarrel shows to Gunnar's wife. Brynhild thus in- 
 formed of the fraud practised on her, thinks of 
 vengeance, and incites her husband and his brothers 
 to kill Sigurd. The deed is done while Sigurd lies 
 asleep in his chamber with Gudrun, or, according to 
 the more poetic version of the German epic, while he 
 bends over a brook in the forest to quench his thirst 
 after a day's hunting. But as soon as her beloved 
 foe is killed the old passion never quenched rises up 
 again in Brynhild's heart. To be united with her lover 
 in jdeath she pierces her breast with a sword, and one 
 pyre consumes both. 
 
 With this climax Wagner very properly concludes 
 his drama. But the epic poet likes to follow the 
 course of events to their ultimate consequences, and 
 Morris, in accordance with the Volsunga Saga, pro- 
 ceeds to relate how, after many years of mournful 
 widowhood, Gudrun is married to Atli, a mighty king, 
 the brother of Brynhild. Eager to become possessed 
 of Sigurd's treasure he invites the Niblungs, its actual 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. I 5 
 
 owners, to his country, and there the kingly brothers 
 and all their followers are killed by base treachery and 
 after the most heroic resistance. They refuse sternly 
 to ransom their lives by a discovery of the hoard 
 which previous to their departure they have hidden at 
 the bottom of a lake, and which thus is irrecoverably 
 lost to mankind. Gudrun has incited her husband to 
 the deed and has looked on calmly while her kinsmen 
 were slain one after the other. But when all are dead 
 and the murder of Sigurd has been revenged, the 
 feeling of blood relationship so powerful among 
 Northern nations is reawakened in her. While Atli 
 and his earls are asleep she sets fire to the kingly hall, 
 and her wretched husband falls by her own hand. It 
 is characteristic of the Icelandic epic that after all 
 these fates and horrors Gudrun lives for a number 
 of years and is yet again married to a third husband. 
 But to this length even Morris refuses to accompany 
 the tale. In accordance with the Volsunga Saga his 
 Gudrun throws herself into the sea; but the waves do 
 not carry her "to the burg of king Imakr, a mighty 
 king and lord of many folk." 
 
 All this is very grand and weird, the reader will 
 say, but where is the moral, the ideal essence of which 
 these events are but the earthly reflex? To this 
 essence we gradually ascend by inquiring into the 
 mythological sources of the tale, by asking who is 
 Sigurd, whence does he come, on what mission is he 
 sent and by whom? also what is the significance of 
 the treasure watched by a dragon and coveted by all 
 mankind? This treasure we then shall find and the 
 curse attaching to it ever since it was robbed from 
 Andvari, the water-elf, is the keynote of the whole 
 
1 6 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 Story. The curse proves fatal to all its successive 
 owners from Andvari himself and Fafnir, who, for its 
 sake, kills his father, down to Sigurd and Brynhild 
 and the Niblung brothers. Nay, Odin himself, the 
 supreme God, becomes subject to the curse of the 
 gold through having once coveted it, and we dimly 
 discern that the ultimate doom of the Aesir, the Rag- 
 narok, or dusk of the Gods, of which the Voluspa 
 speaks, is intimately connected with the same baneful 
 influence. It further becomes evident that Sigurd the 
 Volsung, the descendant of Odin, is destined to wrest 
 the treasure and the power derived from it from the 
 Niblungs, the dark or cloudy people who threaten the 
 bright godworld of Valhall with destruction. And 
 this leads us back to a still earlier stage of the myth 
 in which Sigurd himself becomes the symbol of the 
 celestial luminary conquering night and misty dark- 
 ness, an idea repeatedly hinted at by Morris and 
 splendidly illustrated by Wagner, when Siegfried ap- 
 pears on the stage illumined by the first rays of the 
 rising sun. In the work of the German poet all this 
 is brought out with a distinctness of which only 
 dramatic genius of the highest order is capable. With 
 an astounding grasp of detail and with a continuity 
 of thought rarely equalled, Wagner has remoulded 
 the confused and complex argument of the old tale, 
 omitting what seemed unnecessary, and placing in 
 juxtaposition incidents organically connected but sepa- 
 rated by the obtuseness of later sagamen. 
 
 Morris, as has been said before, proceeds on a dif- 
 ferent principle. His first object is to tell a tale, and 
 to tell it as nearly as possible in the spirit and ac- 
 cording to the letter of the old Sagas. In this he has 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. I7 
 
 succeeded in a manner at once indicative of his high 
 poetic gifts and of a deep sympathy with the spirit 
 of the Northern Myth, which breathes in every line 
 and in every turn of his phraseology. To compare 
 the peculiar tinge of his language with the ordinary 
 archaisms and euphonisms of literary poets would be 
 mistaking a field flower for its counterpart in a 
 milliner's shop window. It is true that he also hints 
 at the larger philosophic and moral issues of the tale. 
 But when he refers to the end of the gods brought 
 about by their own guilt or to the redeeming mission 
 of Sigurd, it is done in the mysterious, not to say 
 half conscious manner of the saga itself, and the effect 
 is such as from his own point of view he intended it 
 and could not but intend it to be. 
 
 Between the publication of The Defence 0/ Guenevere 
 and that of Jason ten years elapsed. During most of 
 this time the poet was employed in artistic pursuits. 
 In 1 86 1 he started in conjunction with a number of 
 friends the business of decorator and artistic designer 
 which still bears his name. Growing from very 
 modest beginnings this enterprise was destined to 
 work an entire change in the external aspect of 
 English homes. It soon extended its activity to every 
 branch of art-workmanship. D. G. Rossetti, Madox 
 Brown, and Burne Jones drew cartoons for the stained 
 glass windows to be seen in many of our churches 
 and colleges. Morris himself designed wall-papers 
 and the patterns of carpets. The latter are woven on 
 hand-looms in his factory at Merton Abbey, which 
 stands on the banks of the river Wandle surrounded 
 by orchards, and looks as like a medieval workshop as 
 the modern dresses of the workgirls will allow. Another 
 
 Morris. 2 
 
1 8 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 member of the firm, Philip Webb, was the first modern 
 architect to build houses of red brick in the style 
 vaguely and not quite correctly described as "Queen 
 Anne." At present these houses count by thousands 
 in London and a whole village of them has been 
 built at Turnham Green. The members of the firm 
 did not confine their attention to any particular style 
 or age or country. Wherever beautiful things could 
 be found they collected them and made them popular. 
 Old china English, and foreign, Japanese fans and 
 screens, Venetian glass and German pottery were 
 equally welcome to them and through them to the 
 public generally. It may be said that the "aesthetic" 
 fashion as it came to be called will like other fashions 
 die out, and that people in the course of time will 
 grow tired of "living up to" their furniture and dresses. 
 At the same time the idea thus insisted upon that 
 beauty is an essential and necessary ingredient of 
 practical modern English life is not likely to be with- 
 out beneficial and permanent effect. 
 
 It was as artistic worker and employer of skilled 
 labour that Morris imbibed that profound disgust with 
 our social condition which induced him to adopt the 
 principles of extreme socialism. For a long time his 
 views had tended in that direction, and at the end of 
 1884 he joined the Socialist League, a body professing 
 the doctrines of international revolutionary socialism. 
 He is the editor of its official organ, the Commonweal, 
 which contains many contributions from his pen both 
 in prose and verse. That the poet has not been 
 entirely sunk in the politician, that longing for beauty 
 is at least the partial cause of this desire for change 
 at any price, is however proved by such a sentiment 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. I 9 
 
 as, "Beauty, which is what is meant by ari^ using 
 the word in its widest sense, is, I contend, no mere 
 accident of human life which people can take or have 
 as they choose, but a positive necessity of life, if we 
 are to live as nature meant us to, that is unless we are 
 content to be less than men," or by such a vision of 
 a future earthly paradise as is expressed in the follow- 
 ing lines: 
 
 Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds 
 
 of his hand, 
 Nor yet come home in the even, too faint and weary to stand, 
 
 For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed, 
 Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed. 
 
 Then all mine and thine shall be ours^ and no more shall any man 
 
 crave 
 For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave. 
 
 One may admire the pathetic beauty of such lines, 
 without sharing the poet's hope, that their import will 
 ever be realised, in a world peopled by men and not 
 by angels. History teaches and personal experience 
 confirms that art enjoyment and art creation of the 
 highest type must be confined to the few, and it is to 
 be feared that social democracy, whatever it may do for 
 the physical welfare of the many, will care little about 
 beauty, either in nature or in art. The Demos will 
 never admire Rossetti's pictures or Keats's poetry, and 
 the first thing the much-vaunted peasant proprietors, 
 or peasant communes would do would be to cut down 
 our ancient trees, level every hedgerow and turn parks 
 and commons into potato plots or it may be turnip 
 fields. One may feel certain of all this and yet ad- 
 
 2* 
 
20 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 mire the author of The Earthly Paradise^ "the idle 
 singer of an empty day" when he preaches universal 
 brotherhood in the crossways of Hammersmith, and 
 wrestles with policemen, or wrangles with obtuse magis- 
 trates about the freedom of speech. Conviction thus 
 upheld at the cost of worldly advantage and personal 
 convenience and taste must command respect even 
 from those who cannot share it. 
 
 Francis Hueffer. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 From ''THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND 
 OTHER POEMS." 
 
 The Defence of Guenevere 23 
 
 A Good Knight in Prison 36 
 
 Shameful Death 41 
 
 The Eve of Crecy 43 
 
 The Haystack in the Floods • . . . 45 
 
 Riding together 51 
 
 Summer Dawn 54 
 
 From "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON." 
 (Book XIV.) 
 The Sirens. — The Garden of the Hesperides. — The 
 
 Heroes do Sacrifice at Malea 55 
 
 From "THE EARTHLY PARADISE." 
 
 An Apology 82 
 
 From Prologue — The Wanderers 84 
 
22 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Ogier the Dane 95 
 
 The golden Apples 147 
 
 L»Envoi 168 
 
 From *«L0VE IS ENOUGH." 
 
 Interludes 173 
 
 From "THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOL- 
 SUNG." (Book II.) 
 Regin 178 
 
FROM 
 
 ''THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND 
 OTHER POEMS." 
 
 THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE. 
 
 But, knowing now that they would have her speak, 
 She threw her wet hair backward from her brow, 
 Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek. 
 
 As though she had had there a shameful blow, 
 And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame, 
 All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so. 
 
 She must a little touch it; like one lame 
 
 She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head 
 
 Still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame 
 
 The tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said 
 "O knights and lords, it seems but little skill 
 To talk of well-known things past now and dead. 
 
 "God wot I ought to say, I have done ill, 
 And pray you all forgiveness heartily! 
 Because you must be right such great lords — still 
 
24 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 "Listen, suppose your time were come to die, 
 And you were quite alone and very weak; 
 Yea, laid a dying while very mightily 
 
 "The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak 
 Of river through your broad lands running well : 
 Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak: 
 
 "'One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell. 
 Now choose one cloth for ever, which they be, 
 I will not tell you, you must somehow tell 
 
 "* Of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!' 
 Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes. 
 At foot of your familiar bed to see 
 
 "A great God's angel standing, with such dyes. 
 Not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands. 
 Held out two ways, light from the inner skies 
 
 "Showing him well, and making his commands 
 Seem to be God's commands, moreover, too, 
 Holding within his hands the cloths on wands; 
 
 "And one of these strange choosing cloths was blue, 
 Wavy and long, and one cut short and red; 
 No man could tell the better of the two. 
 
 "'After a shivering half-hour you said, 
 * God help! heaven's colour, the blue;' and he said, 
 
 'hell' 
 Perhaps you then would roll upon your bed, 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 25 
 
 "And cry to all good men that loved you well, 
 *Ah Christ! if only I had known, known, known;' 
 Launcelot went away, then I could tell, 
 
 "Like wisest man how all things would be, moan, 
 And roll and hurt myself, and long to die. 
 And yet fear much to die for what was sown. 
 
 "Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie. 
 Whatever may have happened through these years, 
 God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie." 
 
 Her voice was low at first, being full of tears. 
 But as it cleared, it grew full loud and shrill, 
 Growing a windy shriek in all men's ears, 
 
 A ringing in their startled brains, until 
 
 She said that Gauwaine lied, then her voice sunk. 
 
 And her great eyes began again to fill, 
 
 Though still she stood right up, and never shrunk, 
 But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair! 
 Whatever tears her full lips may have drunk, 
 
 . She stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair, 
 Spoke out at last with no more trace of shame. 
 With passionate twisting of her body there: 
 
 "It chanced upon a day Launcelot came 
 To dwell at Arthur's Court; at Christmas-time 
 This happened; when the heralds sung his name, 
 
26 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 "'Son of King Ban of Benwick/ seemed to chime 
 Along with all the bells that rang that day, 
 O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme. 
 
 "Christmas and whitened winter passed away, 
 And over me the April sunshine came, 
 Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea 
 
 "And in the Summer I grew white with flame, 
 And bowed my head down — Autumn, and the sick 
 Sure knowledge things would never be the same, 
 
 "However often Spring might be most thick 
 Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew 
 Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick, 
 
 "To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through 
 My eager body; while I laughed out loud. 
 And let my lips curl up at false or true, 
 
 "Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud. 
 Behold my judges, then the cloths were brought: 
 While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd, 
 
 "Belonging to the time ere I was bought 
 By Arthur's great name and his little love, 
 Must I give up for ever then, I thought, 
 
 "That which I deemed would ever round me move 
 Glorifying all things; for a little word. 
 Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 2.7 
 
 "Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does the Lord 
 Will that all folks should be quite happy and good? 
 I love God now a little, if this cord 
 
 "Were broken, once for all what striving could 
 Make me love anything in earth or heaven. 
 So day by day it grew, as if one should 
 
 "Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, 
 Down to a cool sea on a summer day; 
 Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven 
 
 "Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way, 
 Until one surely reached the sea at last. 
 And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay 
 
 "Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past 
 Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, 
 Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast, 
 
 "In the lone sea, far off from any ships! 
 Do I not know now of a day in Spring? 
 No minute of that wild day ever slips 
 
 "From out my memory; I hear thrushes sing, 
 And wheresoever I may be, straightway 
 Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting: 
 
 "I was half mad with beauty on that day. 
 And went without my ladies all alone, 
 In a quiet garden walled round every way; 
 
28 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 "I was right joyful of that wall of stone, 
 That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky, 
 And trebled all the beauty: to the bone, 
 
 "Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy 
 With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad; 
 Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily, 
 
 "A little thing just then had made me mad; 
 I dared not think, as I was wont to do. 
 Sometimes, upon my beauty; If I had 
 
 "Held out my long hand up against the blue, 
 And, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers. 
 Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through, 
 
 "There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers. 
 Round by the edges; what should I have done. 
 If this had joined with yellow spotted singers, 
 
 "And startling green drawn upward by the sun? 
 But shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair, 
 And trancedly stood watching the west wind run 
 
 "With faintest half-heard breathing sound — why there 
 I lose my head e'en now in doing this; 
 But shortly listen — In that garden fair 
 
 "Came Launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss 
 Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day, 
 I scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss, 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 2g 
 
 "When both our mouths went wandering in one way, 
 And aching sorely, met among the leaves; 
 Our hands being left behind strained far away. 
 
 "Never within a yard of my bright sleeves 
 Had Launcelot come before — and now, so nigh! 
 AfterHhat day why is it Guenevere grieves? 
 
 "Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie. 
 Whatever happened on through all those years, 
 God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie. 
 
 "Being such a lady could I weep these%tears 
 If this were true? A great queen such as I 
 Having sinn'd this way, straight her conscience sears; 
 
 "And afterwards she liveth hatefully, 
 Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps, — 
 Gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly. 
 
 "Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps 
 All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth? 
 Remember in what grave your mother sleeps, 
 
 "Buried in some place far down in the south, 
 Men are forgetting as I speak to you; 
 By her head sever'd in that awful drouth 
 
 "Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow, 
 I pray your pity! let me not scream out 
 For ever after, when the shrill winds blow 
 
30 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 "Through half your castle-locks! let me not shout 
 For ever after in the winter night 
 When you ride out alone! in battle-rout 
 
 "Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! 
 Ah ! God of mercy how he turns away ! 
 So, ever must I dress me to the fight, 
 
 "So — let God's justice work! Gauwaine, I say. 
 See me hew down your proofs: yea all men know 
 Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one day, 
 
 "One bitter day in la Fausse Garde, for so 
 All good knights held it after, saw — 
 Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage; though 
 
 "You, Gauwaine, held his word without a flaw. 
 This Mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed — 
 Whose blood then pray you? is there any law 
 
 "To make a queen say why some spots of red 
 Lie on her coverlet? or will you say, 
 'Your hands are white, lady, as when you wed, 
 
 "'Where did you bleed?' and must I stammer out- 
 'Nay', 
 I blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend 
 My sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay 
 
 "*A knife-point last night:' so must I defend 
 The honour of the lady Guenevere? 
 Not so, fair lords, even if the world should end 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 31 
 
 "This very day, and you were judges here 
 Instead of God. Did you see Mellyagraunce 
 When Launcelot stood by him? what white fear 
 
 "Curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance, 
 His side sink in? as my knight cried and said, 
 'Slayer of unarm'd men, here is a chance! 
 
 " ' Setter of traps, I pray you guard your head, 
 By God I am so glad to fight with you. 
 Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead 
 
 "'For driving weight; hurrah now! draw and do, 
 For all my wounds are moving in my breast, 
 And I am getting mad with waiting so.' 
 
 "He struck his hands together o'er the beast. 
 Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at his feet. 
 And groan'd at being slain so young — 'at least.' 
 
 "My knight said, 'Rise you, sir, who are so fleet 
 At catching ladies, half-arm'd will I fight. 
 My left side all uncover'd!' then I weet, 
 
 "Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with great delight 
 Upon his knave's face; not until just then 
 Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight 
 
 "Along the lists look to my stake and pen 
 With such a joyous smile, it made me sigh 
 From agony beneath my waist-chain, when 
 
32 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 "The fight began, and to me they drew nigh; 
 Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right, 
 And traversed warily, and ever high 
 
 "And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my knight 
 Sudden threw up his sword to his left hand, 
 Caught it, and swung it; that was all the fight. 
 
 "Except a spout of blood on the hot land; 
 For it was hottest summer; and I know 
 I wondered how the fire, while I should stand, 
 
 "And burn, against the heat, would quiver so. 
 Yards above my head; thus these matters went: 
 Which things were only warnings of the w^oe 
 
 "That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce was shent. 
 For Mellyagraunce had fought against the Lord; 
 Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent 
 
 "With all this wickedness; say no rash word 
 Against me, being so beautiful; my eyes, 
 Wept all away the grey, may bring some sword 
 
 "To drown you in your blood; see my breast rise. 
 Like waves of purple sea, as here I stand; 
 And how my arms are moved in wonderful wise, 
 
 "Yea also at my full heart's strong command. 
 See through my long throat how the words go up 
 In ripples to my mouth; how in my hand 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 33 
 
 "The shadow lies like wine within a cup 
 Of marvellously colour'd gold; yea now 
 This little wind is rising, look you up, 
 
 "And wonder how the light is falling so 
 Within my moving tresses: will you dare 
 When you have looked a little on my brow, 
 
 "To say this thing is vile? or will you care 
 For any plausible lies of cunning woof, 
 When you can see my face with no lie there 
 
 "For ever? am I not a gracious proof — 
 'But in your chamber Launcelot was found' — 
 Is there a good knight then would stand aloof, 
 
 "When a queen says with gentle queenly sound: 
 *0 true as steel come now and talk with me, 
 I love to see your step upon the ground 
 
 "'Unwavering, also well I love to see 
 That gracious smile light up your face, and hear 
 Your wonderful words, that all mean verily 
 
 "'The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear 
 To me in everything, come here to-night. 
 Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear; 
 
 " 'If you come not, I fear this time I might 
 Get thinking over much of times gone by, 
 When I was young, and green hope was in sight: 
 
 Morris, 3 
 
34 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 "'For no man cares now to know why I sigh; 
 And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, 
 Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie 
 
 "'So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs 
 To see you, Launcelot; that we may be 
 Like children once again, free from all wrongs 
 
 "'Just for one night.' Did he not come to me? 
 What thing could keep true Launcelot away 
 If I said 'Come?' there was one less than three 
 
 "In my quiet room that night, and we were gay; 
 Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick, 
 Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea 
 
 "I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak. 
 For he looked helpless too, for a little while; 
 Then I remember how I tried to shriek, 
 
 "And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile 
 The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head 
 And made me dizzier; till within a while 
 
 "My maids were all about me, and my head 
 On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away 
 From its white chattering, until Launcelot said — 
 
 "By God! I will not tell you more to-day, 
 Judge any way you will — what matters it? 
 You know quite well the story of that fray, 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 35 
 
 "How Launcelot stilFd their bawling, the mad fit 
 That caught up Gauwaine — all, all, verily, 
 But just that which would save me; these things flit. 
 
 "Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie. 
 Whatever may have happen'd these long years, 
 God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie! 
 
 "All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears." 
 She would not speak another word, but stood 
 Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears 
 
 His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood 
 
 Of his foe's lances. She lean'd eagerly. 
 
 And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could 
 
 At last hear something really; joyfully 
 
 Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed 
 
 Of the roan charger drew all men to see, 
 
 The knight who came was Launcelot at good need. 
 
 3* 
 
36 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON. 
 
 Sir Guy, being in the court of a Pagan castle. 
 
 This castle where I dwell, it stands 
 A long way off from Christian lands, 
 A long way off my lady's hands, 
 A long way off the aspen trees. 
 And murmur of the lime-tree bees. 
 
 But down the Valley of the Rose 
 
 My lady often hawking goes. 
 
 Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind, 
 
 Leaning towards the western wind. 
 
 Because it bringeth to her mind 
 
 Sad whisperings of happy times. 
 
 The face of him who sings these rhymes. 
 
 King Guilbert rides beside her there, 
 Bends low and calls her very fair. 
 And strives, by pulling down his hair. 
 To hide from my dear lady's ken 
 The grisly gash I gave him, when 
 I cut him down at Camelot; 
 However he strives, he hides it not. 
 That tourney will not be forgot. 
 Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot, 
 Whatever he says she answers not. 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 37 
 
 Now tell me, you that are in love, 
 From the king's son to the wood- dove, 
 Which is the better, he or I? 
 
 For this king means that I should die 
 In this lone Pagan castle, where 
 The flowers droop in the bad air 
 On the September evening. 
 
 Look, now I take mine ease and sing, 
 Counting as but a little thing 
 The foolish spite of a bad king. 
 
 For these vile things that hem me in, . 
 These Pagan beasts who live in sin. 
 The sickly flowers pale and wan, 
 The grim blue-bearded castellan. 
 The stanchions half worn-out with rust, 
 Whereto their banner vile they trust — 
 Why, all these things I hold them just 
 Like dragons in a missal book, 
 Wherein, whenever we may look, 
 We see no horror, yea, delight 
 We have, the colours are so bright; 
 Likewise we note the specks of white, 
 And the great plates of burnish'd gold. 
 
 Just so this Pagan castle old, 
 ^ And everything I can see there, 
 Sick-pining in the marshland air, 
 I note; I will go over now. 
 Like one who paints with knitted brow, 
 
38 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 The flowers and all things one by one, 
 From the snail on the wall to the setting sun. 
 
 Four great walls, and a little one 
 That leads down to the barbican. 
 Which walls with many spears they man, 
 When news comes to the castellan 
 Of Launcelot being in the land. 
 
 And as I sit here, close at hand 
 Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand, 
 The castellan with a long wand 
 Cuts down their leaves as he goes by, 
 Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye. 
 And fingers twisted in his beard — 
 Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard? 
 I have a hope makes me afeard: 
 It cannot be, but if some dream 
 Just for a minute made me deem 
 I saw among the flowers there 
 My lady's face with long red hair, 
 Pale, ivory-colour' d dear face come, 
 As I was wont to see her some 
 Fading September afternoon. 
 And kiss me, saying nothing, soon 
 To leave me by myself again; 
 
 Could I get this by longing: vain! 
 
 The castellan is gone: I see 
 On one broad yellow flower a bee 
 Drunk with much honey — 
 
 Christ! again, 
 Some distant knight's voice brings me pain. 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 39 
 
 I thought I had forgot to feel, 
 I never heard the blissful steel 
 These ten years past; year after year, 
 Through all my hopeless sojourn here, 
 No Christian pennon has been near; 
 Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws on 
 Over the marches, battle won, 
 Knights' shouts, and axes hammering. 
 Yea, quicker now the dint and ring 
 Of flying hoofs; ah,, castellan. 
 When they come back count man for man, 
 Say whom you miss. 
 
 The Vagans, /rom the battlements. 
 Mahmoud to aid! 
 Why flee ye so like men dismay'd? 
 
 The FAGAHSf/rom without. 
 Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot, 
 Who follows quick upon us, hot 
 And shouting with his men-at-arms. 
 
 Sir Guy. 
 Also the Pagans raise alarms. 
 And ring the bells for fear; at last 
 My prison walls will be well past. 
 
 Sir Launcelot, _/r<?w outside. 
 Ho! in the name of the Trinity, 
 Let down the drawbridge quick to me. 
 And open doors, that I may see 
 Guy the good knight. 
 
 The Pagans, /row the battlements. 
 Nay, Launcelot, 
 With mere big words ye win us not. 
 
40 from the defence of 
 
 Sir Launcelot. 
 Bid Miles bring up la perriere, 
 And archers clear the vile walls there, 
 Bring back the notches to the ear, 
 Shoot well together! God to aid! 
 These miscreants shall be well paid. 
 
 Hurrah! all goes together; Miles 
 Is good to win my lady's smiles 
 For his good shooting — Launcelot! 
 On knights a-pace! this game is hot! 
 
 Sir Guy sayeth afterwards. 
 I said, I go to meet her now, 
 And saying so, I felt a blow 
 From some clench'd hand across my brow. 
 And fell down on the sunflowers 
 Just as a hammering smote my ears. 
 After which this I felt in sooth; 
 My bare hands throttling without ruth 
 The hairy-throated castellan; 
 Then a grim fight with those that ran 
 To slay me, while I shouted, "God 
 For the Lady Mary!" deep I trod 
 That evening in my own red blood; 
 Nevertheless so stiff I stood. 
 That when the knights burst the old wood 
 Of the castle-doors, I was not dead. 
 
 I kiss the Lady Mary's head, 
 Her lips, and her hair golden red, 
 Because to-day we have been wed. 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 4 1 
 
 SHAMEFUL DEATH. 
 
 There were four of us about that bed; 
 
 The mass-priest knelt at the side, 
 I and his mother stood at the head, 
 
 Over his feet lay the bride; 
 We were quite sure that he was dead, 
 
 Though his eyes were open wide. 
 
 He did not die in the night, 
 
 He did not die in the day, 
 But in the morning twilight 
 
 His spirit pass'd away. 
 When neither sun nor moon was bright. 
 
 And the trees were merely grey. 
 
 He was not slain with the sword. 
 Knight's axe, or the knightly spear. 
 
 Yet spoke he never a word 
 After he came in here; 
 
 I cut away the cord 
 
 From the neck of my brother dear. 
 
 He did not strike one blow. 
 For the recreants came behind, 
 
 In a place where the hornbeams grow, 
 A path right hard to find, 
 
42 PROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 For the hornbeam boughs swing so, 
 That the twilight makes it blind. 
 
 They lighted a great torch then, 
 When his arms were pinion'd fast, 
 
 Sir John the knight of the Fen, 
 Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, 
 
 With knights threescore and ten, 
 Hung brave Lord Hugh at last. 
 
 I am threescore and ten. 
 
 And my hair is all turn'd grey. 
 But I met Sir John of the Fen 
 
 Long ago on a summer day, 
 And am glad to think of the moment when 
 
 I took his life away. 
 
 I am threescore and ten. 
 
 And my strength is mostly pass'd, 
 
 But long ago I and my men, 
 When the sky was overcast, 
 
 And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen, 
 Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast. 
 
 And now, knights all of you, 
 
 I pray you pray for Sir Hugh, 
 A good knight and a true, 
 
 And for Alice, his wife, pray too. 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 43 
 
 THE EVE OF CRECY. 
 
 Gold on her head, and gold on her feet, 
 And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet, 
 And a golden girdle round my sweet; — 
 Ah! quelle est belle La Marguerite, 
 
 Margaret's maids are fair to see, 
 Freshly dress'd and pleasantly; 
 Margaret's hair falls down to her knee; — 
 Ah! qu^elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 If I were rich I would kiss her feet, 
 I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet, 
 And the golden girdle round my sweet — 
 Ah! quelle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand; 
 When the arriere-ban goes through the land. 
 Six basnets under my pennon stand; — 
 Ah! quelle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 And many an one grins under his hood: 
 "Sir Lambert de Bois, with all his men good. 
 Has neither food nor firewood;" — 
 Ah! qu^elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 If I were rich I would kiss her feet. 
 And the golden girdle of my sweet, 
 And thereabouts where the gold hems meet; — 
 Ah! qu^elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
44 
 
 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 Yet even now it is good to think, 
 While my few poor varlets grumble and drink 
 In my desolate hall where the fires sink; — 
 Ah! quelle est belle La Marguerite, 
 
 Of Margaret sitting glorious there, 
 In glory of gold and glory of hair. 
 And glory of glorious face most fair; — 
 Ah! qu^elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 Likewise to-night I make good cheer, 
 Because this battle draweth near: 
 For what have I to lose or fear? — 
 Ah! quelle est belle La Marguerite, 
 
 For, look you, my horse is good to prance 
 A right fair measure in this war-dance, 
 Before the eyes of Philip of France; — 
 Ah! quelle est belle La Marguerite, 
 
 And sometime it may hap, perdie. 
 While my new towers stand up three and three, 
 And my hall gets painted fair to see — 
 Ah! quelle est belle La Marguerite. — 
 
 That folks may say: "Times change, by the rood, 
 For Lambert, banneret of the wood. 
 Has heaps of food and firewood; — 
 Ah! qu^elle est belle La Marguerite; — 
 
 "And wonderful eyes, too, under the hood 
 Of a damsel of right noble blood:" 
 St. Ives, for Lambert of the wood ! — 
 Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite, 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 45 
 
 THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS. 
 
 Had she come all the way for this, 
 To part at last without a kiss? 
 Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain 
 That her own eyes might see him slain 
 Beside the haystack in the floods? 
 
 Along the dripping leafless woods, 
 The stirrup touching either shoe, 
 She rode astride as troopers do; 
 With kirtle kilted to her knee. 
 To which the mud splash'd wretchedly; 
 And the wet dripp'd from every tree 
 Upon her head and heavy hair, 
 And on her eyelids broad and fair; 
 The tears and rain ran down her face. 
 
 By fits and starts they rode apace. 
 
 And very often was his place 
 
 Far off from her; he had to ride 
 
 Ahead, to see what might betide 
 
 When the road cross'd; and sometimes, when 
 
 There rose a murmuring from his men, 
 
 Had to turn back with promises; 
 
 Ah me! she had but little ease; 
 
 And often for pure doubt and dread 
 
 She sobb'd, made giddy in the head 
 
46 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 By the swift riding; while, for cold, 
 Her slender fingers scarce could hold 
 The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too. 
 She felt the foot within her shoe 
 Against the stirrup: all for this. 
 To part at last without a kiss 
 Beside the haystack in the floods. 
 
 For when they near'd that old soak'd hay. 
 
 They saw across the only way 
 
 That Judas, Godmar, and the three 
 
 Red running lions dismally 
 
 Grinn'd from his pennon, under which 
 
 In one straight line along the ditch. 
 
 They counted thirty heads. 
 
 So then. 
 While Robert tum'd round to his men, 
 She saw at once the wretched end. 
 And, stooping down, tried hard to rend 
 Her coif the wrong way from her head. 
 And hid her eyes; while Robert said: 
 "Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one. 
 At Poictiers where we made them run 
 So fast — why, sweet my love, good cheer, 
 The Gascon frontier is so near, 
 Nought after this." 
 
 But, "O," she said, 
 "My God! my God! I have to tread 
 The long way back without you; then 
 The court at Paris; those six men; 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 47 
 
 The gratings of the Chateletj 
 
 The swift Seine on some rainy day 
 
 Like this, and people standing by, 
 
 And laughing, while my weak hands try 
 
 To recollect how strong men swim. 
 
 All this, or else a life with him. 
 
 For which I should be damned at last, 
 
 Would God that this next hour were past!" 
 
 He answer'd not, but cried his cry, 
 "St. George for Marny!" cheerily; 
 And laid his hand upon her rein. 
 Alas! no man of all his train 
 Gave back that cheery cry again; 
 And, while for rage his thumb beat fast 
 Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast 
 About his neck a kerchief long, 
 And bound him. 
 
 Then they went along 
 To Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane, 
 Your lover's life is on the wane 
 So fast, that, if this very hour 
 You yield not as my paramour. 
 He will not see the rain leave off — 
 Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff, 
 Sir Robert, or I slay you now." 
 
 She laid her hand upon her brow, 
 Then gazed upon the palm, as though 
 She thought her forehead bled, and — "No," 
 She said, and turn'd her head away. 
 As there were nothing else to say, 
 
48 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 And everything were settled: red 
 Grew Godmar's face from chin to head: 
 "Jehane, on yonder hill there stands 
 My castle, guarding well my lands: 
 What hinders me from taking you, 
 And doing that I list to do 
 To your fair wilful body, while 
 Your knight lies dead?" 
 
 A wicked smile 
 Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, 
 A long way out she thrust her chin: 
 "You know that I should strangle you 
 While you were sleeping; or bite through 
 Your throat, by God's help — ah!" she said, 
 "Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid! 
 For in such wise they hem me in, 
 I cannot choose but sin and sin, 
 Whatever happens: yet I think 
 They could not make me eat or drink. 
 And so should I just reach my rest." 
 
 "Nay, if you do not my behest, 
 O Jehane! though I love you well," 
 Said Godmar, "would I fail to tell 
 All that I know." "Foul lies," she said. 
 "Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head. 
 At Paris folks would deem them true! 
 Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you, 
 * Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown! 
 Give us Jehane to burn or drown!' — 
 Eh — gag me, Robert! — sweet my friend, 
 This were indeed a piteous end 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 49 
 
 For those long fingers, and long feet, 
 
 And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet; 
 
 An end that few men would forget 
 
 That saw it — So, an hour yet: 
 
 Consider, Jehane, which to take 
 
 Of life or death!" 
 
 So, scarce awake 
 Dismounting, did she leave that place. 
 And totter some yards: with her face 
 Turn'd upward to the sky she lay. 
 Her head on a wet heap of hay, 
 And fell asleep: and while she slept. 
 And did not dream, the minutes crept 
 Round to the twelve again; but she. 
 Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly. 
 And strangely childlike came, and said: 
 "I will not" Straightway Godmar's headj 
 As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd 
 Most sharply round, and his face burn'd. 
 
 For Robert — both his eyes were dry. 
 He could not weep but gloomily 
 He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too. 
 His lips were firm; he tried once more 
 To touch her lips; she reach'd out, sore 
 And vain desire so tortured them, 
 The poor grey lips, and now the hem 
 Of his sleeve brush'd them. 
 
 With a start 
 Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart; 
 
 Morris, 4 
 
50 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 From Robert's throat he loosed the bands 
 Of silk and mail; with empty hands 
 Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw. 
 The long bright blade without a flaw 
 Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand 
 In Robert's hair; she saw him bend 
 Back Robert's head; she saw him send 
 The thin steel down; the blow told well. 
 Right backward the knight Robert fell. 
 And moan'd as dogs do, being half dead, 
 Unwitting, as I deem: so then 
 Godmar turn'd grinning to his men. 
 Who ran, some five or six, and beat 
 His head to pieces at their feet. 
 
 Then Godmar turn'd again and said: 
 "So, Jehane, the first fitte is read! 
 Take note, my lady, that your way 
 Lies backward to the Chatelet!" 
 She shook her head and gazed awhile 
 At her cold hands with a rueful smile. 
 As though this thing had made her mad. 
 This was the parting that they had 
 Beside the haystack in the floods. 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 5 1 
 
 RIDING TOGETHER. 
 
 For many, many days together 
 
 The wind blew steady from the East; 
 
 For many days hot grew the weather, 
 About the time of our Lady's Feast. 
 
 For many days we rode together. 
 Yet met we neither friend nor foe; 
 
 Hotter and clearer grew the weather, 
 Steadily did the East wind blow. 
 
 We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather. 
 Clear-cut, with shadows very black, 
 
 As freely we rode on together 
 
 With helms unlaced and bridles slack. 
 
 And often as we rode together, 
 
 We, looking down the green-bank'd stream. 
 Saw flowers in the sunny weather. 
 
 And saw the bubble-making bream. 
 
 And in the night lay down together. 
 And hung above our heads the rood, 
 
 Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather. 
 The while the moon did watch the wood. 
 
 4* 
 
52 FROM THE DEFENCE OF 
 
 Our spears stood bright and thick together, 
 Straight out the banners stream'd behind, 
 
 As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather, 
 With faces turn'd towards the wind. 
 
 Down sank our threescore spears together. 
 
 As thick we saw the Pagans ride; 
 His eager face in the clear fresh weather, 
 
 Shone out that last time by my side. 
 
 Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together. 
 It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears, 
 
 Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather. 
 The elm-tree flowers fell like tears. 
 
 There, as we rolFd and writhed together, 
 
 I threw my arms above my head, 
 For close by my side, in the lovely weather, 
 
 I saw him reel and fall back dead. 
 
 I and the slayer met together. 
 
 He waited the death-stroke there in his place. 
 With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather, 
 
 Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face. 
 
 Madly I fought as we fought together; 
 
 In vain: the little Christian band 
 The pagans drowned, as in stormy weather. 
 
 The river drowns low-lying land. 
 
 They bound my blood-stain'd hands together. 
 They bound his corpse to nod by my side: 
 
GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS. 53 
 
 Then on we rode, in the bright-March weather, 
 With clash of cymbals did we ride. 
 
 We ride no more, no more together; 
 
 My prison-bars are thick and strong, 
 I take no heed of any weather. 
 
 The sweet Saints grant I live not long. 
 
54 FROM THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE. 
 
 SUMMER DAWN. 
 
 Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, 
 Think but one thought of me up in the stars. 
 
 The summer night waneth, the morning light slips, 
 Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt 
 the cloud-bars, 
 
 That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: 
 Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold 
 
 Waits to float through them along with the sun. 
 
 Far out in the meadows, above the young corn. 
 The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold 
 
 The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; 
 
 Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn, 
 
 Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. 
 Speak but one word to me over the corn, 
 Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn. 
 
FROM 
 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON." 
 
 BOOK XIV. 
 
 The Sirens — The Garden of the Hesperides — The Heroes do 
 Sacrifice at Malea. 
 
 Across the open sea they drew their wake 
 
 For three long days, and when the fourth 'gan break 
 
 Their eyes beheld the fair Trinacrian shore, 
 
 And there-along they coasted two days more. 
 
 Then first Medea warned them to take heed. 
 
 Lest they should end all memory of their deed 
 
 Where dwell the Sirens on the yellow sand. 
 
 And folk should think some tangled poisonous land 
 
 Had buried them, or some tumultuous sea 
 
 O'er their white bones was tossing angrily; 
 
 Or that some muddy river, far from Greece, 
 
 Drove seaward o'er the ringlets of the Fleece. 
 
 But when the Minyse hearkened to this word. 
 With many a thought their wearied hearts were stirred. 
 And longing for the near-gained Grecian land. 
 Where in a little while their feet should stand; 
 Yet none the less like to a happy dream, 
 Now, when they neared it, did their own home seem, 
 
56 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 And like a dream the glory of their quest, 
 And therewithal some thought of present rest 
 Stole over them, and they were fain to sigh, 
 Hearkening the sighing restless wind go by. 
 
 But hard on even of the second day, 
 As o'er the gentle waves they took their way. 
 The orange-scented land-breeze seemed to bear 
 Some other sounds unto the listening ear 
 Than all day long they had been hearkening. 
 The land-born signs of many a well-known thing. 
 Thereat Medea trembled, for she knew 
 That nigh the dreadful sands at last they drew, 
 For certainly the Sirens' song she heard. 
 Though yet her ear could shape it to no word. 
 And by their faces could the queen behold 
 How sweet it was, although no tale it told, 
 To those worn toilers o'er the bitter sea. 
 
 Now, as they sped along, they presently. 
 Rounding a headland, reached a little bay 
 Walled from the sea by splintered cliffs and grey. 
 Capped by the thymy hills' green wind-beat head, 
 Where 'mid the whin the burrowing rabbits fed. 
 And 'neath the cliff they saw a belt of sand, 
 'Twixt Nereus' pasture and the high scarped land, 
 Whereon, yet far off, could their eyes behold 
 White bodies moving, crowned and girt with gold, 
 Wherefrom it seemed that lovely music welled. 
 
 So when all this the grey-eyed queen beheld, 
 She said: "O Jason, I have made thee wise 
 In this and other things; turn then thine eyes 
 Seaward, and note the ripple of the sea, 
 Where there is hope as well as fear for thee, 
 
OF JASON. 57 
 
 Nor look upon the death that lurketh there 
 
 'Neath the grey cliff, though sweet it seems and fair; 
 
 For thou art young upon this day to die. 
 
 Take then the helm, and gazing steadily 
 
 Upon the road to Greece, make strong thine hand, 
 
 And steer us toward the lion-haunted land. 
 
 And thou, O Thracian ! if thou e'er hast moved 
 
 Men's hearts with stories of the Gods who loved, 
 
 And men who suffered, move them on this day. 
 
 Taking the deadly love of death away, 
 
 That even now is stealing over them. 
 
 While still they gaze upon the ocean's hem, 
 
 Where their undoing is if they but knew." 
 
 But while she spake, still nigher Argo drew 
 Unto the yellow edges of the shore. 
 And little help she had of ashen oar. 
 For as her shielded side rolled through the sea, 
 Silent with glittering eyes the Minyae 
 Gazed o'er the surge, for they were nigh enow 
 To see the gusty wind of evening blow 
 Long locks of hair across those bodies white. 
 With golden spray hiding some dear delight; 
 Yea, nigh enow to see their red lips smile, 
 Wherefrom all song had ceased now for a while, 
 As though they deemed the prey was in the net, 
 And they no more had need a bait to set. 
 But their own bodies, fair beyond man's thought, 
 Under the grey cliff, hidden not of aught 
 But of such mist of tears as in the eyes 
 Of those seafaring men might chance to rise. 
 
 A moment Jason gazed, then through the waist 
 Ran swiftly, and with trembling hands made haste 
 
58 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 To trim the sail, then to the tiller ran, 
 
 And thrust aside the skilled Milesian man, 
 
 Who with half-open mouth, and dreamy eyes. 
 
 Stood steering Argo to that land of lies; 
 
 But as he staggered forward, Jason's hand 
 
 Hard on the tiller steered away from land. 
 
 And as her head a little now fell off 
 
 Unto the wide sea, did he shout this scoff 
 
 To Thracian Orpheus: "Minstrel, shall we die, 
 
 Because thou hast forgotten utterly 
 
 What things she taught thee whom men call divine? 
 
 Or will thy measures but lead folk to wine. 
 
 And scented beds, and not to noble deeds? 
 
 Or will they fail as fail the shepherd's reeds 
 
 Before the trumpet, when these sea-witches 
 
 Pipe shrilly to the washing of the seas? 
 
 I am a man, and these but beasts, but thou 
 
 Giving these souls, that all were men ere now, 
 
 Shalt be a very God and not a man!" 
 
 So spake he; but his fingers Orpheus ran 
 Over the strings, and sighing turned away 
 From that fair ending of the sunny bay; 
 But as his well-skilled hands were preluding 
 What his heart swelled with, they began to sing 
 With pleading voices from the yellow sands. 
 Clustered together, with appealing hands 
 Reached out to Argo as the great sail drew. 
 While o'er their white limbs sharp the spray-shower 
 
 flew, 
 Since they spared not to set white feet among 
 The cold waves heedless of their honied song. 
 
 Sweetly they sang, and still the answer came 
 Piercing and clear from him, as bursts the flame 
 
OF JASON. 59 
 
 From out the furnace in the moonless night; 
 
 Yet, as their words are no more known aright 
 
 Through lapse of many ages, and no man 
 
 Can any more across the waters wan 
 
 Behold those singing women of the sea. 
 
 Once more I pray you all to pardon me. 
 
 If with my feeble voice and harsh I sing 
 
 From what dim memories yet may chance to cling 
 
 About men's hearts, of lovely things once sung 
 
 Beside the sea, while yet the world was young. 
 
 The Sirens. 
 
 O happy seafarers are ye. 
 
 And surely all your ills are past. 
 And toil upon the land and sea, 
 
 Since ye are brought to us at last. 
 
 To you the fashion of the world. 
 
 Wide lands laid waste, fair cities burned. 
 
 And plagues, and kings from kingdoms hurled, 
 Are nought, since hither ye have turned. 
 
 For as upon this beach we stand, 
 And o'er our heads the sea-fowl flit, 
 
 Our eyes behold a glorious land. 
 And soon shall ye be kings of it. 
 
 Orpheus. 
 
 A little more, a little more, 
 
 O carriers of the Golden Fleece, 
 A little labour with the oar. 
 
 Before we reach the land of Greece. 
 
60 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 E'en now perchance faint rumours reach 
 Men's ears of this our victory, 
 
 And draw them down unto the beach 
 To gaze across the empty sea. 
 
 But since the longed-for day is nigh, 
 And scarce a God could stay us now, 
 
 Why do ye hang your heads and sigh, 
 Hindering for nought our eager prow? 
 
 The Sirens. 
 
 Ah, had ye chanced to reach the home 
 On which your fond desires were set. 
 
 Into what troubles had ye come? 
 Short love and joy and long regret. 
 
 But now, but now, when ye have lain 
 
 Asleep with us a little while 
 Beneath the washing of the main. 
 
 How calm shall be your waking smile! 
 
 For ye shall smile to think of life 
 
 That knows no troublous change or fear. 
 
 No unavailing bitter strife. 
 
 That ere its time brings trouble near. 
 
 Orpheus. 
 
 Is there some murmur in your ears, 
 That all that we have done is nought, 
 
 And nothing ends our cares and fears, 
 Till the last fear on us is brought? 
 
OF JASON. 6 1 
 
 The Sirens. 
 Alas! and will ye stop your ears, 
 
 In vain desire to do aught, 
 And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, 
 
 Until the last fear makes you nought? 
 
 Orpheus. 
 Is not the May- time now on earth. 
 
 When close against the city wall 
 The folk are singing in their mirth, 
 
 While on their heads the May-flowers fall? 
 
 The Sirens. 
 Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath 
 
 Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day. 
 And pensive with swift-coming death. 
 
 Shall ye be satiate of the May. 
 
 Orpheus. 
 Shall not July bring fresh delight. 
 
 As underneath green trees ye sit. 
 And o'er some damsel's body white 
 
 The noontide shadows change and flit? 
 
 The Sirens. 
 No new delight July shall bring 
 
 But ancient fear and fresh desire. 
 And, spite of every lovely thing. 
 
 Of July surely shall ye tire. 
 
 Orpheus. 
 And now, when August comes on thee, 
 And 'mid the golden sea of corn 
 
62 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 The merry reapers thou mayst see, 
 
 Wih thou still think the earth forlorn? 
 
 The Sirens. 
 
 Set flowers upon thy short-lived head, 
 And in thine heart forgetfulness 
 
 Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread, 
 And weary of those days no less. 
 
 Orpheus. 
 
 Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill, 
 
 In the October afternoon, 
 To watch the purple earth's blood fill 
 
 The grey vat to the maiden's tune? 
 
 The Sirens. 
 
 When thou beginnest to grow old, 
 Bring back remembrance of thy bliss 
 
 With that the shining cup doth hold, 
 And weary helplessly of this. 
 
 Orpheus. 
 
 Or pleasureless shall we pass by 
 
 The long cold night and leaden day. 
 
 That song, and tale, and minstrelsy 
 Shall make as merry as the May? 
 
 The Sirens. 
 
 List then, to-night, to some old tale 
 Until the tears o'erflow thine eyes; 
 
 But what shall all these things avail, 
 When sad to-morrow comes and dies? 
 
OF JASON. 63 
 
 Orpheus. 
 And when the world is born again, 
 
 And with some fair love, side by side, 
 Thou wanderest 'twixt the sun and rain, 
 
 In that fresh love-begetting tide; 
 
 Then, when the world is born again. 
 And the sweet year before thee lies. 
 
 Shall thy heart think of coming pain, 
 Or vex itself with memories? 
 
 The Sirens. 
 Ah! then the world is born again 
 
 With burning love unsatisfied, 
 And new desires fond and vain, 
 
 And weary days from tide to tide. 
 
 Ah! when the world is born again, 
 
 A little day is soon gone by, 
 When thou, unmoved by sun or rain, 
 
 .Within a cold straight house shalt lie. 
 
 Therewith they ceased awhile, as languidly 
 The head of Argo fell off toward the sea, 
 And through the water she began to go, 
 For from the land a fitful wind did blow, 
 That, dallying with the many-coloured sail, 
 Would sometimes swell it out and sometimes fail, 
 As nigh the east side of the bay they drew; 
 Then o'er the waves again the music flew. 
 
 The Sirens. 
 Think not of pleasure, short and vain. 
 Wherewith, 'mid days of toil and pain, 
 
64 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 With sick and sinking hearts ye strive 
 To cheat yourselves that ye may live 
 With cold death ever close at hand; 
 Think rather of a peaceful land, 
 The changeless land where ye may be 
 Roofed over by the changeful sea. 
 
 Orpheus. 
 
 And is the fair town nothing then, 
 The coming of the wandering men 
 With that long talked of thing and strange. 
 And news of how the kingdoms change; 
 The pointed hands, and wondering 
 At doers of a desperate thing? 
 Push on, for surely this shall be 
 Across a narrow strip of sea. 
 
 The Sirens. 
 
 Alas! poor souls and timorous, 
 Will ye draw nigh to gaze at us 
 And see if we are fair indeed, 
 For such as we shall be your meed. 
 There, where our hearts would have you go. 
 And where can the earth-dwellers show 
 In any land such loveliness 
 As that wherewith your eyes we bless, 
 O wanderers of the Minyae, 
 Worn toilers over land and sea? 
 
 Orpheus. 
 
 Fair as the lightning thwart the sky, 
 As sun-dyed snow upon the high 
 
OF JASON. 65 
 
 Untrodden heaps of threatening stone 
 The eagle looks upon alone, 
 O fair as the doomed victim's wreath, 
 O fair as deadly sleep and death, 
 What will ye with them, earthly men, 
 To mate your three-score years and ten? 
 Toil rather, suffer and be free, 
 Betwixt the green earth and the sea. 
 
 The Sirens. 
 
 If ye be bold with us to go. 
 Things such as happy dreams may show 
 Shall your once heavy eyes behold 
 About our palaces of gold; 
 Where waters 'neath the waters run. 
 And from overhead a harmless sun 
 Gleams through the woods of chrysolite. 
 There gardens fairer to the sight 
 Than those of the Phseacian king 
 Shall ye behold; and, wondering. 
 Gaze on the sea-born fruit and flowers. 
 And thornless and unchanging bowers. 
 Whereof the May-time knoweth nought. 
 
 So to the pillared house being brought, 
 Poor souls, ye shall not be alone. 
 For o'er the floors of pale blue stone 
 All day such feet as ours shall pass, 
 And, 'twixt the glimmering walls of glass, 
 Such bodies garlanded with gold, 
 So faint, so fair, shall ye behold. 
 And clean forget the treachery 
 Of changing earth and tumbling sea. 
 
 Morris. 5 
 
66 from the life and death 
 
 Orpheus. 
 O the sweet valley of deep grass, 
 Where-through the summer stream doth pass, 
 In chain of shallow, and still pool. 
 From misty morn to evening cool; 
 Where the black ivy creeps and twines 
 O'er the dark-armed, red-trunk^d pines, 
 Whence clattering the pigeon flits, 
 Or, brooding o'er her thin eggs, sits. 
 And every hollow of the hills 
 With echoing song the mavis fills. 
 There by the stream, all unafraid. 
 Shall stand the happy shepherd maid. 
 Alone in first of sunlit hours; 
 Behind her, on the dewy flowers. 
 Her homespun woollen raiment lies. 
 And her white limbs and sweet grey eyes 
 Shine from the calm green pool and deep. 
 While round about the swallows sweep, 
 Not silent; and would God that we. 
 Like them, were landed from the sea. 
 
 The Sirens. 
 Shall we not rise with you at night. 
 Up through the shimmering green twilight. 
 That maketh there our changeless day. 
 Then going through the moonlight grey. 
 Shall we not sit upon these sands. 
 To think upon the troublous lands 
 Long left behind, where once ye were. 
 When every day brought change and fear? 
 There, with white arms about you twined. 
 And shuddering somewhat at the wind 
 
OF JASON. 67 
 
 That ye rejoiced erewhile to meet, 
 Be happy, while old stories sweet, 
 Half understood, float round your ears, 
 And fill your eyes with happy tears. 
 Ah! while we sing unto you there. 
 As now we sing, with yellow hair 
 Blown round about these pearly limbs, 
 While underneath the grey sky swims 
 The light shell-sailor of the waves. 
 And to our song, from sea-filled caves 
 Booms out an echoing harmony. 
 Shall ye not love the peaceful sea? 
 
 Orpheus. 
 
 Nigh the vine-covered hillocks green. 
 In days agone, have I not seen 
 The brown-clad maidens amorous. 
 Below the long rose-trellised house. 
 Dance to the querulous pipe and shrill. 
 When the grey shadow of the hill 
 Was lengthening at the end of day? 
 Not shadowy nor pale were they, 
 But limbed like those who 'twixt the trees, 
 Follow the swift of Goddesses. 
 Sunburnt they are somewhat, indeed, 
 To where the rough brown woollen weed 
 Is drawn across their bosoms sweet. 
 Or cast from off their dancing feet; 
 But yet the stars, the moonlight grey. 
 The water wan, the dawn of day. 
 Can see their bodies fair and white 
 As Hers, who once, for man's delight, 
 
 5' 
 
68 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Before the world grew hard and old, 
 Came o'er the bitter sea and cold; 
 And surely those that met me there, 
 Her handmaidens and subjects were; 
 And shame-faced, half-repressed desire 
 Had lit their glorious eyes with fire, 
 That maddens eager hearts of men. 
 O would that I were with them when 
 The new-risen moon is gathering light. 
 And yellow from the homestead white 
 The windows gleam; but verily 
 This waits us o'er a little sea. 
 
 The Sirens. 
 
 Come to the land where none grows old, 
 And none is rash or over-bold, 
 Nor any noise there is nor war. 
 Nor rumour from wild lands afar, 
 Nor plagues, nor birth and death of kings; 
 No vain desire of unknown things 
 Shall vex you there, no hope or fear 
 Of that which never draweth near; 
 But in that lovely land and still 
 Ye may remember what ye will, 
 And what ye will, forget for aye. 
 
 So while the kingdoms pass away, 
 Ye sea-beat hardened toilers erst. 
 Unresting, for vain fame athirst. 
 Shall be at peace for evermore. 
 With hearts fulfilled of Godlike lore, 
 And calm, unwavering Godlike love. 
 No lapse of time can turn or move. 
 
OF JASON. 69 
 
 There, ages after your fair Fleece 
 Is clean forgotten, yea, and Greece 
 Is no more counted glorious, 
 Alone with us, alone with us, 
 Alone with us, dwell happily. 
 Beneath our trembling roof of sea. 
 
 Orpheus. 
 
 Ah ! do ye weary of the strife 
 And long to change this eager life 
 For shadowy and dull hopelessness, 
 Thinking indeed to gain no less 
 Than far from this grey light to lie, 
 And there to die and not to die. 
 To be as if ye ne'er had been, 
 Yet keep your memory fresh and green, 
 To have no thought of good or ill, 
 Yet feed your fill or pleasure still? 
 O idle dream! Ah, verily 
 If it shall happen unto me 
 That I have thought of anything, 
 When o'er my bones the sea-fowl sing. 
 And I lie dead, how shall I pine 
 For those fresh joys that once were mine, 
 On this green fount of joy and mirth, 
 The ever young and glorious earth; 
 Then, helpless, shall I call to mind 
 Thoughts of the sweet flower-scented wind, 
 The dew, the gentle rain at night. 
 The wonder-working snow and white. 
 The song of birds, the water's fall, 
 The sun that maketh bliss of all; 
 
70 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Yea, this our toil and victory, 
 The tyrannous and conquered sea. 
 
 The Sirens. 
 Ah, will ye go, and whither then 
 
 Will ye go from us, soon to die, 
 To fill your three-score years and ten. 
 
 With many an unnamed misery? 
 
 And this the wretchedest of all. 
 
 That when upon your lonely eyes 
 The last faint heaviness shall fall 
 Ye shall bethink you of our cries. 
 
 Come back, nor grown old, seek in vain 
 To hear us sing across the sea. 
 
 Come back, come back, come back again, 
 Come back, O fearful Minyae! 
 
 Orpheus. 
 Ah, once again, ah, once again. 
 
 The black prow plunges through the sea. 
 Nor yet shall all your toil be vain, 
 
 Nor yet forgot, O Minyae. 
 
 In such wise sang the Thracian, in such wise 
 Out gushed the Sirens' deadly melodies; 
 But long before the mingled song was done. 
 Back to the oars the Minyae, one by one. 
 Slunk silently; though many an one sighed sore. 
 As his strong fingers met the wood once more, 
 And from his breast the toilsome breathing came. 
 
 But as they laboured, some for very shame 
 
OF JASON. 71 
 
 Hung down their heads, and yet amongst them some 
 
 Gazed at the place whence that sweet song had come; 
 
 But round the oars and Argo's shielded side 
 
 The sea grew white, and she began to glide 
 
 Swift through the waters of that deadly bay; 
 
 But when a long wake now behind her lay, 
 
 And still the whistle of the wind increased, 
 
 Past shroud and mast, and all the song had ceased, 
 
 Butes rose up, the fair Athenian man, 
 
 And with wild eyes betwixt the rowers ran 
 
 Unto the poop and leapt into the sea; 
 
 Then all men rested on their oars, but he 
 
 Rose to the top, and towards the shore swam fast; 
 
 While all eyes watched him, who had well-nigh past 
 
 The place where sand and water 'gan to meet 
 
 In wreaths and ripples round the ivory feet. 
 
 When sun-burnt swimmer, snow-white glancing limb. 
 
 And yelhDw sand unto their eyes grew dim. 
 
 Nor did they see their fellow any more. 
 
 But when they once again beheld the shore 
 The wind sung o'er the empty beach and bare. 
 And by the cliff uprose into the air 
 A delicate and glittering little cloud. 
 That seemed some many-coloured sun to shroud; 
 But as the rugged cliff it drew above 
 The wondering Minyae beheld it move 
 Westward, toward Lilybaeum and the sun. 
 
 Then once more was their seaward course begun. 
 And soon those deadly sands were far astern. 
 Nor ever after could the heroes learn 
 If Butes lived or died; but old tales tell 
 That while the tumbling waves he breasted well, 
 Venus beheld him, as unseen she drew 
 
72 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 From sunny Cyprus to the headland blue 
 Of Lilybaeum, where her temple is; 
 She, with a mind his sun-burnt brows to kiss, 
 E'en as his feet were dropping nigh the beach, 
 And ere his hand the deadly hands could reach. 
 Stooped, as the merlin stoops upon the dove. 
 And snatched him thence to be awhile her love, 
 Betwixt the golden pillars of her shrine, 
 That those who pass the ^gades see shine 
 From high-raised Lilybaeaum o'er the sea. 
 
 But far away the sea-beat Minyae 
 Cast forth the foam, as through the growing night 
 They laboured ever, having small delight 
 In life all empty of that promised bliss. 
 In love that scarce can give a dying kiss, 
 In pleasure ending sweet songs with a wail. 
 In fame that little can dead men avail. 
 In vain toil struggling with the fateful stream. 
 In hope, the promise of a morning dream. 
 
 Yet as night died, and the cold sea and grey 
 Seemed running with them toward the dawn of day, 
 Needs must they once again forget their death. 
 Needs must they, being alive and drawing breath. 
 As men who of no other life can know 
 In their own minds again immortal grow. 
 
 But toward the south a little now they bent. 
 And for a while o'er landless sea they went. 
 But on the third day made another land 
 At dawn of day, and thitherward did stand; 
 And since the wind blew lightly from the shore. 
 Somewhat abeam, they feared not with the oar 
 To push across the shallowing sea and green, 
 
OF JASON. 73 
 
 That washed a land the fairest they had seen, 
 
 Whose shell-strewn beach at highest of the tide 
 
 'Twixt sea and flowery shore was nowise wide, 
 
 And drawn a little backward from the sea 
 
 There stood a marble wall wrought cunningly, 
 
 Rosy and white, set thick with images, 
 
 And over-topped with heavy-fruited trees. 
 
 Which by the shore ran, as the bay did bend, 
 
 And to their eyes had neither gap nor end; 
 
 Nor any gate: and looking over this, 
 
 They saw a place not made for earthly bliss. 
 
 Or eyes of dying men, for growing there 
 
 The yellow apple and the painted pear. 
 
 And well-filled golden cups of oranges 
 
 Hung amid groves of pointed cypress trees; 
 
 On grassy slopes the twining vine-boughs grew, 
 
 And hoary olives 'twixt far mountains blue. 
 
 And many-coloured flowers, like as a cloud 
 
 The rugged southern cliffs did softly shroud; 
 
 And many a green-necked bird sung to his mate 
 
 Within the slim-leaved, thorny pomegranate, 
 
 That flung its unstrung rubies on the grass. 
 
 And slowly o'er the place the wind did pass 
 
 Heavy with many odours that it bore 
 
 From thymy hills down to the sea-beat shore. 
 
 Because no flower there is, that all the year. 
 
 From spring to autumn, beareth otherwhere, 
 
 But there it flourished; nor the fruit alone 
 
 From 'twixt the green leaves and the boughs outshone. 
 
 For there each tree was ever flowering. 
 
 Nor was there lacking many a living thing 
 Changed of its nature; for the roebuck there 
 Walked fearless with the tiger; and the bear 
 
74 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Rolled sleepily upon the fruit-strawn grass, 
 Letting the conies o'er his rough hide pass, 
 With blinking eyes, that meant no treachery. 
 Careless the partridge passed the red fox by; 
 Untouched the serpent left the thrushes brown, 
 And as a picture was the lion's frown. 
 
 But in the midst there was a grassy space, 
 Raised somewhat over all the flowery place. 
 On marble terrace-walls wrought like a dream; 
 And round about it ran a clear blue stream, 
 Bridged o'er with marble steps, and midmost there 
 Grew a green tree, whose smooth grey boughs did bear 
 Such fruit as never man elsewhere had seen, 
 For 'twixt the sunlight and the shadow green 
 Shone out fair apples of red gleaming gold. 
 Moreover round the tree, in many a fold. 
 Lay coiled a dragon, glittering little less 
 Than that which his eternal watchfulness 
 Was set to guard; nor yet was he alone, 
 For from the daisied grass about him shone 
 Gold raiment wrapping round two damsels fair, 
 And one upon the steps combed out her hair. 
 And with shut eyes sung low as in a dream; 
 And one stood naked in the cold blue stream. 
 While on the bank her golden raiment lay; 
 But on that noontide of the quivering day. 
 She only, hearing the seafarers' shout. 
 Her lovely golden head had turned about, 
 And seen their white sail flapping o'er the wall. 
 And as she turned had let her tresses fall. 
 Which the thin water rippling round her knee 
 Bore outward from her toward the restless sea. 
 
 Not long she stood, but looking seaward yet. 
 
OF JASON. 75 
 
 From out the water made good haste to get, 
 And catching up her raiment hastily, 
 Ran up the marble stair, and 'gan to cry: 
 "Wake, O my sisters, wake, for now are come 
 The thieves of JEsl to our peaceful home." 
 
 Then at her voice they gat them to their feet, 
 And when her raiment all her body sweet 
 Once more had hidden, joining hand to hand, 
 About the sacred apples did they stand, 
 While coiled the dragon closer to the tree. 
 And raised his head above them threateningly. 
 
 Meanwhile, from Argo many a sea-beat face 
 Gazed longingly upon that lovely place. 
 And some their eager hands already laid 
 Upon the gangway. Then Medea said: — 
 "Get back unto the oars, O Minyae, 
 Nor loiter here, for what have such as we 
 To do herein, where, 'mid undying trees. 
 Undying watch the wise Hesperides, 
 And where the while they watch, scarce can a God 
 Set foot upon the fruit-besprinkled sod 
 That no snow ever covers? therefore haste. 
 Nor yet in wondering your fair lives waste; 
 For these are as the Gods, nor think of us. 
 Nor to their eyes can aught be glorious 
 That son of man can do; would God that I 
 Could see far off the misty headland lie, 
 Where we the guilt of blood shall wash away. 
 For I grow weary of the dashing spray. 
 And ceaseless roll of interwoven seas. 
 And fain were sitting 'neath the whispering trees 
 In homely places, where the children play. 
 
76 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Who change like me, grow old, and die some day." 
 
 She ceased, and little soothly did they grieve,' 
 For all its loveliness, that land to leave. 
 For now some God had chilled their hardihead, 
 And in their hearts had set a sacred dread, 
 They knew not why; but on their oars they hung, 
 A little longer as the sisters sung. 
 
 "O ye, who to this place have strayed, 
 That never for man's eyes was made, 
 Depart in haste, as ye have come, 
 And bear back to your sea-beat home 
 This memory of the age of gold. 
 And for your eyes, grown over-bold, 
 Your hearts shall pay in sorrowing. 
 For want of many a half-seen thing. 
 
 "Lo, such as is this garden green, 
 In days past, all the world has been. 
 And what we know all people knew. 
 Save this, that unto worse all grew. 
 
 "But since the golden age is gone, 
 This little place is left alone, 
 Unchanged, unchanging, watched of us. 
 The daughters of wise Hesperus. 
 
 "Surely the heavenly Messenger 
 Full oft is fain to enter here, 
 And yet without must he abide; 
 Nor longeth less the dark king's bride 
 To set red lips unto that fruit 
 That erst made nought her mother's suit. 
 Here would Diana rest awhile. 
 Forgetful of her woodland guile, 
 
OF JASON. 77 
 
 Among these beasts that fear her nought. 
 Nor is it less in Pallas' thought, 
 Beneath our trees to ponder o'er 
 The wide, unfathomed sea of lore; 
 And oft-kissed Citheraea, no less 
 Weary of love, full fain would press 
 These flowers with soft unsandalled feet. 
 
 "But unto us our rest is sweet, 
 Neither shall any man or God 
 Or lovely Goddess touch the sod 
 Where-under old times buried lie. 
 Before the world knew misery. 
 Nor will we have a slave or king. 
 Nor yet will we learn anything 
 But that we know, that makes us glad; 
 While oft the very Gods are sad 
 With knowing what the Fates shall do. 
 
 "Neither from us shall wisdom go 
 To fill the hungering hearts of men, 
 Lest to them threescore years and ten 
 Come but to seem a little day. 
 Once given, and taken soon away. 
 Nay, rather let them find their life 
 Bitter and sweet, fulfilled of strife. 
 Restless with hope, vain with regret. 
 Trembling with fear, most strangely set 
 'Twixt memory and forgetfulness; 
 So more shall joy be, troubles less. 
 And surely when all this is past. 
 They shall not want their rest at last. 
 
78 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 "Let earth and heaven go on their way, 
 While still we watch from day to day, 
 In this green place left all alone, 
 A remnant of the days long gone." 
 
 There in the wind they hung, as word by word 
 The clear-voiced singers silently they heard; 
 But when the air was barren of their song, 
 Anigh the shore they durst not linger long. 
 So northward turned forewearied Argo's head, 
 And dipping oars, from that fair country sped. 
 Fulfilled of new desires and pensive thought. 
 Which that day's life unto their hearts had brought. 
 
 Then hard they toiled upon the bitter sea. 
 And in two days they did not fail to be 
 In sight of land, a headland high and blue 
 Which straight Milesian Erginus knew 
 To be the fateful place which now they sought. 
 Stormy Malea, so thitherward they brought 
 The groaning ship, and, casting anchor, lay 
 Beneath that headland's lee, within a bay, 
 Wherefrom the more part landed, and their feet 
 Once more the happy soil of Greece did meet. 
 
 Therewith they failed not to bring ashore 
 Rich robes of price and of fair arms good store. 
 And gold and silver, that they there might buy 
 What yet they lacked for their solemnity; 
 Then, while upon the highest point of land 
 Some built an altar, Jason, with a band 
 Of all the chiefest of the Minyae, 
 Turned inland from the murmur of the sea. 
 
 Not far they went ere by a little stream 
 Pown in a valley they could see the gleam 
 
OF JASON. 79 
 
 Of brazen pillars and fair-gilded vanes, 
 And, dropping down by dank dark-wooded lanes 
 From off the hill-side, reached a house at last 
 Where in and out men-slaves and women passed, 
 And guests were streaming fast into the hall. 
 Where now the oaken boards were laid for all. 
 With these the Minyae went, and soon they were 
 Within a pillared hall both great and fair. 
 Where folk already sat beside the board. 
 And on the dais was an ancient lord. 
 
 But when these saw the fearless Minyae 
 Glittering in arms, they sprang up hastily. 
 And each man turned about unto the wall 
 To seize his spear or staff: then through the hall 
 Jason cried out: "Laconians, fear ye not. 
 Nor leave the flesh-meat while it reeketh hot 
 For dread of us, for we are men as ye. 
 And I am Jason of the Minyae, 
 And come from JEa. to the land of Greece, 
 And in my ship bear back the Golden Fleece, 
 And a fair Colchian queen to fill my bed. 
 And now we pray to share your wine and bread. 
 And other things we need, and at our hands 
 That ye will take fair things of many lands." 
 
 "Sirs," said the ancient lord, "be welcome here. 
 Come up and sit by me, and make such cheer 
 As here ye can: glad am I that to me 
 The first of Grecian men from off the sea 
 Ye now are come." 
 
 Therewith the great hall rang 
 With joyful shouts, and as, with clash and clang 
 Of well-wrought arms, up to the dais they went, 
 All eyes upon the Minyae were bent, 
 
8o FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Nor could they have enough of wondering 
 At this or that sea-tossed victorious king. 
 
 So with the strangers there they held high feast, 
 And afterwards the slaves drove many a beast 
 Down to the shore, and carried back again 
 Great store of precious things in pack and wain; 
 Wrought gold and silver, gems, full many a bale 
 Of scarlet cloth, and fine silk, fit to veil 
 The perfect limbs of dreaded Goddesses; 
 Spices fresh-gathered from the outland trees, 
 And arms well-wrought, and precious scarce-known wine, 
 And carven images well-nigh divine. 
 
 So when all folk with these were satisfied, 
 Back went the Minyae to the water-side. 
 And with them that old lord, fain to behold 
 Victorious Argo and the Fleece of Gold. 
 And so aboard amid the oars he lay 
 Throughout the night, and at the dawn of day 
 Did all men land, nor spared that day to wear 
 The best of all they had of gold-wrought gear. 
 And every one, being crowned with olive grey. 
 Up to the headland did they take their way. 
 Where now already stood the crowned priests 
 About the altars by the gilt-horned beasts. 
 There, as the fair sun rose, did Jason break 
 Over the altar the thin barley-cake. 
 And cast the salt abroad, and there were slain 
 The milk-white bulls, and there red wine did rain 
 On to the fire from out the ancient jar, 
 And high rose up the red flame, seen afar 
 From many another headland of that shore : 
 But over all its crackling and its roar 
 Uprose from time to time a joyous song, 
 
OF JASON. 8 1 
 
 That on the summer morning lay for long, 
 The mighty voices of the Minyae 
 Exulting o'er the tossing conquered sea, 
 That far below thrust on by tide and wind 
 The crumbling bases of the headland mined. 
 
 Morris. 
 
FROM 
 
 "THE EARTHLY PARADISE." 
 
 AN APOLOGY. 
 
 Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, 
 I cannot ease the burden of your fears, 
 Or make quick-coming death a little thing. 
 Or bring again the pleasure of past years, 
 Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, 
 Or hope again for aught that I can say. 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 
 
 But rather, when aweary of your mirth. 
 From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh. 
 And, feeling kindly unto all the earth. 
 Grudge every minute as it passes by. 
 Made the more mindful that the sweet days die — 
 — Remember me a little then I pray. 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 
 
 The heavy trouble, the bewildering care 
 That weighs us down who live and earn our bread. 
 These idle verses have no power to bear; 
 So let me sing of names remembered, 
 Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead. 
 Or long time take their memory quite away 
 From us poor singers of an empty day. 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 83 
 
 Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, 
 Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? 
 Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme 
 Beats with light wing against the ivory gate. 
 Telling a tale not too importunate 
 To those who in the sleepy region stay. 
 Lulled by the singer of an empty day. 
 
 Folk say, a wizard to a northern king 
 At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show. 
 That through one window men beheld the spring, 
 And through another saw the summer glow. 
 And through a third the fruited vines a-row. 
 While still, unheard, but in its wonted way. 
 Piped the drear wind of that December day. 
 
 So with this Earthly Paradise it is. 
 If ye will read aright, and pardon me. 
 Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss 
 Midmost the beating of the steely sea. 
 Where tossed about all hearts of men must be : 
 Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay. 
 Not the poor singer of an empty day. 
 
 
84 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 FROM 
 
 PROLOGUE— THE WANDERERS. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Certain gentlemen and mariners of Norway, having considered 
 all that they had heard of the Earthly Paradise, set sail to find 
 it, and after many troubles and the lapse of many years came 
 old men to some Western land, of which they had never before 
 heard: there they died, when they had dwelt there certain 
 years, much honoured of the strange people. 
 
 Forget six counties overhung with smoke, 
 
 Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, 
 
 Forget the spreading of the hideous town; 
 
 Think rather of the pack-horse on the down, 
 
 And dream of London, small, and white, and clean. 
 
 The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green; 
 
 Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves 
 
 Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves, 
 
 Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill, 
 
 And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill. 
 
 And treasured scanty spice from some far sea, 
 
 Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery, 
 
 And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne; 
 
 While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's pen 
 
 Moves over bills of lading — mid such times 
 
 Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes. 
 
 J 
 
FROM l-HE EARTHLY PARADISE. 85 
 
 A nameless city in a distant sea, 
 White as the changing walls of faerie, 
 Thronged with much people clad in ancient guise 
 I now am fain to set before your eyes; 
 There, leave the clear green water and the quays. 
 And pass betwixt its marble palaces. 
 Until ye come unto the chiefest square; 
 A bubbling conduit is set midmost there, 
 And round about it now the maidens throng. 
 With jest and laughter, and sweet broken song. 
 Making but light of labour new begun 
 While in their vessels gleams the morning sun. 
 
 On one side of the square a temple stands. 
 Wherein the gods worshipped in ancient lands 
 Still have their altars, a great market-place 
 Upon two other sides fills all the space. 
 And thence the busy hum of men comes forth; 
 But on the cold side looking toward the north 
 A pillared council-house may you behold. 
 Within whose porch are images of gold, 
 Gods of the nations who dwelt anciently 
 About the borders of the Grecian sea. 
 
 Pass now between them, push the brazen door. 
 And standing on the polished marble floor 
 Leave all the noises of the square behind; 
 Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find, 
 Silent at first, but for the noise you made 
 When on the brazen door your hand you laid 
 To shut it after you — but now behold 
 The city rulers on their thrones of gold. 
 Clad in most fair attire, and in their hands 
 Long carven silver-banded ebony wands; 
 
86 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Then from the dais drop your eyes and see 
 
 Soldiers and peasants standing reverently 
 
 Before those elders, round a little band 
 
 Who bear such arms as guard the English land, 
 
 But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and they. 
 
 The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey; 
 
 And as they lean with pain upon their spears 
 
 Their brows seem furrowed deep with more than years; 
 
 For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes. 
 
 Bent are they less with time than miseries. 
 
 Pondering on them the city grey-beards gaze 
 Through kindly eyes, midst thoughts of other days. 
 And pity for poor souls, and vague regret 
 For all the things that might have happened yet. 
 Until, their wonder gathering to a head. 
 The wisest man, who long that land has led, 
 Breaks the deep silence, unto whom again 
 A wanderer answers. Slowly as in pain. 
 And with a hollow voice as from a tomb 
 At first he tells the story of his doom. 
 But as it grows and once more hopes and fears, 
 Both measureless, are ringing round his ears, 
 His eyes grow bright, his seeming days decrease, 
 For grief once told brings somewhat back of peace. 
 
 The Elder of the City. 
 
 From what unheard-of world, in what strange keel, 
 Have ye come hither to our commonweal? 
 No barbarous race, as these our peasants say. 
 But learned in memories of a long-past day, 
 Speaking, some few at least, the ancient tongue 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 87 
 
 That through the lapse of ages still has clung 
 To us, the seed of the Ionian race. 
 
 Speak out and fear not; if ye need a place 
 Wherein to pass the end of life away, 
 That shall ye gain from us from this same day. 
 Unless the enemies of God ye are; 
 We fear not you and yours to bear us war, 
 And scarce can think that ye will try again 
 Across the perils of the shifting plain 
 To seek your own land whereso that may be: 
 For folk of ours bearing the memory 
 Of our old land, in days past oft have striven 
 To reach it, unto none of whom was given 
 To come again and tell us of the tale. 
 Therefore our ships are now content to sail, 
 About these happy islands that we know. 
 
 The Wanderer. 
 Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe, 
 A tale of folly and of wasted life, 
 Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife. 
 Ending, where all things end, in death at last: 
 So if I tell the story of the past, 
 Let it be worth some little rest, I pray, 
 A little slumber ere the end of day. 
 
 No wonder if the Grecian tongue I know, 
 Since at Byzantium many a year ago 
 My father bore the twibil valiantly; 
 There did he marry, and get me, and die. 
 And I went back to Norway to my kin. 
 Long ere this beard ye see did first begin 
 To shade my mouth, but nathless not before 
 
88 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Among the Greeks I gathered some small lore, 
 
 And standing midst the Vaeringers, still heard 
 
 From this or that man many a wondrous word; 
 
 For ye shall know that though we worshipped God, 
 
 And heard mass duly, still of Swithiod 
 
 The Greater, Odin and his house of gold, 
 
 The noble stories ceased not to be told; 
 
 These moved me more than words of mine can say 
 
 E'en while at Micklegarth my folks did stay; 
 
 But when I reached one dying autumn-tide 
 
 My uncle's dwelling near the forest side, 
 
 And saw the land so scanty and so bare, 
 
 And all the hard things men contend with there, 
 
 A little and unworthy land it seemed. 
 
 And yet the more of Asagard I dreamed. 
 
 And worthier seemed the ancient faith of praise. 
 
 But now, but now — when one of all those days 
 Like Lazarus' finger on my heart should be 
 Breaking the fiery fixed eternity, 
 But for one moment — could I see once more 
 The grey-roofed sea-port sloping towards the shore, 
 Or note the brown boats standing in from sea, 
 Or the great dromond swinging from the quay. 
 Or in the beech-woods watch the screaming jay 
 Shoot up betwixt the tall trunks, smooth and grey — 
 Yea, could I see the days before distress 
 When very longing was but happiness. 
 
 Within our house there was a Breton squire 
 Well learned, who fail'd not to fan the fire 
 That evermore unholpen burned in me 
 Strange lands and things beyond belief to see; 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 8g 
 
 Much lore of many lands this Breton knew; 
 And for one tale I told, he told me two. 
 He, counting Asagard a new-told thing, 
 Yet spoke of gardens ever blossoming 
 Across the western sea where none grew old, 
 E'en as the books at Micklegarth had told. 
 And said moreover that an English knight 
 Had had the Earthly Paradise in sight. 
 And heard the songs of those that dwelt therein. 
 But entered not, being hindered by his sin. 
 Shortly, so much of this and that he said 
 That in my heart the sharp barb entered, 
 And like real life would empty stories seem. 
 And life from day to day an empty dream. 
 
 Another man there was, a Swabian priest. 
 Who knew the maladies of man and beast, 
 And what things helped them; he the stone still sought 
 Whereby base metal into gold is brought, 
 And strove to gain the precious draught, whereby 
 Men live midst mortal men yet never die; 
 Tales of the Kaiser Redbeard could he tell 
 Who neither went to Heaven nor yet to Hell, 
 When from that fight upon the Asian plain 
 He vanished, but still lives to come again 
 Men know not how or when; but I listening 
 Unto this tale thought it a certain thing 
 That in some hidden vale of Swithiod 
 Across the golden pavement still he trod. 
 
 But while our longing for such things so grew, 
 And ever more and more we deemed them true, 
 Upon the land a pestilence there fell 
 
go FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Unheard of yet in any chronicle, 
 
 And, as the people died full fast of it, 
 
 With these two men it chanced me once to sit, 
 
 This learned squire whose name was Nicholas, 
 
 And Swabian Laurence, as our manner was; 
 
 For could we help it scarcely did we part 
 
 From dawn to dusk: so heavy, sad at heart. 
 
 We from the castle-yard beheld the bay 
 
 Upon that ne'er-to-be-forgotten day. 
 
 Little we said amidst that dreary mood, 
 
 And certes nought that we could say was good. 
 
 It was a bright September afternoon. 
 The parched-up beech-trees would be yellowing soon 
 The yellow flowers grown deeper with the sun 
 Were letting fall their petals one by one; 
 No wind there was, a haze was gathering o'er 
 The furthest bound of the faint yellow shore; 
 And in the oily waters of the bay 
 Scarce moving aught some fisher-cobles lay, 
 And all seemed peace; and had been peace indeed 
 But that we young men of our life had need. 
 And to our listening ears a sound was borne 
 That made the sunlight wretched and forlorn — 
 — The heavy tolling of the minster bell — 
 And nigher yet a tinkling sound did tell 
 That through the streets they bore our Saviour Christ 
 By dying lips in anguish to be kissed. 
 
 At last spoke Nicholas, "How long shall we 
 Abide here, looking forth into the sea 
 Expecting when our turn shall come to die? 
 Fair fellows, will ye come with me and try 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. QI 
 
 Now at our worst that long-desired quest, 
 
 Now — when our worst is death, and life our best." 
 
 "Nay, but thou know'st," I said, "that I but wait 
 The coming of some man, the turn of fate. 
 To make this voyage — but I die meanwhile. 
 For I am poor, though my blood be not vile, 
 Nor yet for all his lore doth Laurence hold 
 Within his crucibles aught like to gold; 
 And what hast thou, whose father driven forth 
 By Charles of Blois, found shelter in the North? 
 But little riches as I needs must deem." 
 
 "Well," said he, "things are better than they seem, 
 For 'neath my bed an iron chest I have 
 That holdeth things I have made shift to save 
 E'en for this end; moreover, hark to this, 
 In the next firth a fair long ship there is 
 Well victualled, ready even now for sea, 
 And I may say it 'longeth unto me; 
 Since Marcus Erling, late its owner, lies 
 Dead at the end of many miseries. 
 And little Kirstin, as thou well mayst know. 
 Would be content throughout the world to go 
 If I but took her hand, and now still more 
 Hath heart to leave this poor death-stricken shore. 
 Therefore my gold shall buy us Bordeaux swords 
 And Bordeaux wine as we go oceanwards. 
 
 "What say ye, will ye go with me to-night, 
 Setting your faces to undreamed delight. 
 Turning your backs unto this troublous hell. 
 Or is the time too short to say farewell?" 
 
 "Not so," I said, "rather would I depart 
 
92 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Now while thou speakest, never has my heart 
 Been set on anything within this land." 
 
 Then said the Swabian, "Let us now take hand 
 And swear to follow evermore this quest 
 Till death or life have set our hearts at rest." 
 
 So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said, 
 "To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelled 
 To leave this land, bring all the arms ye can 
 And such men as ye trust, my own good man 
 Guards the small postern looking towards St. Bride, 
 And good it were ye should not be espied. 
 Since mayhap freely ye should not go hence. 
 Thou Rolf in special, for this pestilence 
 Makes all men hard and cruel, nor are they 
 Willing that folk should 'scape if they must stay : 
 Be wise; I bid you for a while farewell, 
 Leave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bell 
 Strikes midnight, all will surely then be still. 
 And I will bide you at King Tryggve's hill 
 Outside the city gates." 
 
 Each went his way 
 Therewith, and I the remnant of that day 
 Gained for the quest three men that I deemed true. 
 And did such other things as I must do, 
 And still was ever listening for the chime 
 Half maddened by the lazy lapse of time. 
 Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should live 
 Till the great tower the joyful sound should give 
 That set us free: and so the hours went past. 
 Till startled by the echoing clang at last 
 That told of midnight, armed from head to heel 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 93 
 
 Down to the open postern did 1 steal, 
 
 Bearing small wealth — this sword that yet hangs here 
 
 Worn thin and narrow with so many a year, 
 
 My father's axe that from Byzantium, 
 
 With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come. 
 
 Nought else that shone with silver or with gold. 
 
 But by the postern gate could I behold 
 Laurence the priest all armed as if for war, 
 From off the town-wall, having some small store 
 Of arms and furs and raiment: then once more 
 I turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fall 
 Upon the new-built bastions of the wall. 
 Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light, 
 And further off I saw the lead shine bright 
 On tower and turret-roof against the sky. 
 And looking down I saw the old town lie 
 Black in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill. 
 Stricken with death, and dreary, but all still 
 Until it reached the water of the bay, 
 That in the dead night smote against the quay 
 Not all unheard, though there was little wind. 
 But as I turned to leave the place behind, 
 The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell, 
 Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell. 
 That in that stillness jarring on mine ears. 
 With sudden jangle checked the rising tears. 
 And now the freshness of the open sea 
 Seemed ease and joy and very life to me. 
 
 So greeting my new mates with little sound. 
 We made good haste to reach King Tryggve's mound, 
 And there the Breton Nicholas beheld, 
 Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held, 
 
94 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 And round about them twenty men there stood, 
 Of whom the more part on the holy rood 
 Were sworn till death to follow up the quest, 
 And Kirstin was the mistress of the rest. 
 
 Again betwixt us was there little speech. 
 But swiftly did we set on toward the beach, 
 And coming there our keel, the Fighting Man, 
 We boarded, and the long oars out we ran, 
 And swept from out the firth, and sped so well 
 That scarcely could we hear St. Peter's bell 
 Toll one, although the light wind blew from land; 
 Then hoisting sail southward we 'gan to stand, 
 And much I joyed beneath the moon to see 
 The lessening land that might have been to me 
 A kindly giver of wife, child, and friend, 
 And happy life, or at the worser end 
 A quiet grave till doomsday rend the earth. 
 
 Night passed, day dawned, and we grew full of mirth 
 
 As with the ever-rising morning wind 
 
 Still further lay our threatened death behind. 
 
 Or so we thought: some eighty men we were. 
 
 Of whom but fifty knew the shipman's gear, 
 
 The rest were uplanders; midst such of these 
 
 As knew not of our quest, with promises 
 
 Went Nicholas dealing florins round about, 
 
 With still a fresh tale for each new man's doubt. 
 
 Till all were fairly won or seemed to be 
 
 To that strange desperate voyage o'er the sea. 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 95 
 
 OGIER THE DANE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 When Ogier was bom , six fay ladies came to the cradle where he 
 lay, and gave him various gifts, as to be brave and happy and 
 the like; but the sixth gave him to be her love when he should 
 have lived long in the world: so Ogier grew up and became 
 the greatest of knights, and at last, after many years, fell into 
 the hands of that fay, and with her, as the story tells, he lives 
 now, though he returned once to the world, as is shown in the 
 process of this tale. 
 
 Wither some Danish city by the sea, 
 
 Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me, 
 
 Great mourning was there one fair summer eve. 
 
 Because the angels, bidden to receive 
 
 The fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise, 
 
 Had done their bidding, and in royal guise 
 
 Her helpless body, once the prize of love. 
 
 Unable now for fear or hope to move. 
 
 Lay underneath the golden canopy; 
 
 And bowed down by unkingly misery 
 
 The King sat by it, and not far away. 
 
 Within the chamber a fair man-child lay. 
 
 His mother's bane, the king that was to be. 
 
 Not witting yet of any royalty. 
 
 Harmless and loved, although so new to life. 
 
 Calm the June evening was, no sign of strife 
 
96 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 The clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun, 
 Unhappy that his day of bliss was done; 
 Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred, 
 'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged bird 
 Midst its thick leaves; and though the nightingale 
 Her ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail. 
 No more of woe there seemed in her song 
 Than such as doth to lovers' words belong, 
 Because their love is still unsatisfied. 
 
 But to the King, on that sweet eventide. 
 No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone; 
 No help, no God! but lonely pain alone; 
 And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sit 
 Himself the very heart and soul of it. 
 But round the cradle of the new-born child 
 The nurses now the weary time beguiled 
 With stories of the just departed Queen; 
 And how, amid the heathen folk first seen. 
 She had been won to love and godliness; 
 And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress. 
 An eager whisper now and then would smite 
 Upon the King's ear, of some past delight, 
 Some once familiar name, and he would raise 
 His weary head, and on the speaker gaze 
 Like one about to speak, but soon again 
 Would drop his head and be alone with pain, 
 Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn. 
 Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burn 
 Amidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night. 
 Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light, 
 The fresh earth lay in colourless repose. 
 
 So passed the night, and now and then one rose 
 From out her place to do what might avail 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 97 
 
 To Still the new-born infant's fretful wail; 
 
 Or through the softly-opened door there came 
 
 Some nurse new waked, who, whispering low the name 
 
 Of her whose turn was come, would take her place; 
 
 Then toward the King would turn about her face 
 
 And to her fellows whisper of the day. 
 
 And tell again of her just past away. 
 
 So passed the night, the moon arose and grew, 
 From off the sea a little west-wind blew, 
 Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain; 
 And ere the moon had 'gun to fall again 
 The wind grew cold, a change was in the sky, 
 And in deep silence did the dawn draw nighj 
 Then from her place a nurse arose to light 
 Fresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night. 
 The tapers round about the dead Queen were; 
 But the King raised his head and 'gan to stare 
 Upon her, as her sweeping gown did glide 
 About the floor, that in the stillness cried 
 Beneath her careful feet; and now as she 
 Had lit the second candle carefully. 
 And on its silver spike another one 
 Was setting, through her body did there run 
 A sudden tremor, and the hand was stayed 
 That on the dainty painted wax was laid; 
 Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep, 
 And o'er the staring King began to creep 
 Sweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woe 
 That drew his weary face did softer grow, 
 His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side; 
 And moveless in their places did abide 
 The nursing women, held by some strong spell, 
 
 Morris, 7 
 
9 8 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 E'en as they were, and utter silence fell 
 Upon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair. 
 
 But now light footsteps coming up the stair, 
 Smote on the deadly stillness, and the sound 
 Of silken dresses trailing o'er the ground; 
 And heavenly odours through the chamber passed, 
 Unlike the scents that rose and lily cast 
 Upon the freshness of the dying night; 
 Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps light 
 Until the door swung open noiselessly — 
 A mass of sunlit flowers there seemed to be 
 Within the doorway, and but pale and wan 
 The flame showed now that serveth mortal man, 
 As one by one six seeming ladies passed 
 Into the room, and o'er its sorrow cast 
 That thoughtless sense of joy bewildering, 
 That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring; 
 Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad. 
 As yet no merchant of the world has had 
 Within his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fair 
 Only because they kissed their odorous hair. 
 And all that flowery raiment was but blessed 
 By those fair bodies that its splendour pressed. 
 
 Now to the cradle from that glorious band, 
 A woman passed, and laid a tender hand 
 Upon the babe, and gently drew aside 
 The swathings soft that did his body hide; 
 And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled. 
 And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O noble child, 
 Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day; 
 For to the time when life shall pass away 
 From this dear heart, no fear of death or shame. 
 No weariness of good shall foul thy name." 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 99 
 
 So saying, to her sisters she returned; 
 And one came forth, upon whose brow there burned 
 A crown of rubies, and whose heaving breast 
 With happy rings a golden hauberk pressed; 
 She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said, 
 "This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laid 
 At rest for ever, to thine honoured life 
 There never shall be lacking war and strife, 
 That thou a long-enduring name mayst win, 
 And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin." 
 
 With that another, who, unseen, meanwhile 
 Had drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile, 
 "And this forgotten gift to thee I give. 
 That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live, 
 Still shalt thou win the game, and unto thee 
 Defeat and shame but idle words shall be." 
 
 Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourth 
 Said, "Take this gift for what it may be worth 
 For that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt be 
 Gentle of speech, and in all courtesy 
 The first of men: a little gift this is. 
 After these promises of fame and bliss." 
 
 Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went; 
 Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bent 
 Down on the floor, parted her red lips were, 
 And o'er her sweet face marvellously fair 
 Oft would the colour spread full suddenly; 
 Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she, 
 For some green summer of the fay-land dight, 
 Tripping she went, and laid her fingers light 
 Upon the child, and said, "O little one. 
 As long as thou shalt look upon the sun 
 
 7* 
 
too FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Shall women long for thee; take heed to this 
 And give them what thou canst of love and bliss." 
 
 Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past, 
 And by the cradle stood the sixth and last, 
 The fairest of them all; awhile she gazed 
 Down on the child, and then her hand she raised, 
 And made the one side of her bosom bare; 
 "Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fair 
 Thou know'st not now, but when thine earthly life 
 Is drunk out to the dregs, and war and strife 
 Have yielded thee whatever joy they may, 
 Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay; 
 And then, despite of knowledge or of God, 
 Will we be glad upon the flowery sod 
 Within the happy country where I dwell: 
 Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell ! " 
 
 She turned, and even as they came they passed 
 From out the place, and reached the gate at last 
 That oped before their feet, and speedily 
 They gained the edges of the murmuring sea. 
 And as they stood in silence, gazing there 
 Out to the west, they vanished into air, 
 I know not how, nor whereto they returned. 
 
 But mixed with twilight in the chamber burned 
 The flickering candles, and those dreary folk. 
 Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke, 
 But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew. 
 Through the half-opened casements now there blew 
 A sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and sea 
 Mingled together, smelt deliciously, 
 And from the unseen sun the spreading light 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. lOI 
 
 Began to make the fair June blossoms bright, 
 And midst their weary woe uprose the sun, 
 And thus has Ogier's noble life begun. 
 
 Hope is our life, when first our life grows clear; 
 
 Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear, 
 
 Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope, 
 
 But forasmuch as we with life must cope. 
 
 Struggling with this and that, and who knows why? 
 
 Hope will not give us up to certainty. 
 
 But still must bide with us: and with this man, 
 
 Whose life amid such promises began 
 
 Great things she wrought; but now the time has come 
 
 When he no more on earth may have his home. 
 
 Great things he suffered, great delights he had. 
 Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad; 
 He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no more 
 Is had in memory, and on many a shore 
 He left his sweat and blood to win a name 
 Passing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame. 
 A love he won and lost, a well-loved son 
 Whose little day of promise soon was done : 
 A tender wife he had, that he must leave 
 Before his heart her love could well receive; 
 Those promised gifts, that on his careless head 
 In those first hours of his fair life were shed 
 He took unwitting, and unwitting spent, 
 Nor gave himself to grief and discontent 
 Because he saw the end a-drawing nigh. 
 
I02 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Where is he now? in what land must he die, 
 To leave an empty name to us on earth? 
 A tale half true, to cast across our mirth 
 Some pensive thoughts of life that might have been; 
 Where is he now, that all this life has seen? 
 
 Behold, another eve I bid you see 
 Than that calm eve of his nativity; 
 The sun is setting in the west, the sky 
 Is clear and hard, and no clouds come anigh 
 The golden orb, but further off they lie. 
 Steel-grey and black with edges red as blood. 
 And underneath them is the weltering flood 
 Of some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as they 
 Turn restless sides about, are black or grey, 
 Or green, or glittering with the golden flame; 
 The wind has fallen now, but still the same 
 The mighty army moves, as if to drown 
 This lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brown 
 Cast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray. 
 
 Alas! what ships upon an evil day 
 Bent over to the wind in this ill sea? 
 What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedly 
 Beneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was, 
 A fearful storm to bring such things to pass. 
 
 This is the loadstone rock; no armament 
 Of warring nations, in their madness bent 
 Their course this way; no merchant wittingly 
 Has steered his keel unto this luckless sea; 
 Upon no shipman's card its name is writ. 
 Though worn-out mariners will speak of it 
 Within the ingle on the winter's night, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I03 
 
 When all within is warm and safe and bright, 
 
 And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their will 
 
 Are some folk driven here, and then all skill 
 
 Against this evil rock is vain and nought. 
 
 And unto death the shipmen soon are brought; 
 
 For then the keel, as by a giant's hand. 
 
 Is drawn unto that mockery of a land, 
 
 And presently unto its sides doth cleave; 
 
 When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leave 
 
 The narrow limits of that barren isle, 
 
 And thus are slain by famine in a while 
 
 Mocked, as they say, by night with images 
 
 Of noble castles among groves of trees, 
 
 By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea. 
 The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright; 
 The moon is rising o'er the growing night. 
 And by its light may ye behold the bones 
 Of generations of these luckless ones 
 Scattered about the rock; but nigh the sea 
 Sits one alive, who uncomplainingly 
 Awaits his death. White-haired is he and old, 
 Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold. 
 But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air; 
 Huge is he, of a noble face and fair. 
 As for an ancient man, though toil and eld 
 Furrow the cheeks that ladies once beheld 
 With melting hearts — Nay, listen, for he speaks! 
 
 "God, thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeks 
 Have passed since from the ^vreck we haled our store, 
 And five long days well told, have now passed o'er 
 Since my last fellow died, with my last bread 
 
104 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Between his teeth, and yet I am not dead. 
 Yea, but for this I had been strong enow 
 In some last bloody field my sword to show. 
 What matter? soon will all be past and done. 
 Where'er I died I must have died alone: 
 Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it been 
 Dying, thy face above me to have seen, 
 And heard my banner flapping in the wind. 
 Then, though my memory had not left thy mind, 
 Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee more 
 When thou hadst known that everything was o'er; 
 But now thou waitest, still expecting me. 
 Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea. 
 
 "And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call, 
 To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall, 
 But never shall they tell true tales of me: 
 Whatever sails the Kentish hills may see 
 Swept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town, 
 No more on my sails shall they look adown. 
 
 "Get thee another leader, Charlemaine, 
 For thou shalt look to see my shield in vain. 
 When in the fair fields of the Frankish land. 
 Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand. 
 
 "What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives; 
 Husbands and children, other friends and wives, 
 Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean, 
 And all shall be as I had never been. 
 
 "And now, O God, am I alone with Thee; 
 A little thing indeed it seems to be 
 To give this life up, since it needs must go 
 Some time or other; now at last I know 
 How foolishly men play upon the earth, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. IO5 
 
 When unto them a year of life seems worth 
 
 Honour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweet 
 
 That like real things my dying heart do greet, 
 
 Unreal while living on the earth I trod, 
 
 And but myself I knew no other god. 
 
 Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thus 
 
 This end, that I had thought most piteous. 
 
 If of another I had heard it told." 
 
 What man is this, who weak and worn and old. 
 Gives up his life within that dreadful isle. 
 And on the fearful coming death can smile? 
 Alas! this man, so battered and outworn, 
 Is none but he, who, on that summer morn. 
 Received such promises of glorious life : 
 Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strife 
 Was but as wine to stir awhile the blood. 
 To whom all life, however hard, was good: 
 This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb, 
 Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dim 
 For all the years that he on earth has dwelt; 
 Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt, 
 Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane, 
 The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane. 
 
 Bright had the moon grown as his words were done, 
 And no more was there memory of the sun 
 Within the west, and he grew drowsy now. 
 And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled brow 
 As thought died out beneath the hand of sleep, 
 
I06 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep, 
 Hiding the image of swift-coming death; 
 Until as peacefully he drew his breath 
 As on that day, past for a hundred years. 
 When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears. 
 He fell asleep to his first lullaby. 
 
 The night changed as he slept, white clouds and high 
 Began about the lonely moon to close; 
 And from the dark west a new wind arose, 
 And with the sound of heavy-falling waves 
 Mingled its pipe about the loadstone caves; 
 But when the twinkling stars were hid away. 
 And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day. 
 The moon upon that dreary country shed, 
 Ogier awoke, and lifting up his head 
 And smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again; 
 Rather some pleasure new, some other pain, 
 Unthought of both, some other form, of strife;" 
 For he had waked from dreams of his old life. 
 And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gate 
 Once more had seemed to pass, and saw the state 
 Of that triumphant king; and still, though all 
 Seemed changed, and folk by other names did call 
 Faces he knew of old, yet none the less 
 He seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness. 
 Felt his own power, and grew the more athirst 
 For coming glory, as of old, when first 
 He stood before the face of Charlemaine, 
 A helpless hostage with all life to gain. 
 
 But now, awake, his worn face once more sank 
 Between his hands, and, murmuring not, he drank 
 The draught of death that must that thirst allay. 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I07 
 
 But while he sat and waited for the day 
 A sudden light across the bare rock streamed, 
 Which at the first he noted not, but deemed 
 The moon her fleecy veil had broken through; 
 But ruddier indeed this new light grew 
 Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal, 
 Soft far-off music on his ears did fall; 
 Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death, 
 An easy thing like this to yield my breath. 
 Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear, 
 No dreadful sights to tell me it is near; 
 Yea, God, I thank Thee!" but with that last word 
 It seemed to him that he his own name heard 
 Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past; 
 With that he gat unto his feet at last, 
 But still awhile he stood, with sunken head. 
 And in a low and trembling voice he said, 
 "Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go? 
 I pray Thee unto me some token show." 
 And, as he said this, round about he turned. 
 And in the east beheld a light that burned 
 As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear 
 The coming change that he believed so near, 
 Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought 
 Unto the very heaven to be brought: 
 And though he felt alive, deemed it might be 
 That he in sleep had died full easily. 
 
 Then toward that light did he begin to go. 
 And still those strains he heard, far off and low, 
 That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed 
 Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed, 
 But like the light of some unseen bright flame 
 Shone round about, until at last he came 
 
I08 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Unto the dreary islet's other shore, 
 
 And then the minstrelsy he heard no more, 
 
 And softer seemed the strange light unto him; 
 
 But yet or ever it had grown quite dim, 
 
 Beneath its waning light could he behold 
 
 A mighty palace set about with gold, 
 
 Above green meads and groves of summer trees 
 
 Far-off across the welter of the seas; 
 
 But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight. 
 
 And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light. 
 
 Which soothly was but darkness to him now, 
 
 His sea-girt island prison did but show. 
 
 But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully, 
 And said, "Alas! and when will this go by 
 And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream 
 Of life that once so dear a thing did seem. 
 That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be? 
 Here will I sit until he come to me, 
 And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin. 
 That so a little calm I yet may win 
 Before I stand within the awful place." 
 
 Then down he sat and covered up his face, 
 Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide, 
 Nor waiting thus for death could he abide. 
 For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain 
 Of hope of life had touched his soul again — 
 If he could live awhile, if he could live ! 
 The mighty being, who once was wont to give 
 The gift of life to many a trembling man; 
 Who did his own will since his life began; 
 Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free 
 Still cast aside the thought of what might be; 
 Must all this then be lost, and with no will, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. lOQ 
 
 Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil, 
 Nor know what he is doing any more? 
 
 Soon he arose and paced along the shore, 
 And gazed out seaward for the blessed light; 
 But nought he saw except the old sad sight. 
 The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey, 
 The white upspringing of the spurts of spray 
 Amidst that mass of timbers, the rent bones 
 Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones 
 Once cast like him upon this deadly isle. 
 
 He stopped his pacing in a little while, 
 And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth. 
 And gazing at the ruin underneath. 
 He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow, 
 And on some slippery ledge he wavered now, 
 Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung 
 With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung, 
 Not caring aught if thus his life should end; 
 But safely midst all this did he descend 
 The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there, 
 But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare, 
 Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea, 
 Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily. 
 
 But now, amid the clamour of the waves, 
 And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves, 
 Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress. 
 And all those days of fear and loneliness. 
 The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar, 
 His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore 
 He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd 
 Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud, 
 
I I O FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 And from crushed beam to beam began to leap, 
 
 And yet his footing somehow did he keep 
 
 Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea 
 
 Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee. 
 
 So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed, 
 
 And reached the outer line of wrecks at last, 
 
 And there a moment stood unsteadily. 
 
 Amid the drift of spray that hurried by, 
 
 And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath, 
 
 And poised himself to meet the coming death. 
 
 Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed, 
 
 And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised 
 
 To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain 
 
 Over the washing waves he heard again, 
 
 And from the dimness something bright he saw 
 
 Across the waste of waters towards him draw; 
 
 And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last 
 
 Unto his very feet a boat was cast. 
 
 Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed 
 
 With cushions soft; far fitter to have weighed 
 
 From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine, 
 
 Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain, 
 
 Than struggle with that huge confused sea; 
 
 But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully 
 
 One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said, 
 
 "What tales are these about the newly dead 
 
 The heathen told? what matter, let all pass; 
 
 This moment as one dead indeed I was. 
 
 And this must be what I have got to do, 
 
 I yet perchance may light on something new 
 
 Before I die; though yet perchance this keel 
 
 Unto the wondrous mass of charmed steel 
 
 Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I I I 
 
 Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept 
 From stem to stern, but found no rudder there. 
 Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair 
 Made wet by any dashing of the sea. 
 
 Now while he pondered how these things could be, 
 The boat began to move therefrom at last. 
 But over him a drowsiness was cast. 
 And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass, 
 He clean forgot his death and where he was. 
 
 At last he woke up to a sunny day, 
 And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay 
 Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea 
 Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree, 
 AVhere in the green waves did the low bank dip 
 Its fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip; 
 But Ogier looking thence no more could see 
 That sad abode of death and misery, 
 Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey 
 With gathering haze, for now it neared midday; 
 Then from the golden cushions did he rise, 
 And wondering still if this were Paradise 
 He stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his sword 
 And muttered therewithal a holy word. 
 
 Fair was the place, as though amidst of May, 
 Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day, 
 For with their quivering song the air was sweet; 
 Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet, 
 And on his head the blossoms down did rain, 
 Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain 
 He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot 
 First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root 
 A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb 
 
I I 2 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim, 
 
 And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail, 
 
 Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail 
 
 For lamentations o'er his changed lot; 
 
 Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what, 
 
 Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet, 
 
 Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet, 
 
 For what then seemed to him a weary way, 
 
 Whereon his steps he needs must often stay 
 
 And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword 
 
 That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord 
 
 Had small respect in glorious days long past. 
 
 But still he crept along, and at the last 
 Came to a gilded wicket, and through this 
 Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss, 
 If that might last which needs must soon go by: 
 There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh 
 He said, "O God, a sinner I have been, 
 And good it is that I these things have seen 
 Before I meet what Thou hast set apart 
 To cleanse the earthly fjplly from my heart; 
 But who within this garden now can dwell 
 Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?" 
 
 A little further yet he staggered on. 
 Till to a fountain-side at last he won. 
 O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed, 
 There he sank down, and laid his weary head 
 Beside the mossy roots, and in a while 
 He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle; 
 That splashing fount the weary sea did seem. 
 And in his dream the fair place but a dream; 
 But when again to feebleness he woke 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. II3 
 
 Upon his ears that heavenly music broke, 
 
 Not faint or far as in the isle it was, 
 
 But e'en as though the minstrels now did pass 
 
 Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt, 
 
 E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about, 
 
 Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain; 
 
 And yet his straining gaze was but in vain. 
 
 Death stole so fast upon him, and no more 
 
 Could he behold the blossoms as before. 
 
 No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground, 
 
 A heavy mist seemed gathering all around. 
 
 And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be, 
 
 And round his head there breathed deliciously 
 
 Sweet odours, and that music never ceased. 
 
 But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased 
 
 Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise 
 
 Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice 
 
 Sent from the world he loved so well of old. 
 
 And all his life was as a story told. 
 
 And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile 
 
 E'en as a child asleep, but in a while 
 
 It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed, 
 
 For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed, 
 
 As though from some sweet face and golden hair. 
 
 And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair. 
 
 And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears. 
 
 Broken as if with flow of joyous tears-, 
 
 "Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long? 
 Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!" 
 Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord, 
 Too long, too long; and yet one little word 
 Right many a year agone had brought me here." 
 Then to his face that face was drawn anear, 
 
 Morris, P 
 
I 1 4 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 He felt his head raised up and gently laid 
 
 On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said, 
 
 "Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend! 
 
 Who knoweth when our linked life shall end. 
 
 Since thou art come unto mine arms at last, 
 
 And all the turmoil of the world is past? 
 
 Why do I linger ere I see thy face 
 
 As I desired it in that mourning place 
 
 So many years ago — so many years. 
 
 Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?" 
 
 "Alas!" he said, "what mockery is this 
 That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss? 
 No longer can I think upon the earth, 
 Have I not done with all its grief and mirth? 
 Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love 
 Should come once more my dying heart to move. 
 Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls 
 Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls 
 Outside St. Omer's — art thou she? her name 
 I could remember once mid death and fame 
 Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday, 
 Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay: 
 Baldwin the fair — what hast thou done with him 
 Since Chariot slew him? Ah, mine eyes wax dim; 
 Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die? 
 Did I forget thee in the days gone by? 
 Then let me die, that we may meet again!" 
 
 He tried to move from her, but all in vain. 
 For life had well-nigh left him, but withal 
 He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall. 
 And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair 
 Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I I 5 
 
 Set on some ring, and still he could not speak, 
 
 And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak. 
 
 But, ah! what land was this he woke unto? 
 What joy was this that filled his heart anew? 
 Had he then gained the very Paradise? 
 Trembling, he durst not at the first arise, 
 Although no more he felt the pain of eld. 
 Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheld 
 Beside him the white flowers and blades of grass; 
 He durst not speak, lest he some monster was. 
 
 But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voice 
 Once more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice! 
 Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still, 
 Apart from every earthly fear and ill; 
 Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this, 
 That I like thee may live in double bliss?" 
 
 Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to one 
 Whose span of earthly life is nigh outrun, 
 But as he might have risen in old days 
 To see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze; 
 But, looking round, he saw no change there was 
 In the fair place wherethrough he first did pass, 
 Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes, 
 Now looked no worse than very Paradise; 
 Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fair 
 Still sent its glittering stream forth into air, 
 And by its basin a fair woman stood. 
 And as their eyes met his renewed blood 
 
 8* 
 
Il6 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Rushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweet 
 And hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat. 
 
 The fairest of all creatures did she seem; 
 So fresh and delicate you well might deem 
 That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed 
 The happy, longing world; yet, for the rest, 
 Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt 
 A child before her had the wise man felt, 
 And with the pleasure of a thousand years 
 Her lips were fashioned to move joy or tears 
 Among the longing folk where she might dwell. 
 To give at last the kiss unspeakable. 
 
 In such wise was she clad as folk may be. 
 Who, for no shame of their humanity. 
 For no sad changes of the imperfect year. 
 Rather for added beauty, raiment wear; 
 For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue haze 
 Veils the green flowery morn of late May-days, 
 Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meet 
 That bound the sandals to her dainty feet. 
 Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head, 
 And on her breast there lay a ruby red. 
 
 So with a supplicating look she turned 
 To meet the flame that in his own eyes burned. 
 And held out both her white arms lovingly. 
 As though to greet him as he drew anigh. 
 Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am I 
 So cured of all my evils suddenly. 
 That certainly I felt no mightier, when. 
 Amid the backward rush of beaten men. 
 About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme? 
 Alas! I fear that in some dream I am." 
 
 "Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it is 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. II7 
 
 That such a name God gives unto our bliss; 
 I know not, but if thou art such an one 
 As I must deem, all days beneath the sun 
 That thou hast had, shall be but dreams indeed 
 To those that I have given thee at thy need. 
 For many years ago beside the sea 
 When thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee: 
 Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes. 
 That thou mayest see what these my mysteries 
 Have wrought in thee; surely but thirty years, 
 Passed amidst joy, thy new born body bears. 
 Nor while thou art with me, and on this shore 
 Art still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more. 
 Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand, 
 The hope and fear of many a warring land. 
 And I will show thee wherein lies the spell, 
 Whereby this happy change upon thee fell." 
 
 Like a shy youth before some royal love. 
 Close up to that fair woman did he move, 
 And their hands met; yet to his changed voice 
 He dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoice 
 E'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel, 
 And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit steal 
 As her light raiment, driven by the wind. 
 Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind, 
 His lips the treasure of her lips did press. 
 And round him clung her perfect loveliness. 
 
 For one sweet moment thus they stood, and then 
 She drew herself from out his arms again. 
 And panting, lovelier for her love, did stand 
 Apart awhile, then took her lover's hand. 
 And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say, — 
 
 I 
 
1 1 8 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 "O Ogier, when thou earnest here to-day, 
 I feared indeed, that in my sport with fate, 
 I might have seen thee e'en one day too late. 
 Before this ring thy finger should embrace; 
 Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may trace 
 Faint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold; 
 My father dying gave it me, nor told 
 The manner of its making, but I know 
 That it can make thee e'en as thou art now 
 Despite the laws of God — shrink not from me 
 Because I give an impious gift to thee — 
 Has not God made me also, who do this? 
 But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss, 
 Am of the fays, and live their changeless life, 
 And, like the gods of old, I see the strife 
 That moves the world, unmoved if so I will; 
 For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill. 
 Have never touched like you of Adam's race; 
 And while thou dwellest with me in this place 
 Thus shalt thou be — ah, and thou deem'st, indeed. 
 That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meed 
 Reft of the world's joys? nor canst understand 
 How thou art come into a happy land? — 
 Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing. 
 And tell thee of it many a joyous thing; 
 But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain. 
 Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born again 
 Thus wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss; 
 And so with us no otherwise it is. 
 Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite away 
 Even as yet, though that shall be to-day. 
 
 "But for the love and country thou hast won. 
 Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 1 ^ 
 
 That is both thine and mine; and as for me, * 
 Morgan le Fay men call me commonly 
 Within the world, but fairer names than this 
 I have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss." 
 
 Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain, 
 That she had brought him here this life to gain? 
 For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blind 
 He watched the kisses of the wandering wind 
 Within her raiment, or as some one sees 
 The very best of well-wrought images 
 When he is blind with grief, did he behold 
 The wandering tresses of her locks of gold 
 Upon her shoulders; and no more he pressed 
 The hand that in his own hand lay at rest: 
 His eyes, grown dull with changing memories. 
 Could make no answer to her glorious eyes: 
 Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught, 
 With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought, 
 Unfinished in the old days; and withal 
 He needs must think of what might chance to fall 
 In this life new-begun; and good and bad 
 Tormented him, because as yet he had 
 A worldly heart within his frame made new. 
 And to the deeds that he was wont to do 
 Did his desires still turn. But she a while 
 Stood gazing at him with a doubtful smile, 
 And let his hand fall down; but suddenly 
 Sounded sweet music from some close nearby. 
 And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me. 
 That thou thy new life and delights mayst see." 
 And gently with that word she led him thence, 
 And though upon him now there fell a sense 
 
I20 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Of dreamy and unreal bewilderment, 
 
 As hand in hand through that green place they went, 
 
 Yet therewithal a strain of tender love 
 
 A little yet his restless heart did move. 
 
 So through the whispering trees they came at last 
 To where a wondrous house a shadow cast 
 Across the flowers, and o'er the daisied grass 
 Before it, crowds of lovely folk did pass. 
 Playing about in carelessness and mirth. 
 Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth; 
 And from the midst a band of fair girls came, 
 With flowers and music, greeting him by name, 
 And praising him; but ever like a dream 
 He could not break, did all to Ogier seem, 
 And he his old world did the more desire, 
 For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire. 
 That through the world of old so bright did burn: 
 Yet was he fain that kindness to return. 
 And from the depth of his full heart he sighed. 
 
 Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guide 
 His listless steps, and seemed to take no thought 
 Of knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught. 
 But still with kind love lighting up her face 
 She led him through the door of that fair place. 
 While round about them did the damsels press; 
 And he was moved by all that loveliness 
 As one might be, who, lying half asleep 
 In the May morning, notes the light wind sweep 
 Over the tulip-beds: no more to him 
 Were gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim, 
 Amidst that dream, although the first surprise 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 121 
 
 Of hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyes 
 Had smitten him, still in his heart did stir. 
 
 And so at last he came, led on by her 
 Into a hall wherein a fair throne was. 
 And hand in hand thereto the twain did pass; 
 And there she bade him sit, and when alone 
 He took his place upon the double throne, 
 She cast herself before him on her knees. 
 Embracing his, and greatly did increase 
 The shame and love that vexed his troubled heart: 
 But now a line of girls the crowd did part. 
 Lovelier than all, and Ogier could behold 
 One in their midst who bore a crown of gold 
 Within her slender hands and delicate; 
 She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did wait 
 Until the Queen arose and took the crown, 
 Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adown 
 And kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worth 
 Thy miserable days of strife on earth. 
 That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?" 
 
 Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart 
 burned 
 With sudden memories, and thereto had he 
 Made answer, but she raised up suddenly 
 The crown she held and set it on his head, 
 "Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead; 
 Thou wert dead with them also, but for me; 
 Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!" • 
 
 Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty wave 
 Of love swept o'er his soul, as though the grave 
 Did really hold his body; from his seat 
 He rose to cast himself before her feet; 
 
122 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 But she clung round him, and in close embrace 
 The twain were locked amidst that thronging place. 
 
 Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won, 
 And in the happy land of Avallon 
 Quick glide the years o'er his unchanging head; 
 There saw he many men the world thought dead. 
 Living like him in sweet forgetfulness 
 Of all the troubles that did once oppress 
 Their vainly-struggling lives — ah, how can I 
 Tell of their joy as though I had been nigh? 
 Suffice it that no fear of death they knew, 
 That there no talk there was of false or true. 
 Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there; 
 That everything was bright and soft and fair, 
 And yet they wearied not for any change. 
 Nor unto them did constancy seem strange. 
 Love knew they, but its pain they never had. 
 But with each other's joy were they made glad; 
 Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire. 
 Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desire 
 That turns to ashes all the joys of earth, 
 Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearth 
 Of kind and loving hearts to spend it on. 
 Nor dreamed or discontent when all was won; 
 Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame; 
 Still was the calm flow of their lives the same. 
 And yet, I say, they wearied not of it — 
 So did the promised days by Ogier flit. 
 
FROM THE EARTHI.Y PARADISE. 123 
 
 Think that a hundred years have now passed by, 
 Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to die 
 Beside the fountain; think that now ye are 
 In France, made dangerous with wasting war; 
 In Paris, where about each guarded gate, 
 Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait. 
 And press around each new-come man to learn 
 If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn. 
 Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain. 
 Or Pont de TArche unburnt still guards the Seine? 
 Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants? 
 That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes? 
 When will they come? or rather is it true 
 That a great band the Constable o'erthrew 
 Upon the marshes of the lower Seine, 
 And that their long ships, turning back again, 
 Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore 
 Were driven here and there and cast ashore? 
 
 Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men 
 Came hurrying in, they asked them o'er again. 
 And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant, 
 Still got new lies, or tidings very scant. 
 
 But now amidst these men at last came one, 
 A little ere the setting of the sun, 
 With two stout men behind him, armed right well. 
 Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell, 
 With doubtful eyes upon their master stared, 
 Or looked about like troubled men and scared. 
 And he they served was noteworthy indeed; 
 Of ancient fashion were his arms and weed, 
 
124 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Rich past the wont of men in those sad times; 
 
 His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes, 
 
 But lovely as the image of a god 
 
 Carved in the days before on earth Christ trod; 
 
 But solemn were his eyes, and grey as glass. 
 
 And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was: 
 
 A mighty man he was, and taller far 
 
 Than those who on that day must bear the war 
 
 The pagans waged: he by the warders stayed 
 
 Scarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyed 
 
 And showed his pass; then, asked about his name 
 
 And from what city of the world he came. 
 
 Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight, 
 
 That he was come midst the king's men to fight 
 
 From St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazed 
 
 Down on the thronging street as one amazed. 
 
 And answered no more to the questioning 
 
 Of frightened folk of this or that sad thing; 
 
 But, ere he passed on, turned about at last 
 
 And on the wondering guard a strange look cast. 
 
 And said, "St. Mary! do such men as ye 
 
 Fight with the wasters from across the sea? 
 
 Then, certes, are ye lost, however good 
 
 Your hearts may be; not such were those who stood 
 
 Beside the Hammer-bearer years agone." 
 
 So said he, and as his fair armour shone 
 With beauty of a time long passed away. 
 So with the music of another day 
 His deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk. 
 
 Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke, 
 That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought, 
 Surely good succour to our side is brought; 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 125 
 
 For here is Charlemaine come off his tomb 
 To save his faithful city from its doom." 
 
 "Yea," said another, "this is certain news. 
 Surely ye know how all the carvers use 
 To carve the dead man's image at the best. 
 That guards the place where he may lie at rest; 
 Wherefore this living image looks indeed, 
 Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed, 
 To have but thirty summers." 
 
 At the name 
 Of Charlemaine, he turned to whence there came 
 The mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow, 
 And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how; 
 So with a half-sigh soon sank back again 
 Into his dream, and shook his well- wrought rein. 
 And silently went on upon his way. 
 
 And this was Ogier: on what evil day 
 Has he then stumbled, that he needs must come, 
 Midst war and ravage, to the ancient home 
 Of his desires? did he grow weary then. 
 And wish to strive once more with foolish men 
 For worthless things? or is fair Avallon 
 Sunk in the sea, and all that glory gone? 
 
 Nay, thus it happed — One day she came to him 
 And said, "Ogier, thy name is waxen dim 
 Upon the world that thou rememberest not; 
 The heathen men are thick on many a spot 
 Thine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore; 
 And God will give His wonted help no more. 
 Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mind 
 To give thy banner once more to the wind? 
 Since greater glory thou shalt win for this 
 
126 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Than erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss: 
 For men are dwindled both in heart and frame, 
 Nor holds the fair land any such a name 
 As thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers: 
 The world is worser for these hundred years." 
 
 From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire. 
 And in his voice was something of desire. 
 To see the land where he was used to be. 
 As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me. 
 Thou art the wisest; it is more than well 
 Within this peaceful place with thee to dwell: 
 Nor ill perchance in that old land to die. 
 If, dying, I keep not the memory 
 Of this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she, 
 "As to thy dying, that shall never be. 
 Whiles that thou keep'st my ring — and now, behold, 
 I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold, 
 And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wast 
 Ere on the loadstone rock thy ship was cast: 
 Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still, 
 And I will guard thy life from every ill." 
 
 So was it done, and Ogier, armed right well. 
 Sleeping, was borne away by some strong spell. 
 And set upon the Flemish coast; and thence 
 Turned to St. Omer's, with a doubtful sense 
 Of being in some wild dream, the while he knew 
 That great delight forgotten was his due. 
 That all which there might hap was of small worth. 
 
 So on he went, and sometimes unto mirth 
 Did his attire move the country-folk. 
 But oftener when strange speeches from him broke 
 Concerning men and things for long years dead, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I 27 
 
 He filled the listeners with great awe and dread; 
 For in such wild times as these people were 
 Are men soon moved to wonder and to fear. 
 
 Now through the streets of Paris did he ride, 
 And at a certain hostel did abide 
 Throughout that night, and ere he went next day 
 He saw a book that on a table lay. 
 And opening it 'gan read in lazy mood: 
 But long before it in that place he stood. 
 Noting nought else; for it did chronicle 
 The deeds of men of old he knew right well, 
 When they were living in the flesh with him: 
 Yea, his own deeds he saw, grown strange and dim 
 Already, and true stories mixed with lies. 
 Until, with many thronging memories 
 Of those old days, his heart was so oppressed, 
 He 'gan to wish that he might lie at rest. 
 Forgetting all things: for indeed by this 
 Little remembrance had he of the bliss 
 That wrapped his soul in peaceful Avallon. 
 
 But his changed life he needs must carry on; 
 For ye shall know the Queen was gathering men 
 To send unto the good King, who as then 
 In Rouen lay, beset by many a band 
 Of those who carried terror through the land, 
 And still by messengers for help he prayed: 
 Therefore a mighty muster was being made. 
 Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous. 
 Before the Queen anigh her royal house. 
 So thither on this morn did Ogier turn. 
 Some certain news about the war to learn; 
 
128 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 And when he came at last into the square, 
 
 And saw the ancient palace great and fair 
 
 Rise up before him as in other days, 
 
 And in the merry morn the bright sun's rays 
 
 Glittering on gathering helms and moving spears. 
 
 He 'gan to feel as in the long-past years, 
 
 And his heart stirred within him. Now the Queen 
 
 Came from within, right royally beseen, 
 
 And took her seat beneath a canopy, 
 
 With lords and captains of the war anigh; 
 
 And as she came a mighty shout arose, 
 
 And round about began the knights to close. 
 
 Their oath of fealty there to swear anew. 
 
 And learn what service they had got to do. 
 
 But so it was, that some their shouts must stay 
 
 To gaze at Ogier as he took his way 
 
 Through the thronged place; and quickly too he gat 
 
 Unto the place whereas the Lady sat, 
 
 For men gave place unto him, fearing him: 
 
 For not alone was he most huge of limb, 
 
 And dangerous, but something in his face, 
 
 As his calm eyes looked o'er the crowded place. 
 
 Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days. 
 
 When men might hope alive on gods to gaze. 
 
 They would have thought, "The gods yet love our town 
 
 And from the heavens have sent a great one down." 
 
 Withal unto the throne he came so near. 
 That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear; 
 And swiftly now within him wrought the change 
 That first he felt amid those faces strange; 
 And his heart burned to taste the hurrying life 
 With such desires, such changing sweetness rife. 
 And yet, indeed, how should he live alone, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 12g 
 
 Who in the old past days such friends had known? 
 Then he began to think of Caraheu, 
 Of Bellicent the fair, and once more knew 
 The bitter pain of rent and ended love. 
 But while with hope and vain regret he strove, 
 He found none 'twixt him and the Queen's high seat, 
 And, stepping forth, he knelt before her feet 
 And took her hand to swear, as was the way 
 Of doing fealty in that ancient day, 
 And raised his eyes to hers; as fair was she 
 As any woman of the world might be 
 Full-limbed and tall, dark haired, from her deep eyes, 
 The snare of fools, the ruin of the wise, 
 Love looked unchecked; and now her dainty hand. 
 The well-knit holder of the golden wand, 
 Trembled in his, she cast her eyes adown, 
 And her sweet brow was knitted to a frown. 
 As he, the taker of such oaths of yore. 
 Now unto her all due obedience swore. 
 Yet gave himself no name; and now the Queen, 
 Awed by his voice as other folk had been. 
 Yet felt a trembling hope within her rise 
 Too sweet to think of, and with love's surprise 
 Her cheek grew pale; she said, "Thy style and name 
 Thou tellesfr not, nor what land of thy fame 
 Is glad; for, certes, some land must be glad. 
 That in its bounds her house thy mother had." 
 "Lady," he said, "from what far land I come 
 I well might tell thee, but another home 
 Have I long dwelt in, and its name have I 
 Forgotten now, forgotten utterly 
 Who were my fellows, and what deeds they did; 
 Therefore, indeed, shall my first name be hid 
 
 Morris^ 9 
 
130 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 And my first country; call me on this day 
 
 The Ancient Knight, and let me go my way." 
 
 He rose withal, for she her fingers fair 
 
 Had drawn aback, and on him 'gan to stare 
 
 As one afeard; for something terrible 
 
 Was in his speech, and that she knew right well, 
 
 Who 'gan to love him, and to fear that she. 
 
 Shut out by some strange deadly mystery. 
 
 Should never gain from him an equal love; 
 
 Yet, as from her high seat he 'gan to move. 
 
 She said, "O Ancient Knight, come presently. 
 
 When we have done this muster, unto me. 
 
 And thou shalt have thy charge and due command 
 
 For freeing from our foes this wretched land!" 
 
 Then Ogier made his reverence and went. 
 And somewhat could perceive of her intent; 
 For in his heart life grew, and love with life 
 Grew, and therewith, 'twixt love and fame, was strife. 
 
 But, as he slowly gat him from the square, 
 Gazing at all the people gathered there, 
 A squire of the Queen's behind him came. 
 And breathless, called him by his new-coined name, 
 And bade him turn because the Queen now bade. 
 Since by the muster long she might be stayed. 
 That to the palace he should bring him sti^ight. 
 Midst sport and play her coming back to wait; 
 Then Ogier turned, nought loath, and with him went. 
 And to a postern-gate his steps he bent. 
 That Ogier knew right well in days of old; 
 Worn was it now, and the bright hues and gold 
 Upon the shields above, with lapse of days. 
 Were faded much: but now did Ogier gaze 
 Upon the garden where he walked of yore, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I3I 
 
 Holding the hands that he should see no more; 
 
 For all was changed except the palace fair, 
 
 That Charlemaine's own eyes had seen built there 
 
 Ere Ogier knew him; there the squire did lead 
 
 The Ancient Knight, who still took little heed 
 
 Of all the things that by the way he said, 
 
 For all his thoughts were on the days long dead. 
 
 There in the painted hall he sat again, 
 And 'neath the pictured eyes of Charlemaine 
 He ate and drank, and felt it like a dream; 
 And midst his growing longings yet might deem 
 That he from sleep should wake up presently 
 In some fair city on the Syrian sea. 
 Or on the brown rocks of the loadstone isle. 
 But fain to be alone, within a while 
 He gat him to the garden, and there passed 
 By wondering squires and damsels, till at last, 
 Far from the merry folk who needs must play, 
 If on the world were coming its last day. 
 He sat him down, and through his mind there ran 
 Faint thoughts of that day, when, outworn and wan, 
 He lay down by the fountain-side to die. 
 But when he strove to gain clear memory 
 Of what had happed since on the isle he lay 
 Waiting for death, a hopeless castaway. 
 Thought failing him, would rather bring again 
 His life among the peers of Charlemaine, 
 And vex his soul with hapless memories; 
 Until at last, worn out by thought of these. 
 And hopeless striving to find what was true. 
 And pondering on the deeds he had to do 
 Ere he returned, whereto he could not tell. 
 Sweet sleep upon his wearied spirit fell. 
 
 9* 
 
132 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 And on the afternoon of that fair day, 
 Forgetting all, beneath the trees he lay. 
 
 Meanwhile the Queen, affairs of state being done, 
 Went through the gardens with one dame alone 
 Seeking for Ogier, whom at last she found 
 Laid sleeping on the daisy-sprinkled ground. 
 Dreaming, I know not what, of other days. 
 Then on him for a while the Queen did gaze, 
 Drawing sweet poison from the lovely sight, 
 Then to her fellow turned, "The ancient Knight — 
 What means he by this word of his?" she said; 
 "He were well mated with some lovely maid 
 Just pondering on the late-heard name of love." 
 
 "Softly, my lady, he begins to move," 
 Her fellow said, a woman old and grey; 
 "Look now, his arms are of another day; 
 None know him or his deeds; thy squire just said 
 He asked about the state of men long dead; 
 I fear what he may be; look, seest thou not 
 That ring that on one finger he has got. 
 Where figures strange upon the gold are wrought: 
 God grant that he from hell has not been brought 
 For our confusion, in this doleful war. 
 Who surely in enough of trouble are 
 Without such help;" then the Queen turned aside 
 Awhile, her drawn and troubled face to hide. 
 For lurking dread this speech within her stirred; 
 But yet she said, "Thou sayest a foolish word, 
 This man is come against our enemies 
 To fight for us." Then down upon her knees 
 Fell the old woman by the sleeping knight, 
 And from his hand she drew with fingers light 
 
 iet....:^" 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I 33 
 
 The wondrous ring, and scarce again could rise 
 Ere 'neath the trembling Queen's bewildered eyes 
 The change began; his golden hair turned white, 
 His smooth cheek wrinkled, and his breathing light 
 Was turned to troublous struggling for his breath, 
 And on his shrunk lips lay the hand of death; 
 And, scarce less pale than he, the trembling Queen 
 Stood thinking on the beauty she had seen 
 And longed for but a little while ago, 
 Yet with her terror still her love did grow. 
 And she began to weep as though she saw 
 Her beauty e'en to such an ending draw. 
 And 'neath her tears waking he oped his eyes, 
 And strove to speak, but nought but gasping sighs 
 His lips could utter; then he tried to reach 
 His hand to them, as though he would beseech 
 The gift of what was his : but all the while 
 The crone gazed on them with an evil smile, 
 Then holding toward the Queen that wondrous ring, 
 She said, "Why weep'st thou? having this fair thing. 
 Thou, losing nought the beauty that thou hast, 
 May'st watch the vainly struggling world go past, 
 Thyself unchanged." The Queen put forth her hand 
 And took the ring, and there awhile did stand 
 And strove to think of it, but still in her 
 Such all-absorbing longings love did stir. 
 So young she was, of death she could not think, 
 Or what a cup eld gives to man to drink; 
 Yet on her finger had she set the ring 
 When now the life that hitherto did cling 
 To Ogier's heart seemed fading quite away, 
 And scarcely breathing with shut eyes he lay. 
 Then, kneeling down, she murmured piteously, 
 
134 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 "Ah, wilt thou love me if I give it thee, 
 
 And thou grow'st young again? what should I do 
 
 If with the eyes thou thus shalt gain anew 
 
 Thou shouldst look scorn on me?" But with that word 
 
 The hedge behind her, by the west wind stirred, 
 
 Cast fear into her heart of some one nigh. 
 
 And therewith on his finger hastily 
 
 She set the ring, then rose and stood apart 
 
 A little way, and in her doubtful heart 
 
 With love and fear was mixed desire of life. 
 
 • But standing so, a look with great scorn rife 
 
 The elder woman, turning, cast on her. 
 
 Pointing to Ogier, who began to stir; 
 
 She looked, and all she erst saw now did seem 
 
 To have been nothing but a hideous dream. 
 
 As fair and young he rose from off the ground 
 
 And cast a dazed and puzzled look around. 
 
 Like one just waked from sleep in some strange place; 
 
 But soon his grave eyes rested on her face. 
 
 And turned yet graver seeing her so pale. 
 
 And that her eyes were pregnant with some tale 
 
 Of love and fear; she 'neath his eyes the while 
 
 Forced her pale lips to semblance of a smile, 
 
 And said, "O Ancient Knight, thou sleepest then? 
 
 While through this poor land range the heathen men, 
 
 Unmet of any but my King and Lord: 
 
 Nay, let us see the deeds of thine old sword." 
 
 "Queen," said he, "bid me then unto this work. 
 And certes I behind no wall would lurk, 
 Nor send for succour, while a scanty folk 
 Still followed after me to break the yoke: 
 I pray thee grace for sleeping, and were fain 
 That I might rather never sleep again 
 
PROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I 35 
 
 Than have such wretched dreams as I e'en now 
 Have waked from." 
 
 Lovelier she seemed to grow 
 Unto him as he spoke; fresh colour came 
 Into her face, as though for some sweet shame, 
 While she with tearful eyes beheld him so, 
 That somewhat even must his burnt cheek glow. 
 His heart beat faster. But again she said, 
 "Nay, will dreams burden such a mighty head? 
 Then may I too have pardon for a dream: 
 Last night in sleep I saw thee, who didst seem 
 To be the King of France; and thou and I 
 Were sitting at some great festivity 
 Within the many-peopled gold-hung place." 
 
 The blush of shame was gone as on his face 
 She gazed, and saw him read her meaning clear 
 And knew that no cold words she had to fear, 
 But rather that for softer speech he yearned. 
 Therefore, with love alone her smooth cheek burned; 
 Her parted lips were hungry for his kiss. 
 She trembled at the near approaching bliss; 
 
 Nathless, she checked her love a little while. 
 Because she felt the old dame's curious smile 
 Upon her, and she said, "O Ancient Knight, 
 If I then read my last night's dream aright. 
 Thou art come here our very help to be. 
 Perchance to give my husband back to me; 
 Come then, if thou this land art fain to save. 
 And show the wisdom thou must surely have 
 Unto my council; I will give thee then 
 What charge I may among my valiant men; 
 And certes thou wilt do so well herein. 
 That, ere long, something greater shalt thou win: 
 
136 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Cqme, then, deliverer of my throne and land, 
 And let me touch for once thy mighty hand 
 With these weak fingers." 
 
 As she spoke, she met 
 His eager hand, and all things did forget 
 But for one moment, for too wise were they 
 To cast the coming years of joy away; 
 Then with her other hand her gown she raised 
 And led him thence, and o'er her shoulder gazed 
 At her old follower with a doubtful smile. 
 As though to say, "Be wise, I know thy guile!" 
 
 But slowly she behind the lovers walked, 
 Muttering, "So be it! thou shalt not be balked 
 Of thy desire; be merry! I am wise, 
 Nor will I rob thee of thy Paradise 
 For any other than myself; and thou 
 May'st even happen to have had enow 
 Of this new love, before I get the ring, 
 And I may work for thee no evil thing." 
 
 Now ye shall know that the old chronicle. 
 Wherein I read all this, doth duly tell 
 Of all the gallant deeds that Ogier did, 
 There may ye read them; nor let me be chid 
 If I therefore say little of these things, 
 Because the thought of Avallon still clings 
 Unto my heart, and scarcely can I bear 
 To think of that long, dragging useless year, 
 Through which, with dulled and glimmering memory, 
 Ogier was grown content to live and die 
 Like other men; but this I have to say. 
 That in the council chamber on that day 
 The Old Knight showed his wisdom well enow, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I 37 
 
 While fainter still with love the Queen did grow 
 Hearing his words, beholding his grey eyes 
 Flashing with fire of warlike memories; 
 Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeed 
 That she could give him now the charge, to lead 
 One wing of the great army that set out 
 From Paris' gates, midst many a wavering shout 
 Midst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and 
 
 tears. 
 And slender hopes and unresisted fears. 
 
 Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay, 
 Newly awakened at the dawn of day. 
 Gathering perplexed thoughts of many a thing, 
 When, midst the carol that the birds did sing 
 Unto the coming of the hopeful sun. 
 He heard a sudden lovesome song begun 
 'Twixt two young voices in the garden green. 
 That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen. 
 
 Song.* 
 
 H^C. 
 
 In the white-flowered hawthorn brake, 
 Love, be merry for my sake; 
 Twine the blossoms in my hair, 
 Kiss me where I am most fair — ' 
 Kiss me, love! for who knoweth 
 What thing cometh after death? 
 
 ILLE. 
 
 Nay, the garlanded gold hair 
 Hides thee where thou art most fair ; 
 
138 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow — 
 Ah, sweet love, I have thee now! 
 Kiss me, love! for who knoweth 
 What thing cometh after death? 
 
 HiEC. 
 
 Shall we weep for a dead day, 
 Or set Sorrow in our way? 
 Hidden by my golden hair, 
 Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear? 
 Kiss me, love! for who knoweth 
 What thing cometh after death? 
 
 ILLE. 
 
 Weep, O Love, the days that flit. 
 Now, while I can feel thy breath; 
 
 Then may I remember it 
 
 Sad and old, and near my death. 
 
 Kiss me, love! for who knoweth 
 
 What thing cometh after death? 
 
 Soothed by the pleasure that the music brought 
 And sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thought 
 Of happiness it seemed to promise him, 
 He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim. 
 And o'er him 'gan forgetfulness to creep 
 Till in the growing light he lay asleep, 
 Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blast 
 Had summoned him all thought away to cast: 
 Yet one more joy of love indeed he had 
 Ere with the battle's noise he was made glad; 
 For, as on that May morning forth they rode 
 And passed before the Queen's most fair abode, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 39 
 
 There at a window was she waiting them 
 
 In fair attire with gold in every hem, 
 
 And as the ancient Knight beneath her passed 
 
 A wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast, 
 
 And looked farewell to him, and forth he set 
 
 Thinking of all the pleasure he should get 
 
 From love and war, forgetting Avallon 
 
 And all that lovely life so lightly won; 
 
 Yea, now indeed the earthly life o'erpast 
 
 Ere on the loadstone rock his ship was cast 
 
 Was waxing dim, nor yet at all he learned 
 
 To 'scape the fire that erst his heart had burned. 
 
 And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame, 
 
 Forgat the letters of his ancient name 
 
 As one waked fully shall forget a dream. 
 
 That once to him a wondrous tale did seem. 
 
 Now I, though writing here no chronicle 
 E'en as I said, must nathless shortly tell 
 That, ere the army Rouen's gates could gain 
 By a broad arrow had the King been slain. 
 And helpless now the wretched country lay 
 Beneath the yoke, until the glorious day 
 When Ogier fell at last upon the foe. 
 And scattered them as helplessly as though 
 They had been beaten men without a name: 
 So when to Paris town once more he came 
 Few folk the memory of the King did keep 
 Within their hearts, and if the folk did weep 
 At his returning, 'twas for joy indeed 
 That such a man had risen at their need 
 To work for them so great deliverance, 
 And loud they called on him for King of France. 
 
140 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 But if the Queen's heart were the more a- flame 
 For all that she had heard of his great fame, 
 I know not; rather with some hidden dread 
 Of coming fate, she heard her lord was dead, 
 And her false dream seemed coming true at last, 
 For the clear sky of love seemed overcast 
 With clouds of God's great judgments, and the fear 
 Of hate and final parting drawing near. 
 
 So now when he before her throne did stand 
 Amidst the throng as saviour of the land, 
 And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise, 
 And there before all her own love must praise; 
 Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said, 
 "See, how she sorrows for the newly dead! 
 Amidst our joy she needs must think of him; 
 Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dim 
 And she shall wed again." 
 
 So passed the year. 
 While Ogier set himself the land to clear 
 Of broken remnants of the heathen men. 
 And at the last, when May-time came again. 
 Must he be crowned King of the twice-saved land, 
 And at the altar take the fair Queen's hand 
 And wed her for his own. And now by this 
 Had he forgotten clean the woe and bliss 
 Of his old life, and still was he made glad 
 As other men; and hopes and fears he had 
 As others, and bethought him not at all 
 Of what strange days upon him yet should fall 
 When he should live and these again be dead. 
 
 Now drew the time round when he should be wed, 
 And in his palace on his bed he lay 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I4I 
 
 Upon the dawning of the very day: 
 
 'Twixt sleep and waking was he, and could hear 
 
 E'en at that hour, through the bright morn and clear, 
 
 The hammering of the folk who toiled to make 
 
 Some well-wrought stages for the pageant's sake, 
 
 Though hardly yet the sparrows had begun 
 
 To twitter o'er the coming of the sun. 
 
 Nor through the palace did a creature move. 
 
 There in the sweet entanglement of love 
 Midst languid thoughts of greater bliss he lay, 
 Remembering no more of that other day 
 Than the hot noon remembereth of the night, 
 Than summer thinketh of the winter white. 
 
 In that sweet hour he heard a voice that cried, 
 "Ogier, Ogier!" then, opening his eyes wide, 
 And rising on his elbow, gazed around. 
 And strange to him and empty was the sound 
 Of his own name; "Whom callest thou?" he said. 
 "For I, the man who lies upon this bed, 
 Am Charles of France, and shall be King to-day. 
 But in a year that now is past away 
 The Ancient Knight they called me: who is this, 
 Thou callest Ogier, then, what deeds are his? 
 And who art thou?" But at that word a sigh. 
 As of one grieved, came from some place anigh 
 His bed-side, and a soft voice spake again, 
 "This Ogier once was great amongst great men; 
 To Italy a helpless hostage led; 
 He saved the King when the false Lombard fled, 
 Bore forth the Oriflamme and gained the day; 
 Chariot he brought back, whom men led away, 
 And fought a day-long fight with Caraheu. 
 The ravager of Rome his right hand slew; 
 
142 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Nor did he fear the might of Charlemaine, 
 
 Who for a dreary year beset in vain 
 
 His lonely castle; yet at last caught then, 
 
 And shut in hold, needs must he come again 
 
 To give an unhoped great deliverance 
 
 Unto the burdened helpless land of France : 
 
 Denmark he gained thereafter, and he wore 
 
 The crown of England drawn from trouble sore; 
 
 At Tyre then he reigned, and Babylon 
 
 With mighty deeds he from the foemen won; 
 
 And when scarce aught could give him greater fame. 
 
 He left the world still thinking on his name. 
 
 "These things did Ogier, and these things didst 
 thou, 
 Nor will I call thee by a new name now 
 Since I have spoken words of love to thee — 
 Ogier, Ogier, dost thou remember me. 
 E'en if thou hast no thought of that past time 
 Before thou camest to our happy clime?" 
 
 As this was said, his mazed eyes saw indeed 
 A lovely woman clad in dainty weed 
 Beside his bed, and many a thought was stirred 
 Within his heart by that last plaintive word. 
 Though nought he said, but waited what should come. 
 "Love," said she, "I am here to bring thee home; 
 Well hast thou done all that thou cam'st to do. 
 And if thou bidest here, for something new 
 Will folk begin to cry, and all thy fame 
 Shall then avail thee but for greater blame; 
 Thy love shall cease to love thee, and the earth 
 Thou lovest now shall be of little worth 
 While still thou keepest life, abhorring it, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 143 
 
 Behold, in men's lives that so quickly flit 
 Thus is it, how then shall it be with thee, 
 Who some faint image of eternity 
 Hast gained through me? — alas, thou heedest not! 
 On all these changing things thine heart is hot — 
 Take then this gift that I have brought from far. 
 And then may'st thou remember what we are; 
 The lover and the loved from long ago." 
 
 He trembled, and more memory seemed to grow 
 Within his heart as he beheld her stand. 
 Holding a glittering crown in her right hand: 
 "Ogier," she said, "arise and do on thee 
 The emblems of thy worldly sovereignity, 
 For we must pass o'er many a sea this morn." 
 
 He rose, and in the glittering tunic worn 
 By Charlemaine he clad himself, and took 
 The ivory hand, that Charlemaine once shook 
 Over the people's head in days of old; 
 Then on his feet he set the shoes of gold, 
 And o'er his shoulders threw the mantle fair, 
 And set the gold crown on his golden hair: 
 Then on the royal chair he sat him down, 
 As though he deemed the elders of the town 
 Should come to audience; and in all he seemed 
 To do these things e'en as a man who dreamed. 
 
 And now adown the Seine the golden sun 
 Shone out, as toward him drew that lovely one 
 And took from off his head the royal crown. 
 And, smiling, on the pillow laid it down 
 And said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine, 
 Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain, 
 
144 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Because he died, and all the things he did 
 Were changed before his face by earth was hid; 
 A better crown I have for my love's head, 
 Whereby he yet shall live, when all are dead 
 His hand has helped." Then on his head she set 
 The wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget! 
 Forget these weary things, for thou hast much 
 Of happiness to think of" 
 
 At that touch 
 He rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes; 
 And smitten by the rush of memories. 
 He stammered out, "O love! how came we here? 
 What do we in this land of Death and Fear? 
 Have I not been from thee a weary while? 
 Let us return — I dreamed about the isle; 
 I dreamed of other years of strife and pain. 
 Of new years full of struggles long and vain." 
 
 She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love, 
 I am not changed;" and therewith did they move 
 Unto the door, and through the sleeping place 
 Swiftly they went, and still was Ogier's face 
 Turned on her beauty, and no thought was his 
 Except the dear returning of his bliss. 
 
 But at the threshold of the palace-gate 
 That opened to them, she awhile did wait, 
 And turned her eyes unto the rippling Seine 
 And said, "O love, behold it once again!" 
 He turned, and gazed upon the city grey 
 Smit by the gold of that sweet morn of May; 
 He heard faint noises as of wakening folk 
 As on their heads his day of glory broke; 
 He heard the changing rush of the swift stream 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 45 
 
 Against the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream. 
 His work was over, his reward was come, 
 Why should he loiter longer from his home? 
 
 A little while she watched him silently, 
 Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh. 
 And, raising up the raiment from her feet, 
 Across the threshold stepped into the street; 
 One moment on the twain the low sun shone. 
 And then the place was void, and they were gone 
 How I know not; but this I know indeed, 
 That in whatso great trouble or sore need 
 The land of France since that fair day has been. 
 No more the sword of Ogier has she seen. 
 
 Such was the tale he told of Avallon, 
 
 E'en such an one as in days past had won 
 
 His youthful heart to think upon the quest; 
 
 But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest. 
 
 Not much to be desired now it seemed — 
 
 Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed 
 
 Had found no words in this death-laden tongue 
 
 We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung; 
 
 Perchance the changing years that changed his heart 
 
 E'en in the words of that old tale had part. 
 
 Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair 
 
 The foolish hope that once had glittered there — 
 
 Or think, that in some bay of that far home 
 
 They then had sat, and watched the green waves come 
 
 Morris. lO 
 
146 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Up to their feet with many promises; 
 Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees, 
 In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word 
 Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred 
 Long dead for ever. 
 
 Howsoe'er that be 
 Among strange folk they now sat quietly, 
 As though that tale with them had nought to do, 
 As though its hopes and fears were something new. 
 But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band 
 Had no tears left for that once longed-for land. 
 The very wind must moan for their decay. 
 And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey, 
 Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field, 
 That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield; 
 And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves 
 Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves. 
 Yet, since a little life at least was left, 
 They were not yet of every joy bereft. 
 For long ago was past the agony, 
 Midst which they found that they indeed must die; 
 And now well-nigh as much their pain was past 
 As though death's veil already had been cast 
 Over their heads — so, midst some little mirth. 
 They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth. 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 47 
 
 THE GOLDEN APPLES. 
 
 This tale tells of the voyage of a ship of Tyre, that, against the 
 will of the shipmen, bore Hercules to aii unknown land of the 
 West, that he might accomplish a task laid on him by the 
 Fates. 
 
 As many as the leaves fall from the tree, 
 From the world's life the years are fallen away 
 Since King Eurystheus sat in majesty 
 In fair Mycenae; midmost of whose day 
 It once befell that in a quiet bay 
 A ship of Tyre was swinging nigh the shore, 
 Her folk for sailing handling rope and oar. 
 
 Fresh was the summer morn, a soft wind stole 
 Down from the sheep-browsed slopes the cliffs that 
 
 crowned. 
 And ruffled lightly the long gleaming roll 
 Of the peaceful sea, and bore along the sound 
 Of shepherd-folk and sheep and questing hound, 
 For in the first dip of the hillside there 
 Lay bosomed 'mid its trees a homestead fair. 
 
 Amid regrets for last night, when the moon, 
 Risen on the soft dusk, shone on maidens' feet 
 Brushing the gold-heart lilies to the tune 
 Of pipes complaining, o'er the grass down-beat 
 That mixed with dewy flowers its odour sweet, 
 
 10* 
 
148 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 The shipmen laboured, till the sail unfurled 
 Swung round the prow to meet another world. 
 
 But ere the anchor had come home, a shout 
 Rang from the strand, as though the ship were hailed. 
 Whereat the master bade them stay, in doubt 
 That they without some needful thing had sailed; 
 When, lo! from where the cliff's steep grey sides failed 
 Into a ragged stony slip, came twain 
 Who seemed in haste the ready keel to gain. 
 
 Soon they drew nigh, and he who first came down 
 Unto the surf was a man huge of limb. 
 Grey-eyed, with crisp-curled hair 'twixt black and 
 
 brown, 
 Who had a lion's skin cast over him. 
 So wrought with gold that the fell showed but dim 
 Betwixt the threads, and in his hand he bore 
 A mighty club with bands of steel done o'er. 
 
 Panting there followed him a grey old man, 
 Bearing a long staff, clad in gown of blue. 
 Feeble of aspect, hollow-cheeked and wan, 
 Who when unto his fellow's side he drew. 
 Said faintly: "Now, do that which thou shouldst do; 
 This is the ship." Then in the other's eye 
 A smile gleamed, and he spake out merrily: 
 
 "Masters, folk tell me that ye make for Tyre, 
 And after that still nearer to the sun; 
 And since Fate bids me look to die by fire. 
 Fain am I, ere my worldly day be done. 
 To know what from earth's hottest can be won; 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 49 
 
 And this old man, my kinsman, would with me. 
 How say ye, will ye bear us o'er the sea?" 
 
 "What is thy name?" the master said: "And know 
 That we are merchants, and for nought give nought; 
 What wilt thou pay? — thou seem'st full rich, I trow." 
 The old man muttered, stooped adown and caught 
 At something in the sand: "E'en so I thought," 
 The younger said, "when I set out from home — 
 As to my name, perchance in days to come 
 
 "Thou shalt know that — but have heed, take this 
 toy. 
 And call me the Strong Man." And as he spake 
 The master's deep-brown eyes 'gan gleam with joy. 
 For from his arm a huge ring did he take. 
 And cast it on the deck, where it did break 
 A water-jar, and in the wet shards lay 
 Golden, und gleaming like the end of day. 
 
 But the old man held out a withered hand, 
 Wherein there shone two pearls most great and fair. 
 And said, "If any nigher I might stand, 
 Then might'st thou see the things I give thee here — ■ 
 And for a name — a many names I bear. 
 But call me Shepherd of the Shore this tide. 
 And for more knowledge with a good will bide." 
 
 From one to the other turned the master's eyes; 
 The Strong Man laughed as at some hidden jest, 
 And wild doubts in the shipman's heart did rise; 
 But thinking on the thing, he deemed it best 
 To bid them come aboard, and take such rest 
 
150 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 As they might have of the untrusty sea, 
 'Mid men who trusty fellows still should be. 
 
 Then no more words the Strong Man made, but 
 straight 
 Caught up the elder in his arms, and so, 
 Making no whit of all that added weight. 
 Strode to the ship, right through the breakers low. 
 And catching at the rope that they did throw 
 Out toward his hand, swung up into the ship; 
 Then did the master let the hawser slip. 
 
 The shapely prow cleft the wet mead and green. 
 And wondering drew the shipmen round to gaze 
 Upon those limbs, the mightiest ever seen; 
 And many deemed it no light thing to face 
 The splendour of his eyen, though they did blaze 
 With no wrath now, no hate for them to dread, 
 As seaward 'twixt the summer isles they sped. 
 
 Freshened the wind, but ever fair it blew 
 Unto the south-east; but as failed the land. 
 Unto the plunging prow the Strong Man drew. 
 And silent, gazing with wide eyes did stand. 
 As though his heart found rest; but 'mid the band 
 Of shipmen in the stern the old man sat. 
 Telling them tales that no man there forgat. 
 
 As one who had beheld, he told them there 
 Of the sweet singer, whom, for his song's sake. 
 The dolphins back from choking death did bear; 
 How in the mid sea did the vine outbreak 
 O'er that ill bark when Bacchus 'gan to wake; 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I5I 
 
 How anigh Cyprus, ruddy with the rose 
 The cold sea grew as any June-loved close; 
 
 While on the flowery shore all things alive 
 Grew faint with sense of birth of some delight, 
 And the nymphs waited trembling there, to give 
 Glad welcome to the glory of that sight: 
 He paused then, ere he told how, wild and white, 
 Rose ocean, breaking o'er a race accurst, 
 A world once good, now come unto its worst. 
 
 And then he smiled, and said, "And yet ye won, 
 Ye men, and tremble not on days like these, 
 Nor think with what a mind Prometheus' son 
 Beheld the last of the torn reeling trees 
 From high Parnassus: slipping through the seas 
 Ye never think, ye men-folk, how ye seem 
 From down below through the green waters' gleam." 
 
 Dusk was it now when these last words he said, 
 And little of his visage might they see. 
 But o'er their hearts stole vague and troublous dread, 
 They knew not why; yet ever quietly 
 They sailed that night; nor might a morning be 
 Fairer than was the next morn; and they went 
 Along their due course after their intent. 
 
 The fourth day, about sunrise, from the mast 
 The watch cried out he saw Phoenician land; 
 Whereat the Strong Man on the elder cast 
 A look askance, and he straight took his stand 
 Anigh the prow, and gazed beneath his hand 
 
152 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Upon the low sun and the scarce-seen shore, 
 
 Till cloud-flecks rose, and gathered and drew o'er. 
 
 The morn grown cold; then small rain 'gan to fall, 
 And all the wind dropped dead, and hearts of men 
 Sank, and their bark seemed helpless now and small; 
 Then suddenly the wind 'gan moan again; 
 Sails flapped, and ropes beat wild about; and then 
 Down came the great east wind; and the ship ran 
 Straining, heeled o'er, through seas all changed and 
 wan. 
 
 Westward, scarce knowing night from day, they 
 
 drave 
 Through sea and sky grown one; the Strong Man 
 
 wrought 
 With mighty hands, and seemed a god to save; 
 But on the prow, heeding all weather nought, 
 The elder stood, nor any prop he sought, 
 But swayed to the ship's wallowing, as on wings 
 He there were set above the wrack of things. 
 
 And westward still they drave; and if they saw 
 Land upon either side, as on they sped, 
 'Twas but as faces in a dream may draw 
 Anigh, and fade, and leave nought in their stead; 
 And in the shipmen's hearts grew heavy dread 
 To sick despair; they deemed they should drive on 
 Till the world's edge and empty space were won. 
 
 But 'neath the Strong Man's eyes e'en as they might 
 They toiled on still; and he sang to the wind, 
 And spread his arms to meet the waters white, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 153 
 
 As o'er the deck they tumbled, making blind 
 The brine- drenched shipmen; nor with eye unkind 
 He gazed up at the lightning; nor would frown 
 When o'er the wet waste Jove's bolt rattled down. 
 
 And they, who at the last had come to think 
 Their guests were very gods, with all their fear 
 Feared nought belike that their good ship would sink 
 Amid the storm; but rather looked to hear 
 The last moan of the wind that them should bear 
 Into the windless stream of ocean grey. 
 Where they should float till dead was every day. 
 
 Yet their fear mocked them; for the storm 'gan die 
 About the tenth day, though unto the west 
 They drave on still; soon fair and quietly 
 The morn would break: and though amid their rest 
 Nought but long evil wandering seemed the best 
 That they might hope for; still, despite their dread. 
 Sweet was the quiet sea and goodlihead 
 
 Of the bright sun at last come back again; 
 And as the days passed, less and less fear grew. 
 If without cause, till faded all their pain; 
 And they 'gan turn unto their guests anew. 
 Yet durst ask nought of what that evil drew 
 Upon their heads; or of returning speak. 
 Happy they felt, but listless, spent, and weak. 
 
 And now as at the first the elder was. 
 And sat and told them tales of yore agone; 
 But ever the Strong Man up and down would pass 
 About the deck, or on the prow alone 
 
154 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Would Stand and stare out westward; and still on 
 Through a fair summer sea they went, nor thought 
 Of what would come when these days turned to nought. 
 
 And now when twenty days were well passed o'er 
 They made a new land; cloudy mountains high 
 Rose from the sea at first; then a green shore 
 Spread fair below them: as they drew anigh 
 No sloping, stony strand could they espy. 
 And no surf breaking; the green sea and wide 
 Wherethrough they slipped was driven by no tide. 
 
 Dark fell ere they might set their eager feet 
 Upon the shore; but night-long their ship lay 
 As in a deep stream, by the blossoms sweet 
 That flecked the grass whence flowers ne'er passed 
 
 away. 
 But when the cloud-barred east brought back the day, 
 And turned the western mountain-tops to gold, 
 Fresh fear the shipmen in their bark did hold. 
 
 For as a dream seemed all; too fair for those 
 Who needs must die; moreover they could see, 
 A furlong ofl", 'twixt apple-tree and rose, 
 A brazen wall that gleamed out wondrously 
 In the young sun, and seemed right long to be; 
 And memory of all marvels lay upon 
 Their shrinking hearts now this sweet place was won. 
 
 But when unto the nameless guests they turned, 
 Who stood together nigh the plank shot out 
 Shoreward, within the Strong Man's eyes there burned 
 A wild light, as the other one in doubt 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I55 
 
 He eyed a moment; then with a great shout 
 Leaped into the blossomed grass; the echoes rolled 
 Back from the hills, harsh still and over-bold. 
 
 Slowly the old man followed him, and still 
 The crew held back : they knew now they were brought 
 Over the sea the purpose to fulfil 
 Of these strange men; and in their hearts they 
 
 thought, 
 "Perchance we yet shall live, if, meddling nought 
 With dreams, we bide here till these twain come back; 
 But prying eyes the fire-blast seldom lack." 
 
 Yet 'mongst them were two fellows bold and young. 
 Who, looking each upon the other's face. 
 Their hearts to meet the unknown danger strung. 
 And went ashore, and at a gentle pace 
 Followed the strangers, who unto the place 
 Where the wall gleamed had turned; peace and desire 
 Mingled together in their hearts, as nigher 
 
 They drew unto that wall, and dulled their fear: 
 Fair wrought it was, as though with bricks of brass ; 
 And images upon its face there were, 
 Stories of things a long while come to pass: 
 Nor that alone — as looking in a glass 
 Its maker knew the tales of what should be. 
 And wrought them there for bird and beast to see. 
 
 So on they went; the many birds sang sweet 
 Through all that blossomed thicket from above. 
 And unknown flowers bent down before their feet; 
 The very air, cleft by the grey- winged dove. 
 
156 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Throbbed with sweet scent, and smote their souls with 
 
 love. 
 Slowly they went till those twain stayed before 
 A strangely-wrought and iron-covered door. 
 
 They stayed, too, till o'er noise of wind, and bird. 
 And falling flower, there rang a mighty shout 
 As the Strong Man his steel-bound club upreared, 
 And drave it 'gainst the hammered iron stout, 
 Where 'neath his blows flew bolt and rivet out. 
 Till shattered on the ground the great door lay. 
 And into the guarded place bright poured the day. 
 
 The Strong Man entered, but his fellow stayed, 
 Leaning against a tree-trunk as they deemed. 
 They faltered now, and yet all things being weighed 
 Went on again; and thought they must have dreamed 
 Of the old man, for now the sunlight streamed 
 Full on the tree he had been leaning on. 
 And him they saw not go, yet was he gone: 
 
 Only a slim green lizard flitted there 
 Amidst the dry leaves; him they noted nought. 
 But trembling, through the doorway 'gan to peer, 
 And still of strange and dreadful saw not aught, 
 Only a garden fair beyond all thought. 
 And there, 'twixt sun and shade, the Strong Man went 
 On some long-sought-for end belike intent. 
 
 They 'gan to follow down a narrow way 
 Of green-sward that the lilies trembled o'er. 
 And whereon thick the scattered rose-leaves lay; 
 But a great wonder weighed upon them sore. 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I 57 
 
 And well they thought they should return no more, 
 Yet scarce a pain that seemed; they looked to meet 
 Before they died things strange and fair and sweet. 
 
 So still to right and left the Strong Man thrust 
 The blossomed boughs, and passed on steadily. 
 As though his hardy heart he well did trust, 
 Till in a while he gave a joyous cry, 
 And hastened on, as though the end drew nigh; 
 And women's voices then they deemed they heard. 
 Mixed with a noise that made desire afeard. 
 
 Yet through sweet scents and sounds on did they 
 bear 
 Their panting hearts, till the path ended now 
 In a wide space of green, a streamlet clear 
 From out a marble basin there did flow. 
 And close by that a slim-trunked tree did grow, 
 And on a bough low o'er the water cold 
 There hung three apples of red-gleaming gold. 
 
 About the tree, new risen e'en now to meet 
 The shining presence of that mighty one, 
 Three damsels stood, naked from head to feet 
 Save for the glory of their hair, where sun 
 And shadow flickered, while the wind did run 
 Through the grey leaves o'erhead, and shook the grass 
 Where nigh their feet the wandering bee did pass. 
 
 But 'midst their delicate limbs and all around 
 The tree-roots, gleaming blue black could they see 
 The spires of a great serpent, that, enwound 
 About the smooth bole, looked forth threateningly, 
 
158 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 With glittering eyes and raised crest, o'er the three 
 Fair heads fresh crowned, and hissed above the speech 
 Wherewith they murmured softly each to each. 
 
 Now the Strong Man amid the green space stayed, 
 And leaning on his club, with eager eyes 
 But brow yet smooth, in voice yet friendly said: 
 " O daughters of old Hesperus the Wise, 
 Well have ye held your guard here; but time tries 
 The very will of gods, and to my hand 
 Must give this day the gold fruit of your land." 
 
 Then spake the first maid — sweet as the west wind 
 Amidst of summer noon her sweet voice was : 
 "Ah, me! what knows this place of changing mind 
 Of men or gods; here shall long ages pass. 
 And clean forget thy feet upon the grass. 
 Thy hapless bones amid the fruitful mould; 
 Look at thy death envenomed swift and cold!" 
 
 Hiding new flowers, the dull coils, as she spake, 
 Moved near her limbs: but then the second one. 
 In such a voice as when the morn doth wake 
 To song of birds, said, "When the world foredone 
 Has moaned its last, still shall we dwell alone 
 Beneath this bough, and have no tales to tell 
 Of things deemed great that on the earth befell." 
 
 Then spake the third, in voice as of the flute 
 That wakes the maiden to her wedding morn: 
 "If any god should gain our golden fruit. 
 Its curse would make his deathless life forlorn. 
 Lament thou, then, that ever thou wert born; 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. I 59 
 
 Yet all things, changed by joy or loss or pain, 
 
 To what they were shall change and change again." 
 
 "So be it," he said, "the Fates that drive me on 
 Shall slay me or shall save; blessing or curse 
 That followeth after when the thing is won 
 Shall make my work no better now nor worse; 
 And if it be that the world's heart must nurse 
 Hatred against me, how then shall I choose 
 To leave or take? — let your dread servant loose!" 
 
 E'en therewith, like a pillar of black smoke, 
 Swift, shifting ever, drave the worm at him; 
 In deadly silence now that nothing broke. 
 Its folds were writhing round him trunk and limb. 
 Until his glittering gear was nought but dim 
 E'en in that sunshine, while his head and side 
 And breast the fork-tongued , pointed muzzle tried. 
 
 Closer the coils drew, quicker all about 
 The forked tongue darted , and yet stiff he stood, 
 E'en as an oak that sees the straw flare out 
 And lick its ancient bole for little good: 
 Until the godlike fury of his mood 
 Burst from his heart in one great shattering cry, 
 And rattling down the loosened coils did lie; 
 
 And from the torn throat and crushed dreadful head 
 Forth flowed a stream of blood along the grass; 
 Bright in the sun he stood above the dead, 
 Panting with fury; yet as ever was 
 The wont of him, soon did his anger pass. 
 
l60 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 And with a happy smile at last he turned 
 To where the apples o'er the water burned. 
 
 Silent and moveless ever stood the three; 
 No change came o'er their faces, as his hand 
 Was stretched aloft unto the sacred tree; 
 Nor shrank they aught aback, though he did stand 
 So close that tresses of their bright hair, fanned 
 By the sweet garden breeze, lay light on him, 
 And his gold fell brushed by them breast and limb. 
 
 He drew adown the wind-stirred bough, and took 
 The apples thence; then let it spring away, 
 And from his brow the dark hair backward shook. 
 And said: "O sweet, O fair, and shall this day 
 A curse upon my life henceforward lay — 
 This day alone? Methinks of coming life 
 Somewhat I know, with all its loss and strife. 
 
 "But this I know, at least: the world shall wend 
 Upon its way, and, gathering joy and grief 
 And deeds done, bear them with it to the end; 
 So shall it, though I lie as last year's leaf 
 Lies 'neath a summer tree, at least receive 
 My life gone by, and store it, with the gain 
 That men alive call striving, wrong, and pain. 
 
 "So for my part I rather bless than curse, 
 And bless this fateful land; good be with it; 
 Nor for this deadly thing's death is it worse. 
 Nor for the lack of gold; still shall ye sit 
 Watching the swallow o'er the daisies flit; 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. l6r 
 
 Still shall your wandering limbs ere day is done 
 Make dawn desired by the sinking sun. 
 
 "And now, behold! in memory of all this 
 Take ye this girdle that shall waste and fade 
 As fadeth not your fairness and your bliss, 
 That when hereafter 'mid the blossoms laid 
 Ye talk of days and men now nothing made. 
 Ye may remember how the Theban man. 
 The son of Jove, came o'er the waters wan." 
 
 Their faces changed not aught for all they heard; 
 As though all things now fully told out were, 
 They gazed upon him without any word: 
 Ah! craving kindness, hope, or loving care. 
 Their fairness scarcely could have made more fair. 
 As with the apples folded in his fell 
 He went, to do more deeds for folk to tell. 
 
 Now as the girdle on the ground was cast 
 Those fellows turned and hurried toward the door, 
 And as across its broken leaves they passed 
 The old man saw they not, e'en as before; 
 But an unearthed blind mole bewildered sore 
 Was wandering there in fruitless, aimless wise. 
 That got small heed from their full-sated eyes. 
 
 Swift gat they to their anxious folk; nor had 
 More time than just to say, "Be of good cheer, 
 For in our own land may we yet be glad," 
 When they beheld the guests a-drawing near; 
 And much bewildered the two fellows were 
 
 Morris. T I 
 
I 62 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE, 
 
 To see the old man, and must even deem 
 
 That they should see things stranger than a dream. 
 
 But when they were aboard the elder cried, 
 "Up sails, my masters, fair now is the wind; 
 Nor good it is too long here to abide, 
 Lest what ye may not loose your souls should bind." 
 And as he spake, the tall trees left behind 
 Stirred with the rising land-wind, and the crew. 
 Joyous thereat, the hawsers shipward drew. 
 
 Swift sped the ship, and glad at heart were all. 
 And the Strong Man was merry with the rest. 
 And from the elder's lips no word did fall 
 That did not seem to promise all the best; 
 Yet with a certain awe were men oppressed, 
 And felt as if their inmost hearts were bare, 
 And each man's secret babbled through the air. 
 
 Still oft the old man sat with them and told 
 Tales of past time, as on the outward way; 
 And now would they the face of him behold 
 And deem it changed; the years that on him lay 
 Seemed to grow nought, and no more wan and grey 
 He looked, but ever glorious, wise and strong. 
 As though no lapse of time for him were long. 
 
 At last, when six days through the kindly sea 
 Their keel had slipped, he said: "Come hearken now, 
 For so it is that things fare wondrously 
 E'en in these days; and I a tale can show 
 That, told by you unto your sons shall grow 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 63 
 
 A marvel of the days that are to come: 
 
 Take heed and tell it when ye reach your home. 
 
 "Yet living in the world a man there is 
 Men call the Theban King Amphitryon's son, 
 Although perchance a greater sire was his; 
 But certainly his lips have hung upon 
 Alcmena's breasts: great deeds this man hath won 
 Already, for his name is Hercules, 
 And e'en ye Asian folk have heard of these. 
 
 "Now ere the moon, this eve in his last wane. 
 Was born, this Hercules, the fated thrall 
 Of King Eurystheus, was straight bid to gain 
 Gifts from a land whereon no foot doth fall 
 Of mortal man, beyond the misty wall 
 Of unknown waters; pensively he went 
 Along the sea on his hard life intent. 
 
 "And at the dawn he came into a bay 
 Where the sea, ebbed far down, left wastes of sand, 
 Walled from the green earth by great cliffs and grey; 
 Then he looked up, and wondering there did stand. 
 For strange things lay in slumber on the strand; 
 Strange counterparts of what the firm earth hath 
 Lay scattered all about his weary path: 
 
 "Sea-lions and sea-horses and sea-kine. 
 Sea-boars, sea-men strange-skinned, of wondrous hair; 
 And in their midst a man who seemed divine 
 For changeless eld, and round him women fair. 
 Clad in the sea-webs glassy green and clear 
 
164 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 With gems on head and girdle, limb and breast, 
 Such as earth knoweth not among her best. 
 
 "A moment at the fair and wondrous sight 
 He stared, then, since the heart in him was good, 
 He went about with careful steps and light 
 Till o'er the sleeping sea-god now he stood; 
 And if the white-foot maids had stirred his blood 
 As he passed by, now other thoughts had place 
 Within his heart when he beheld that face. 
 
 "For Nereus now he knew, who knows all things; 
 And to himself he said, 'If I prevail. 
 Better than by some god-wrought eagle-wings 
 Shall I be holpen;' then he cried out: 'Hail, 
 O Nereus ! lord of shifting hill and dale ! 
 Arise and wrestle; I am Hercules! 
 Not soon now shalt thou meet the ridgy seas.' 
 
 "And mightily he cast himself on him; 
 And Nereus cried out shrilly; and straightway 
 That sleeping crowd, fair maid with half-hid limb, 
 Strange man and green-haired beast, made no delay. 
 But glided down into the billows grey, 
 And, by the lovely sea embraced, were gone, 
 While they two wrestled on the sea strand lone. 
 
 "Soon found the sea-god that his bodily might 
 Was nought in dealing with Jove's dear one there; 
 And soon he 'gan to use his magic sleight: 
 Into a lithe leopard, and a hugging bear 
 He turned him; then the smallest fowl of air 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 65 
 
 The Straining arms of Hercules must hold, 
 And then a mud-born wriggling eel and cold. 
 
 "Then as the firm hands mastered this, forth brake 
 A sudden rush of waters all around, 
 Blinding and choking: then a thin green snake 
 With golden eyes; then o'er the shell-strewn ground 
 Forth stole a fly the least that may be found; 
 Then earth and heaven seemed wrapped in one huge 
 
 flame, 
 But from the midst thereof a voice there came: 
 
 "* Kinsman and stout-heart, thou hast won the day. 
 Nor to my grief: what wouldst thou have of me?' 
 And therewith to an old man small and grey 
 Faded the roaring flame, who wearily 
 Sat down upon the sand and said, 'Let be! 
 I know thy tale; worthy of help thou art; 
 Come now, a short way hence will there depart 
 
 "'A ship of Tyre for the warm southern seas. 
 Come we a-board; according to my will 
 Her way shall be.' Then up rose Hercules, 
 Merry of face, though hot and panting still; 
 But the fair summer day his heart did fill 
 With all delight; and so forth went the twain, 
 And found those men desirous of all gain. 
 
 "Ah, for these gainful men — somewhat indeed 
 Their sails are rent, their bark beat; kin and friend 
 Are wearying for them; yet a friend in need 
 They yet shall gain, if at their journey's end, 
 
1 66 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 Upon the last ness where the wild goats wend 
 To lick the salt-washed stones, a house they raise 
 Bedight with gold in kindly Nereus' praise." 
 
 Breathless they waited for these latest words, 
 That like the soft wind of the gathering night 
 Were grown to be: about the mast flew birds 
 Making their moan, hovering long-winged and white; 
 And now before their straining anxious sight 
 The old man faded out into the air. 
 And from his place flew forth a sea-mew fair. 
 
 Then to the Mighty Man, Alcmena's son, 
 With yearning hearts they turned till he should speak. 
 And he spake softly: "Nought ill have ye done 
 In helping me to find what I did seek: 
 The world made better by me knows if weak 
 My hand and heart are: but now, light the fire 
 Upon the prow and worship the grey sire." 
 
 So did they; and such gifts as there they had 
 Gave unto Nereus; yea, and sooth to say, 
 Amid the tumult of their hearts made glad, 
 Had honoured Hercules in e'en such way; 
 But he laughed out amid them, and said, "Nay, 
 Not yet the end is come; nor have I yet 
 Bowed down before vain longing and regret. 
 
 "It may be — who shall tell, when I go back 
 There whence I came, and looking down behold 
 The place that my once eager heart shall lack. 
 And all my dead desires a-lying cold. 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 67 
 
 But I may have the might then to enfold 
 
 The hopes of brave men in my heart? — but long 
 
 Life lies before first with its change and wrong." 
 
 So fair along the watery ways they sped 
 In happy wise, nor failed of their return; 
 Nor failed in ancient Tyre the ways to tread, 
 Teaching their tale to whomsoever would learn. 
 Nor failed at last the flesh of beasts to burn 
 In Nereus' house, turned toward the bright day's end 
 On the last ness, round which the wild goats wend. 
 
I 68 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 L'ENVOL 
 
 Here are we for the last time face to face, 
 Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speed 
 Upon thy perilous journey to that place 
 For 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 say 
 Of the poor singer of an empty day. 
 
 Good reason why I love thee, e'en if thou 
 Be mocked or clean forgot as time wears on; 
 For ever as thy fashioning did grow. 
 Kind word and praise because of thee I won 
 From 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 see 
 Thy 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; 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 69 
 
 Therefore a word unto thee would I teach 
 To 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 knew 
 But ever was the heart within him hot 
 To gain the Land of Matters Unforgot — 
 — There, now we both laugh — as the w^hole world may. 
 At us poor singers of an empty day. 
 
 Nay, let it pass, and hearken! Hast thou heard 
 That 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! 
 
170 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 But of thy gentleness draw thou anear, 
 And then the heart of one who held thee dear 
 Mayst thou behold! So near as that I lay 
 Unto the singer of an empty day. 
 
 "For this he ever said, who sent me forth 
 To 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 away 
 In idle singing for an empty day. 
 
 "I have beheld him tremble oft enough 
 At 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 see 
 His love, — his folly and faithlessness, may be; 
 And still in turn I gave him voice to pray 
 Such 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 wise 
 In love, but in all else most childish still. 
 And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes, 
 
FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 1 7 1 
 
 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 play 
 Weeping 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 gain 
 Lest 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 lay 
 The ghosts that crowd about life's empty day. 
 
 Then let the others go! and if indeed 
 In some old garden thou and I have wrought, 
 And made fresh flowers spring up from hoarded seed, 
 
172 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 And fragrance of old days and deeds have brought 
 Back to folk weary; all was not for nought. 
 — No little part it was for me to play — 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 
 
FROM LOVE IS ENOUGH. I73 
 
 FROM "LOVE IS ENOUGH." 
 INTERLUDES. 
 
 Love is enough; though the World be a-waning 
 And the woods have no voice but the voice of com- 
 plaining, 
 Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover 
 The 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 alter 
 These lips and these eyes of the loved and the 
 lover. 
 
 2. 
 
 Love is enough: it grew up without heeding 
 
 In the days when ye knew not its name nor its 
 
 measure. 
 And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of 
 
 pleasure 
 
174 FROM LOVE IS ENOUGH. 
 
 Had 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 departed 
 Has 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-hearted 
 Found 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 ended 
 In 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. 
 
 3. 
 Love is enough: draw near and behold me 
 
 Ye who pass by the way to your rest and your 
 
 laughter. 
 And are full of the hope of the dawn coming after 
 
FROM LOVE IS ENOUGH. 1 75 
 
 For the strong of the world have bought me and 
 sold me 
 And 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 forgiving 
 Till 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 thres- 
 hold to rafter. 
 — Pass by me, I hearken, and think of you not! 
 
176 FROM LOVE IS ENOUGH. 
 
 4- 
 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 assemble 
 Round 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 sicken 
 
 Of 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! 
 
FROM LOVE IS ENOUGH. I 77 
 
 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. 
 
 Morris. 1 2 
 
FROM 
 
 ''THE STORY OF SIGURD THE 
 VOLSUNG." 
 
 BOOK II. 
 R E G I N. 
 
 Now this is the first book of the life and death of Sigurd the Vol- 
 sung, 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. 
 
 Of the birth of Sigurd the son of Sigmund. 
 
 Peace lay 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 noon- 
 tide 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 land 
 With 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, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 1 79 
 
 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 com- 
 pany. 
 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 tell 
 What 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 
 
 load 
 In 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 comes 
 The voice of their lone lamenting o'er their changed 
 
 and conquered homes. 
 A long way ofl" from the sea-strand and beneath the 
 
 mountains' feet 
 Is the high-built hall of Gripir, where the waste and 
 
 the tillage meet; 
 A noble and plentiful house, that a little men-folk fear, 
 
 12* 
 
l80 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 cer- 
 tain man 
 Beardless and low of stature, of visage pinched and 
 
 wan: 
 So exceeding old was Regin, that no son of man 
 
 could tell 
 In 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 delight 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. l8l 
 
 With 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 praise 
 Till cometh the time appointed: in the fulness of the 
 
 days 
 Through the dark and the dusk she travailed, till at 
 
 last in the dawning hour 
 Have 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, 
 
1 82 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 burned 
 As 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 gazed 
 Nor 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 breast 
 And 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. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 1 83 
 
 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." 
 
1^4 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 **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?" 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 1 85 
 
 "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 tell 
 By 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 stepped 
 
 And away from the new-born baby the purple cloths 
 she swept, 
 
I 86 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 sees 
 The very Gods arising mid their carven images: 
 To his ears there came a murmur of far seas beneath 
 
 the wind 
 And the tramp of fierce-eyed warriors through the out- 
 land 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 ran 
 Of 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. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. I 87 
 
 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. 
 
'1 88 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 ful- 
 filled of rest 
 
 As alone in the chamber she wakened and Sigurd 
 cherished her breast. 
 
 But men feast in the merry noontide, and glad is the 
 
 April green 
 That a Volsung looks on the sunlight and the night 
 
 and the darkness have been. 
 Earls think of marvellous stories, and along the golden 
 
 strings 
 Flit words of banded brethren and names of war-fain 
 
 Kings: 
 All the days of the deeds of Sigmund who was born 
 
 so long ago; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. I 89 
 
 All deeds of the glorious Signy, and her tarrying-tide 
 
 of woe; 
 Men tell of the years of Volsung, and how long agone 
 
 it was 
 That he changed his life in battle, and brought the 
 
 tale to pass: 
 Then goeth the word of the Giants, and the world 
 
 seems waxen old 
 For the dimness of King Rerir and the tale of his 
 
 warfare told: 
 Yet unhushed are the singers' voices, nor yet the 
 
 harp-strings cease 
 While 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. 
 
 • Sigurd getteth to him the horse that is called 
 Greyfell. 
 
 Now waxeth the son of Sigmund in might and good- 
 
 liness. 
 And soft the days win over, and all men his beauty 
 
 bless. 
 But amidst the summer season was the Isle-queen 
 
 Hiordis wed 
 
I go FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 To 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 wit 
 And full of understanding, and oft hath the joy to sit 
 Amid 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; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. IQI 
 
 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-nature d : 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 lie 
 
 When 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 fate- 
 ful 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: 
 
192 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 The smithying sword and war-coat; the carving runes 
 aright; 
 
 The tongues of many countries, and soft speech for 
 men's delight; 
 
 The deahng 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 sea- 
 ward 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 told 
 Sweet 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 
 
 ride 
 As 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." 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. I93 
 
 But Sigurd knit his brows, and in wrathful wise he 
 
 said: 
 "111 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 mood 
 
 That 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 yore 
 Were the noblest men of men-folk; and their hearts 
 
 would never rest 
 Whatso of good they had gotten , if their hands held 
 
 not the best. 
 Now do thou after my counsel, and crave of thy 
 
 fosterers here 
 
 Morris. 1 3 
 
194 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 That 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 stead 
 While 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: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 1 95 
 
 "Fair seats for the knees of Kings! but now do I ask 
 
 for a gift 
 Such 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 choose 
 From 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 win 
 The praise of many a people : so have thy way herein. 
 Forsooth no more may we hold thee than the hazel 
 
 copse may hold 
 The sun of the early dawning, that turneth it all unto 
 
 gold." 
 
 Then sweetly Sigurd thanked them; and through the 
 night he lay 
 
 Mid dreams of many a matter till the dawn was on 
 the way; 
 
 Then he shook the sleep from off him, and that dwell- 
 ing of Kings he left 
 
 And wended his ways unto Gripir. On a crag from 
 the mountain reft 
 
 Was the house of the old King builded; and a mighty 
 house it was, 
 
 i3* 
 
196 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 Gri- 
 
 pir set 
 In a chair of the sea-beast's tooth; and his sweeping 
 
 beard nigh met 
 The floor that was green as the ocean, and his gown 
 
 was of mountain-gold 
 And 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 run- 
 ning loose in my lea, 
 And be glad as thine heart will have thee and the 
 
 fate that leadeth thee on. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 1 97 
 
 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 ran 
 And 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 say 
 A word that shall well bestead thee: for I know of 
 
 these mountains well 
 And 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 men 
 My master Regin tells of: and I love thy cloud-grey gown 
 And 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, 
 
190 FROM THE -STORY OF 
 
 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 on 
 Till they came to a rushing river a water wide and 
 
 wan; 
 And the white mews hovered o'er it; but none might 
 
 hear their cry 
 For 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 
 
 grey 
 Toss over the flowery meadows, a bright thing far 
 
 away: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. IQQ 
 
 Wide then he wheeled about them, then took the 
 
 stream again 
 And 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 now 
 To 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. 
 
200 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 arose 
 As 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. 
 
 Regin telleth Sigurd of his kindred, and of the Gold 
 that was accursed from ancient days. 
 
 Now yet the days pass over, and more than words 
 
 may tell 
 Grows Sigurd strong and lovely, and all children love 
 
 him well. 
 But oft he looks on the mountains and many a time 
 
 is fain 
 To 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, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 20I 
 
 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 
 
 hall 
 And 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 un wrought; 
 
 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; 
 
202 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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- 
 
 So shone the eyes of Sigurd, that the shield against 
 
 him hung 
 Cast back their light as the sunbeams; but his voice 
 
 to the roof-tree rung: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 203 
 
 "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 mine 
 Since 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. 
 
204 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 an- 
 swered and said: 
 "Thou shalt have thy will and the treasure, and shalt 
 
 take the curse on thine head 
 If 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 
 
 earth 
 And 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 un- 
 
 wrought gold, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 20$ 
 
 And hearken of wondrous matters, and of things un- 
 heard, 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 race 
 Which 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 whileome 
 Ere 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 seem 
 Like 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, 
 
206 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 207 
 
 "But next unto Otter my brother he gave the snare 
 
 and the net 
 And the longing to wend through the wild-wood, and 
 
 wade the highways wet: 
 And the foot that never resteth, while aught be left 
 
 alive 
 That 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 will 
 Into bodies of the beast-kind, or fowl, or fishes cold; 
 For belike no fix^d semblance we had in the days 
 
 of old, 
 
208 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Till the Gods were waxen busy, and all things their 
 
 form must take 
 That knew of good and evil, and longed to gather 
 
 and make. 
 
 "So dwelt we, brethren and father; and Fafnir my 
 
 brother fared 
 As the scourge and compeller of all things, and left 
 
 no wrong undared; 
 But for me, I toiled and I toiled; and fair grew my 
 
 father's house; 
 But writhen and foul were the hands that had made 
 
 it glorious; 
 And the love of women left me, and the fame of sword 
 
 and shield: 
 And the sun and the winds of heaven, and the fowl 
 
 and the grass of the field 
 Were grown as the tools of my smithy; and all the 
 
 world I knew. 
 And the glories that lie beyond it, and whitherward all 
 
 things drew; 
 And myself a little fragment amidst it all I saw. 
 Grim, cold-heart, and unmighty as the tempest-driven 
 
 straw. 
 — Let be. — For Otter my brother saw seldom field or 
 
 fold. 
 And he oftenest used that custom, whereof e'en now I 
 
 told. 
 And would shift his shape with the wood-beasts and 
 
 the things of land and sea; 
 And he knew what joy their hearts had, and what they 
 
 longed to be, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 20^ 
 
 And their dim-eyed understanding, and his wood-craft 
 
 waxed so great, 
 That he seemed the king of the creatures and their 
 
 very mortal fate. 
 
 " Now as the years won over three folk of the heavenly 
 
 halls 
 Grew aweary of sleepless sloth, and the day that nought 
 
 befalls; 
 And they fain would look on the earth, and their latest 
 
 handiwork, 
 And turn the fine gold over, lest a flaw therein should 
 
 lurk. 
 And the three were the heart-wise Odin, the Father of 
 
 the Slain, 
 And Loki, the World's Begrudger, who maketh all 
 
 labour vain, 
 And Haenir, the Utter-Blameless, who wrought the hope 
 
 of man. 
 And his heart and inmost yearnings, when first the 
 
 work began; — 
 — The God that was aforetime, and hereafter yet shall be 
 When the new light yet undreamed of shall shine o'er 
 
 earth and sea. 
 
 "Thus about the world they wended and deemed it 
 
 fair and good. 
 And they loved their life-days dearly: so came they to 
 
 the wood. 
 And the lea without a shepherd and the dwellings of 
 
 the deer. 
 And unto a mighty water that ran from a fathomless 
 
 mere. 
 
 Morris. 1 4 
 
2IO FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Now that flood my brother Otter had haunted many 
 
 a day 
 For its plenteous fruit of fishes; and there on the bank 
 
 he lay 
 As the Gods came wandering thither; and he slept, 
 
 and in his dreams 
 He saw the downlong river, and its fishy-peopled streams, 
 And the swift smooth heads of its forces, and its swirl- 
 ing wells and deep, 
 Where hang the poised fishes, and their watch in the 
 
 rock-halls keep. 
 And so, as he thought of it all, and its deeds and its 
 
 wanderings. 
 Whereby it ran to the sea down the road of scaly 
 
 things. 
 His body was changed with his thought, as yet was 
 
 the wont of our kind. 
 And he grew but an Otter indeed; and his eyes were 
 
 sleeping and blind 
 The while he devoured the prey, a golden red-flecked 
 
 trout. 
 Then passed by Odin and Hsenir, nor cumbered their 
 
 souls with doubt; 
 But Loki lingered a little, and guile in his heart arose, 
 And he saw through the shape of the Otter, and be- 
 held a chief of his foes, 
 A king of the free and the careless: so he called up 
 
 his baleful might, 
 And gathered his godhead together, and tore a shard 
 
 outright 
 From the rock-wall of the river, and across its green 
 
 wells cast; 
 And roaring over the waters that bolt of evil passed, 
 
SIGUIU5 THE VOLSUNG. 2 I I 
 
 And smote my brother Otter that his heart's life fled 
 
 away, 
 And bore his man's shape with it, and beast-like~there 
 
 he lay, 
 Stark dead on the sun-lit blossoms: but the Evil God 
 
 rejoiced. 
 And because of the sound of his singing the wild grew 
 
 many-voiced. 
 
 "Then the three Gods waded the river, and no word 
 
 Hsenir spake. 
 For his thoughts were set on God-home, and the day 
 
 that is ever awake. 
 But Odin laughed in his wrath, and murmured: *Ah, 
 
 how long, 
 Till the iron shall ring on the anvil for the shackles of 
 
 thy wrong!' 
 
 "Then Loki takes up the quarry, and is e'en as a man 
 
 again; 
 And the three wend on through the wild-wood till 
 
 they come to a grassy plain 
 Beneath the untrodden mountains; and lo! a noble 
 
 house. 
 And a hall with great craft fashioned, and made full 
 
 glorious; 
 But night on the earth was falling; so scantly might 
 
 they see 
 The wealth of its smooth-wrought stonework and its 
 
 world of imagery: 
 Then Loki bade turn thither since day was at an end. 
 And into that noble dwelling the lords of God-home 
 
 wend; 
 
 14* 
 
212 PROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And the porch was fair and mighty, and so smooth- 
 wrought was its gold, 
 
 That the mirrored stars of heaven therein might ye 
 behold : 
 
 But the hall, what words shall tell it, how fair it rose 
 aloft. 
 
 And the marvels of its windows, and its golden hang- 
 ings soft. 
 
 And the forest of its pillars ! and each like the wave's 
 heart shone 
 
 And the mirrored boughs of the garden were dancing 
 fair thereon. 
 
 — Long years agone was it builded, and where are its 
 wonders now? 
 
 "Now the men of God-home marvelled, and gazed 
 
 through the golden glow, 
 And a man like a covetous king amidst of the hall 
 
 they saw; 
 And his chair was the tooth of the whale, wrought 
 
 smooth with never a flaw; 
 And his gown was the sea-born purple, and he bore a 
 
 crown on his head. 
 But never a sword was before him : kind-seeming words 
 
 he said. 
 And bade rest to the weary feet that had worn the 
 
 wild so long. 
 So they sat, and were men by seeming; and there rose 
 
 up music and song. 
 And they ate and drank and were merry: but amidst 
 
 the glee of the cup 
 They felt themselves tangled and caught, as when the 
 
 net cometh up 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 213 
 
 Before the folk of the 'firth, and the main sea lieth 
 
 far off; 
 And the laughter of lips they hearkened, and that hall- 
 
 abider's scoff, 
 As his face and his mocking eyes anigh to their faces 
 
 drew, 
 And their godhead was caught in the net, and no shift 
 
 of creation they knew 
 To escape from their man-like bodies; so great that 
 
 day was the Earth. 
 
 "Then spake the hall-abider: * Where then is thy guile- 
 ful mirth. 
 And thy hall-glee gone, O Loki? Come, Hsenir, fashion 
 
 now 
 My heart for love and for hope, that the fear in my 
 
 body may grow. 
 That I may grieve and be sorry, that the ruth may 
 
 arise in me. 
 As thou dealtst with the first of men-folk, when a 
 
 master-smith thou wouldst be. 
 And thou, Allfather Odin, hast thou come on a bastard 
 
 brood? 
 Or hadst thou belike a brother, thy twin for evil and 
 
 good. 
 That waked amidst thy slumber, and slumbered midst 
 
 thy work? 
 Nay, Wise-one, art thou silent as a child amidst the 
 
 mirk? 
 Ah, I know ye are called the Gods, and are mighty 
 
 men at home. 
 But now with a guilt on your heads to no feeble folk 
 
 are ye come, 
 
214 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 To a folk that need you nothing: time was when we 
 
 knew you not: 
 Yet e'en then fresh was the winter, and the summer 
 
 sun was hot, 
 And the wood-meats stayed our hunger, and the water 
 
 quenched our thirst, 
 Ere the good and the evil wedded and begat the best 
 
 and the worst. 
 And how if to-day I undo it, that work of your fashioning, 
 If the web of the world run backward, and the high 
 
 heavens lack a King? 
 --Woe's me! for your ancient mastery shall help you 
 
 at your need: 
 If ye fill up the gulf of my longing and my empty 
 
 heart of greed. 
 And slake the flame ye have quickened, then may ye 
 
 go your ways 
 And get ye back to your kingship and the driving on 
 
 of the days 
 To the day of the gathered war-hosts, and the tide of 
 
 your Fateful Gloom. 
 Now nought may ye gainsay it that my mouth must 
 
 speak the doom. 
 For ye wot well I am Reidmar, and that there ye lie 
 
 red-hand 
 From the slaughtering of my offspring, and the spoiling 
 
 of my land; 
 For his death of my wold hath bereft me and every 
 
 highway wet. 
 — Nay, Loki, naught avails it, well- fashioned is the 
 
 net. 
 Come forth, my son, my war-god, and show the Gods 
 
 their work. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 21^ 
 
 And thou who mightst learn e'en Loki, if need were 
 to lie or lurk!' 
 
 "And there was I, I Regin, the smithier of the 
 
 snare, 
 And high up Fafnir towered with the brow that knew 
 
 no fear, 
 With the wrathful and pitiless heart that was born of 
 
 my father's will. 
 And the greed that the Gods had fashioned the fate 
 
 of the earth to fulfill. 
 
 "Then spake the Father of Men: *We have wrought 
 
 thee wrong indeed, 
 And, wouldst thou amend it with wrong, thine errand 
 
 must we speed; 
 For I know of thine heart's desire, and the gold thou 
 
 shalt nowise lack, 
 — Nor all the works of the gold. But best were thy 
 
 word drawn back. 
 If indeed the doom of the Norns be not utterly now 
 
 gone forth.' 
 
 "Then Reidmar laughed and answered: 'So much is 
 
 thy word of worth! 
 And they call thee Odin for this, and stretch forth hands 
 
 in vain. 
 And pray for the gifts of a God who giveth and taketh 
 
 again ! 
 It was better in times past over, when we prayed for 
 
 nought at all. 
 When no love taught us beseeching, and we had no 
 
 troth to recall. 
 
2l6 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Ye have changed the world, and it bindeth with the 
 
 right and the wrong ye have made, 
 Nor may ye be Gods henceforward save the rightful 
 
 ransom be paid. 
 But perchance ye are weary of kingship, and will deal 
 
 no more with the earth? 
 Then curse the world, and depart, and sit in your 
 
 changeless mirth; 
 And there shall be no more kings, and battle and 
 
 murder shall fail. 
 And the world shall laugh and long not, nor weep, 
 
 nor fashion the tale.' 
 
 "So spake Reidmar the Wise; but the wrath burned 
 
 through his word. 
 And wasted his heart of wisdom; and there was Fafnir 
 
 the Lord, 
 And there was Regin the Wright, and they raged at 
 
 their father's back: 
 And all these cried out together with the voice of the 
 
 sea-storm's wrack; 
 *0 hearken, Gods of the Goths! ye shall die, and we 
 
 shall be Gods, 
 And rule your men beloved with bitter-heavy rods, 
 And make them beasts beneath us, save to-day ye do 
 
 our will. 
 And pay us the ransom of blood, and our hearts with 
 
 the gold fulfill.' 
 
 "But Odin spake in answer, and his voice was awful 
 
 and cold: 
 ^Give righteous doom, O Reidmar! say what ye will of 
 
 the Gold!' 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 21 7 
 
 "Then Reidmar laughed in his heart, and his wrath 
 
 and his wisdom fled, 
 And nought but his greed abided; and he spake from 
 
 his throne and said: 
 
 "'Now hearken the doom I shall speak! Ye stranger- 
 folk shall be free 
 
 When ye give me the Flame of the Waters, the gathered 
 Gold of the Sea, 
 
 That Andvari hideth rejoicing in the wan realm pale 
 as the grave; 
 
 And the Master of Sleight shall fetch it, and the hand 
 that never gave. 
 
 And the heart that begrudgeth for ever shall gather 
 and give and rue. 
 
 — Lo ! this is the doom of the wise, and no doom shall 
 be spoken anew/ 
 
 "Then Odin spake: 'It is well; the Curser shall seek 
 
 for the curse; 
 And the Greedy shall cherish the evil — and the seed 
 
 of the Great they shall nurse.' 
 
 "No word spake Reidmar the great, for the eyes of 
 
 his heart were turned 
 To the edge of the outer desert, so sore for the gold 
 
 he yearned. 
 But Loki I loosed from the toils, and he goeth his 
 
 ways abroad; 
 And the heart of Odin he knoweth, and where he 
 
 shall seek the Hoard. 
 
2l8 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 "There is a desert of dread in the uttermost part of 
 
 the world, 
 Where over a wall of mountains is a mighty water 
 
 hurled, 
 Whose hidden head none knoweth, nor where it 
 
 meeteth the sea; 
 And that force is the Force of Andvari, and an Elf of 
 
 the Dark is he. 
 In the cloud and the desert he dwelleth amid that 
 
 land alone; 
 And his work is the storing of treasure within his 
 
 house of stone. 
 Time was when he knew of wisdom, and had many a 
 
 tale to tell 
 Of the days before the Dwarf-age, and of what in that 
 
 world befell: 
 And he knew of the stars and the sun, and the worlds 
 
 that come and go 
 On the nether rim of heaven, and whence the wind 
 
 doth blow. 
 And how the sea hangs balanced betwixt the curving 
 
 lands, 
 And how all drew together for the first Gods' fashion- 
 ing hands. 
 But now is all gone from him, save the craft of gather- 
 ing gold, 
 And he heedeth nought of the summer, nor knoweth 
 
 the winter cold. 
 Nor looks to the sun nor the snowfall, nor ever dreams 
 
 of the sea, 
 Nor hath heard of the making of men-folk, nor of 
 
 where the high Gods be: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 2ig 
 
 But ever he gripeth and gathereth, and he toileth 
 
 hour by hour 
 Nor knoweth the noon from the midnight as he looks 
 
 on his stony bower, 
 And saith: 'It is short, it is narrow for all I shall 
 
 gather and get; 
 For the world is but newly fashioned, and long shall 
 
 its years be yet.' 
 
 "There Loki fareth, and seeth in a land of nothing 
 
 good. 
 Far off o'er the empty desert, the reek of the falling 
 
 flood 
 Go up to the floor of heaven, and thither turn his feet 
 As he weaveth the unseen meshes and the snare of 
 
 strong deceit; 
 So he cometh his ways to the water, where the glitter- 
 ing foam-bow glows. 
 And the huge flood leaps the rock-wall and a green 
 
 arch over it throws. 
 There under the roof of water he treads the quivering 
 
 floor, 
 And the hush of the desert is felt amid the water's 
 
 roar. 
 And the bleak sun lighteth the wave-vault, and tells 
 
 of the fruitless plain. 
 And the showers that nourish nothing, and the summer 
 
 come in vain. 
 
 "There did the great Guile-master his toils and his 
 
 tangles set. 
 And as wide as was the water, so wide was woven 
 
 the net; 
 
220 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And as dim as the Elf's remembrance did the meshes 
 
 of it show; 
 And he had no thought of sorrow, nor spared to come 
 
 and go 
 On his errands of griping and getting till he felt him- 
 self tangled and caught: 
 Then back to his blinded soul was his ancient wisdom 
 
 brought, 
 And he saw his fall and his ruin, as a man by the 
 
 lightning's flame 
 Sees the garth all flooded by foemen; and again he 
 
 remembered his name; 
 And e'en as a book well written the tale of the Gods 
 
 he knew, 
 And the tale of the making of men , and much of the 
 
 deeds they should do. 
 
 "But Loki took his man-shape, and laughed aloud and 
 
 cried : 
 'What fish of the ends of the earth is so strong and 
 
 so feeble-eyed, 
 That he draweth the pouch of my net on his road to 
 
 the dwelling of Hell? 
 What Elf that hath heard the gold growing, but hath 
 
 heard not the light winds tell 
 That the Gods with the world have been dealing and 
 
 have fashioned men for the earth? 
 Where is he that hath ridden the cloud-horse and 
 
 measured the ocean's girth, 
 But seen nought of the building of God-home nor the 
 
 forging of the sword : 
 Where then is the maker of nothing, the earless and 
 
 eyeless lord? 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 221 
 
 In the pouch of my net he lieth, with his head on the 
 threshold of Hell!' 
 
 "Then the Elf lamented, and said: 'Thou knowst of 
 
 my name full well: 
 Andvari begotten of Oinn, whom the Dwarf- kind 
 
 called the Wise, 
 By the worst of the Gods is taken, the forge and the 
 
 father of lies/ 
 
 "Said Loki: *How of the Elf-kind, do they love their 
 
 latter life, 
 When their weal is all departed, and they lie alow in 
 
 the strife?' 
 
 "Then Andvari groaned and answered: 'I know what 
 
 thou wouldst have, 
 The wealth mine own hands gathered, the gold that 
 
 no man gave.' 
 
 "'Come forth,' said Loki, 'and give it, and dwell in 
 
 peace henceforth — 
 Or die in the toils if thou listest, if thy life be nothing 
 
 worth.' 
 
 "Full sore the Elf lamented, but he came before the 
 
 God 
 And the twain went into the rock-house and on fine 
 
 gold they trod. 
 And the walls shone bright, and brighter than the sun 
 
 of the upper air. 
 How great was that treasure of treasures: and the 
 
 Helm of Dread was there; 
 
222 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 The world but in dreams had seen it; and there was 
 the hauberk of gold; 
 
 None other is in the heavens, nor has earth of its fel- 
 low told. 
 
 "Then Loki bade the Elf-king bring all to the upper day, 
 And he dight himself with his Godhead to bear the 
 
 treasure away: 
 So there in the dim grey desert, before the God of 
 
 Guile, 
 Great heaps of the hid-world's treasure the weary Elf 
 
 must pile. 
 And Loki looked on laughing: but, when it all was 
 
 done. 
 And the Elf was hurrying homeward, his finger gleamed 
 
 in the sun: 
 Then Loki cried: 'Thou art guileful: thou hast not 
 
 learned the tale 
 Of the wisdom that Gods have gotten and their might 
 
 of all avail. 
 Hither to me! that I learn thee of a many things to 
 
 come; 
 Or despite of all wilt thou journey to the dead man's 
 
 deedless home. 
 Come hither again to thy master, and give the ring to 
 
 me; 
 For meseems it is Loki's portion, and the Bale of 
 
 Men shall it be.' 
 
 "Then the Elf drew off the gold-ring and stood with 
 
 empty hand 
 E'en where the flood fell over 'twixt the water and the 
 
 land. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 22^ 
 
 And he gazed on the great Guile-master, and huge 
 
 and grim he grew; 
 And his anguish swelled within him, and the word of 
 
 the Norns he knew; 
 How that gold was the seed of gold to the wise and 
 
 the shapers of things, 
 The hoarders of hidden treasure, and the unseen glory 
 
 of rings; 
 But the seed of woe to the world and the foolish was- 
 ters of men. 
 And grief to the generations that die and spring 
 
 again : 
 Then he cried: 
 
 'There farest thou, Loki, and might I 
 
 load thee worse 
 Than with what thine ill heart beareth, then shouldst 
 
 thou bear my curse: 
 But for men a curse thou bearest: entangled in my 
 
 gold. 
 Amid my woe abideth another woe untold. 
 Two brethren and a father, eight kings my grief shall 
 
 slay; 
 And the hearts of queens shall be broken, and their 
 
 eyes shall loathe the day. 
 Lo, how the wilderness blossoms! Lo, how the lonely 
 
 lands 
 Are waving with the harvest that fell from my gather- 
 ing hands!' 
 
 "But Loki laughed in silence, and swift in Godhead 
 
 went, 
 To the golden hall of Reidmar and the house of our 
 
 content. 
 
224 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 But when that world of treasure was laid within our hall 
 'Twas as if the sun were minded to live 'twixt wall 
 
 and wall, 
 And all we stood by and panted. Then Odin spake 
 
 and said: 
 
 "'O Kings, O folk of the Dwarf-kind, lo, the ransom 
 duly paid! 
 
 Will ye have this sun of the ocean, and reap the fruit- 
 ful field, 
 
 And garner up the harvest that earth therefrom shall 
 yield?' 
 
 "So he spake; but a little season nought answered 
 
 Reidmar the wise 
 But turned his face from the Treasure, and peered 
 
 with eager eyes 
 Endlong the hall and athwart it, as a man may chase 
 
 about 
 A ray of the sun of the morning that a naked sword 
 
 throws out; 
 And lo! from Loki's right-hand came the flash of the 
 
 fruitful ring, 
 And at last spake Reidmar scowling: 
 
 'Ye wait for my yea-saying 
 That your feet may go free on the earth, and the fear 
 
 of my toils may be done; 
 That then ye may say in your laughter: The fools of 
 
 the time agone! 
 The purblind eyes of the Dwarf-kind ! they have gotten 
 
 the garnered sheaf 
 And have let their Masters depart with the Seed of 
 
 Gold and of Grief: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 225 
 
 Loki, friend of AUfather, cast down Andvari's Ring, 
 Or the world shall yet turn backward and the high 
 
 heavens lack a king.' 
 
 "Then Loki drew off the Elf-ring and cast it down on 
 
 the heap, 
 And forth as the gold met gold did the light of its 
 
 glory leap: 
 But he spake: *It rejoiceth my heart that no whit of all 
 
 ye shall lack. 
 Lest the curse of the Elf- king cleave not, and ye 
 
 'scape the utter wrack.' 
 
 "Then laughed and answered Reidmar: *I shall have 
 
 it while I live. 
 And that shall be long, meseemeth: for who is there 
 
 may strive 
 With my sword, the war-wise Fafnir, and my shield 
 
 that is Regin the Smith? 
 But if indeed I should die, then let men-folk deal 
 
 therewith. 
 And ride to the golden glitter through evil deeds and 
 
 good. 
 
 1 will have my heart's desire, and do as the high Gods 
 
 would.' 
 
 "Then I loosed the Gods from their shackles, and 
 
 great they grew on the floor 
 And into the night they gat them; but Odin turned 
 
 by the door. 
 And we looked not, little we heeded, for we grudged 
 
 his mastery; 
 
 Morris. 1 5 
 
2 26 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Then he spake, and his voice was waxen as the voice 
 of the winter sea: 
 
 "*0 Kings, O folk of the Dwarfs, why then will ye 
 
 covet and rue? 
 I have seen your fathers' fathers and the dust where- 
 
 from they grew; 
 But who hath heard of my father or the land where 
 
 first I sprung? 
 Who knoweth my day of repentance, or the year when 
 
 I was young? 
 Who hath learned the names of the Wise-one or mea- 
 sured out his will? 
 Who hath gone before to teach him, and the doom 
 
 of days fulfill? 
 Lo, I look on the Curse of the Gold, and wrong 
 
 amended by wrong. 
 And love by love confounded, and the strong abased 
 
 by the strong; 
 And I order it all and amend it, and the deeds that 
 
 are done I see. 
 And none other beholdeth or knoweth; and who shall 
 
 be wise unto me? 
 For myself to myself I offered, that all wisdom I might 
 
 know. 
 And fruitful I waxed of works, and good and fair did 
 
 they grow; 
 And I knew, and I wrought and fore-ordered; and 
 
 evil sat by my side. 
 And myself by myself hath been doomed, and I look 
 
 for the fateful tide; 
 And I deal with the generations, and the men mine 
 
 hand hath made, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 227 
 
 And myself by myself shall be grieved, lest the world 
 and its fashioning fade.' 
 
 "They went and the Gold abided: but the words All- 
 father spake, 
 I call them back full often for that golden even's sake, 
 Yet little that hour I heard them, save as wind across 
 
 the lea; 
 For the gold shone up on Reidmar and on Fafnir's 
 
 face and on me. 
 And sore I loved that treasure: so I wrapped my heart 
 
 in guile, 
 And sleeked my tongue with sweetness, and set my 
 
 face in a smile, 
 And I bade my father keep it, the more part of the gold, 
 Yet give good store to Fafnir for his goodly help and 
 
 bold. 
 And deal me a little handful for my smithying-help 
 
 that day. 
 But no little I desired, though for little I might pray; 
 And prayed I for much or for little, he answered me 
 
 no more 
 Than the shepherd answers the wood-wolf who howls 
 
 at the yule-tide door: 
 But good he ever deemed it to sit on his ivory throne. 
 And stare on the red rings' glory, and deem he was 
 
 ever alone: 
 And never a word spake Fafnir, but his eyes waxed 
 
 red and grim 
 As he looked upon our father, and noted the ways of him. 
 
 "The night waned into the morning, and still above 
 the Hoard 
 
 15* 
 
2 2S FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Sat Reidmar clad in purple; but Fafnir took his 
 
 sword, 
 And I took my smithying-hammer, and apart in the 
 
 world we went; 
 But I came aback in the even, and my heart was 
 
 heavy and spent; 
 And I longed, but fear was upon me and I durst not 
 
 go to the Gold; 
 So I lay in the house of my toil mid the things I had 
 
 fashioned of old; 
 And methought as I lay in my bed 'twixt waking and 
 
 slumber of night 
 That I heard the tinkling metal and beheld the hall 
 
 alight. 
 But I slept and dreamed of the Gods, and the things 
 
 that never have slept, 
 Till I woke to a cry and a clashing and forth from 
 
 the bed I leapt. 
 And there by the heaped-up Elf-gold my brother Faf- 
 nir stood. 
 And there at his feet lay Reidmar and reddened the 
 
 Treasure with blood; 
 And e'en as I looked on his eyen they glazed and 
 
 whitened with death. 
 And forth on the torch-litten hall he shed his latest 
 
 breath. 
 
 "But I looked on Fafnir and trembled for he wore 
 
 the Helm of Dread, 
 And his sword was bare in his hand, and the sword 
 
 and the hand were red 
 With the blood of our father Reidmar, and his body 
 
 was wrapped in gold, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 229 
 
 With the ruddy-gleaming mailcoat of whose fellow 
 
 hath nought been told, 
 And it seemed as I looked upon him that he grew 
 
 beneath mine eyes: 
 And then in the mid-hall's silence did his dreadful 
 
 voice arise: 
 
 "'I have slain my father Reidmar, that I alone might 
 
 keep 
 The Gold of the darksome places, the Candle of the 
 
 Deep. 
 I am such as the Gods have made me, lest the Dwarf- 
 kind people the earth. 
 Or mingle their ancient wisdom with its short-lived 
 
 latest birth. 
 I shall dwell alone henceforward, and the Gold and 
 
 its waxing curse, 
 I shall brood on them both together, let my life grow 
 
 better or worse. 
 And I am a King henceforward and long shall be my 
 
 life. 
 And the Gold shall grow with my longing, for I shall 
 
 hide it from strife, 
 And hoard up the Ring of Andvari in the house thine 
 
 hand hath built. 
 O thou, wilt thou tarry and tarry, till I cast thy blood 
 
 on the guilt? 
 Lo, I am a King for ever, and alone on the Gold shall 
 
 I- dwell 
 And do no deed to repent of and leave no tale to tell.' 
 
 "More awful grew his visage as he spake the word of 
 dread 
 
230 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And no more durst I behold him, but with heart a- 
 
 cold I fled; 
 I fled from the glorious house my hands had made so 
 
 fair, 
 As poor as the new-born baby with nought of raiment 
 
 or gear: 
 I fled from the heaps of gold, and my goods were the 
 
 eager will, 
 And the heart that remembereth all, and the hand 
 
 that may never be still. 
 
 "Then unto this land I came, and that was long ago 
 As men-folk count the years; and I taught them to 
 
 reap and to sow. 
 And a famous man I became : but that generation died. 
 And they said that Frey had taught them, and a God 
 
 my name did hide. 
 Then I taught them the craft of metals, and the sail- 
 ing of the sea, 
 And the taming of the horse-kind, and the yoke-beasts' 
 
 husbandry. 
 And the building up of houses; and that race of men 
 
 went by. 
 And they said that Thor had taught them; and a 
 
 smithying-carle was I. 
 Then I gave their maidens the needle and I bade 
 
 them hold the rock, 
 And the shuttle-race gaped for them as they sat at 
 
 the weaving-stock. 
 But by then these were waxen crones to sit dim-eyed 
 
 by the door. 
 It was Freyia had come among them to teach the 
 
 weaving-lore. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 2^1 
 
 "Then I taught them the tales of old, and fair songs 
 
 fashioned and true, 
 And their speech grew into music of measured time 
 
 and due, 
 And they smote the harp to my bidding, and the land 
 
 grew soft and sweet: 
 But ere the grass of their grave-mounds rose up above 
 
 my feet. 
 It was Bragi had made them sweet-mouthed, and I 
 
 was the wandering scald; 
 Yet green did my cunning flourish by whatso name I 
 
 was called, 
 And I grew the master of masters — Think thou how 
 
 strange it is 
 That the sword in the hands of a stripling shall one 
 
 day end all this! 
 
 "Yet oft mid all my wisdom did I long for my bro- 
 ther's part. 
 And Fafnir's mighty kingship weighed heavy on my 
 
 heart 
 When the Kings of the earthly kingdoms would give 
 
 me golden gifts 
 From out of their scanty treasures, due pay for my 
 
 cunning shifts. 
 And once — didst thou number the years thou wouldst 
 
 think it long ago — 
 I wandered away to the country from whence our stem 
 
 did grow. 
 There methought the fells grown greater, but waste 
 
 did the meadows lie 
 And the house was rent and ragged and open to the 
 
 sky. 
 
2^2 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 But lo, when I came to the doorway, great silence 
 
 brooded there, 
 Nor bat nor owl would haunt it, nor the wood-wolves 
 
 drew anear. 
 Then I went to the pillared hall-stead, and lo, huge 
 
 heaps of gold. 
 And to and fro amidst them a mighty Serpent rolled: 
 Then my heart grew chill with terror, for I thought on 
 
 the wont of our race. 
 And I, who had lost their cunning, was a man in a 
 
 deadly place, 
 A feeble man and a swordless in the lone destroyer's fold; 
 For I knew that the Worm was Fafnir, the Wallower 
 
 on the Gold. 
 
 "So I gathered my strength and fled, and hid my 
 
 shame again 
 Mid the foolish sons of men- folk; and the more my 
 
 hope was vain, 
 The more I longed for the Treasure, and deliv'rance 
 
 from the yoke : 
 And yet passed the generations, and I dwelt with the 
 
 short-lived folk. 
 
 "Long years, and long years after the tale of men-folk 
 
 told 
 How up on the Glittering Heath was the house and 
 
 the dwelling of gold. 
 And within that house was the Serpent, and the Lord 
 
 of the Fearful Face : 
 Then I wondered sore of the desert; for I thought of 
 
 the golden place 
 My hands of old had builded; for I knew by many a sign 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 2^^ 
 
 That the Fearful Face was my brother, that the blood 
 of the Worm was mine. 
 
 "This was ages long ago, and yet in that desert he 
 
 dwells, 
 Betwixt him and men death lieth, and no man of his 
 
 semblance tells; 
 But the tale of the great Gold-wallower is never the 
 
 more outworn. 
 Then came thy kin, O Sigurd, and thy father's father 
 
 was born. 
 And I fell to the dreaming of dreams, and I saw thine 
 
 eyes therein. 
 And I looked and beheld thy glory and all that thy 
 
 sword should win; 
 And I thought that thou shouldst be he, who should 
 
 bring my heart its rest. 
 That of all the gifts of the Kings thy sword should 
 
 give me the best. 
 
 "Ah, I fell to the dreaming of dreams; and oft the 
 gold I saw. 
 
 And the golden-fashioned Hauberk, clean-wrought with- 
 out a flaw. 
 
 And the Helm that aweth the world; and I knew of 
 Fafnir's heart 
 
 That his wisdom was greater than mine, because he 
 had held him apart. 
 
 Nor spilt on the sons of men-folk our knowledge of 
 ancient days, 
 
 Nor bartered one whit for their love, nor craved for 
 the people's praise. 
 
234 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 "And some day I shall have it all, his gold and his 
 
 craft and his heart 
 And the gathered and garnered wisdom he guards in 
 
 the mountains apart. 
 And then when my hand is upon it, my hand shall be 
 
 as the spring 
 To thaw his winter away and the fruitful tide to 
 
 bring. 
 It shall grow, it shall grow into summer, and I shall 
 
 be he that wrought, 
 And my deeds shall be remembered, and my name 
 
 that once was nought; 
 Yea I shall be Frey, and Thor, and Freyia, and Bragi 
 
 in one: 
 Yea the God of all that is, — and no deed in the wide 
 
 world done. 
 But the deed that my heart would fashion: and the 
 
 songs of the freed from the yoke 
 Shall bear to my house in the heavens the love and 
 
 the longing of folk; 
 And there shall be no more dying, and the sea shall 
 
 be as the land, 
 And the world for ever and ever shall be young be- 
 neath my hand." 
 
 Then his eyelids fell, and he slumbered, and it seemed 
 as Sigurd gazed 
 
 That the flames leapt up in the stithy and about the 
 Master blazed. 
 
 And his hand in the harp-strings wandered and the 
 sweetness from them poured. 
 
 Then unto his feet leapt Sigurd and drew his strip- 
 ling's sword, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 235 
 
 And he cried: "Awake, O Master, for, lo, the day 
 
 goes by, 
 And this too is an ancient story, that the sons of 
 
 men-folk die. 
 And all save fame departeth. Awake! for the day 
 
 grows late, 
 And deeds by the door are passing, nor the Norns 
 
 will have them wait." 
 
 Then Regin groaned and wakened, sad-eyed and 
 heavy-browed, 
 
 And weary and worn was he waxen, as a man by a 
 burden bowed: 
 
 And he spake: "Hast thou hearkened, Sigurd, wilt 
 thou help a man that is old 
 
 To avenge him for his father? Wilt thou win that 
 Treasure of Gold 
 
 And be more than the Kings of the earth? Wilt thou 
 rid the earth of a wrong 
 
 And heal the woe and the sorrow my heart hath en- 
 dured o'erlong?" 
 
 Then Sigurd looked upon him with steadfast eyes and 
 
 clear. 
 And Regin drooped and trembled as he stood the 
 
 doom to hear: 
 But the bright child spake as aforetime, and answered 
 
 the Master and said: 
 "Thou shalt have thy will, and the Treasure, and take 
 
 the curse on thine head." 
 
236 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Of the forging of the Sword that is called The Wrath 
 of Sigurd. 
 
 Now again came Sigurd to Regin, and said: "Thou 
 
 hast taught me a task 
 Whereof none knoweth the ending : and a gift at thine 
 
 hands I ask." 
 
 Then answered Regin the Master: "The world must 
 
 be wide indeed 
 If my hand may not reach across it for aught thine 
 
 heart may need." 
 
 "Yea wide is the world," said Sigurd, "and soon 
 
 spoken is thy word; 
 But this gift thou shalt nought gainsay me: for I bid 
 
 thee forge me a sword." 
 
 Then spake the Master of Masters, and his voice was 
 
 sweet and soft, 
 "Look forth abroad, O Sigurd, and note in the heavens 
 
 aloft 
 How the dim white moon of the daylight hangs round 
 
 as the Goth-God's shield: 
 Now for thee first rang mine anvil when she walked 
 
 the heavenly field 
 A slim and lovely lady, and the old moon lay on her arm : 
 Lo, here is a sword I have wrought thee with many a 
 
 spell and charm 
 And all the craft of the Dwarf-kind; be glad thereof 
 
 and sure; 
 Mid many a storm of battle full well shall it endure," 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 237 
 
 Then Sigurd looked on the slayer, and never a word 
 
 would speak: 
 Gemmed were the hilts and golden, and the blade was 
 
 blue and bleak. 
 And runes of the Dwarf-kind's cunning each side the 
 
 trench were scored: 
 But soft and sweet spake Regin: "How likest thou 
 
 the sword?" 
 
 Then Sigurd laughed and answered: "The work is 
 
 proved by the deed; 
 See now if this be a traitor to fail me in my need." 
 
 Then Regin trembled and shrank, so bright his eyes 
 
 outshone 
 As he turned about to the anvil, and smote the sword 
 
 thereon; 
 But the shards fell shivering earthward, and Sigurd's 
 
 heart grew wroth 
 As the steel-flakes tinkled about him: "Lo, there the 
 
 right-hand's troth! 
 Lo, there the golden glitter, and the word that soon is 
 
 spilt." 
 And down amongst the ashes he cast the glittering 
 
 hilt. 
 And turned his back on Regin and strode out through 
 
 the door 
 And for many a day of spring-tide came back again 
 
 no more. 
 But at last he came to the stithy and again took up 
 
 the word: 
 "What hast thou done, Master, in the forging of the 
 
 sword?" 
 
238 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Then sweetly Regin answered: "Hard task-master art 
 thou, 
 
 But lo, a blade of battle that shall surely please thee 
 now! 
 
 Two moons are clean departed since thou lookedst to- 
 ward the sky 
 
 And sawest the dim white circle amid the cloud-flecks lie; 
 
 And night and day have I laboured; and the cunning 
 of old days 
 
 Hath surely left my right-hand if this sword thou shalt 
 not praise." 
 
 And indeed the hilts gleamed glorious with many a 
 
 dear-bought stone, 
 And down the fallow edges the light of battle shone; 
 Yet Sigurd's eyes shone brighter, nor yet might Regin 
 
 face 
 Those eyes of the heart of the Volsungs; but trembled 
 
 in his place 
 As Sigurd cried : " O Regin, thy kin of the days of old 
 Were an evil and treacherous folk, and they lied and 
 
 murdered for gold; 
 And now if thou wouldst bewray me, of the ancient 
 
 curse beware. 
 And set thy face as the flint the bale and the shame 
 
 to bear: 
 For he that would win to the heavens, and be as the 
 
 Gods on high 
 Must tremble nought at the road, and the place where 
 
 men-folk die." 
 
 White leaps the blade in his hand and gleams in the 
 gear of the wall. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 239 
 
 And he smites, and the oft-smitten edges on the beaten 
 
 anvil fall: 
 But the life of the sword departed, and dull and 
 
 broken it lay 
 On the ashes and flaked-off iron, and no word did 
 
 Sigurd say, 
 But strode off through the door of the stithy and went 
 
 to the Hall of Kings, 
 And was merry and blithe that even mid all imaginings. 
 
 But when the morrow was come he went to his mother 
 and spake: 
 
 "The shards, the shards of the sword, that thou 
 gleanedst for my sake 
 
 In the night on the field of slaughter, in the tide when 
 my father fell. 
 
 Hast thou kept them through sorrow and joyance? hast 
 thou warded them trusty and well? 
 
 Where hast thou laid them, my mother?" 
 
 Then she looked upon him and said: 
 
 "Art thou wroth, O Sigurd my son, that such eyes are 
 in thine head? 
 
 And wilt thou be wroth with thy mother? do I with- 
 stand thee at all?" 
 
 "Nay," said he, "nought am I wrathful, but the days 
 
 rise up like a wall 
 Betwixt my soul and the deeds, and I strive to rend 
 
 them through. 
 And why wilt thou fear mine eyen? as the sword lies 
 
 baleful and blue 
 E'en 'twixt the lips of lovers, when they swear their 
 
 troth thereon, 
 
240 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 So keen are the eyes ye have fashioned, ye folk of the 
 
 days agone; 
 For therein is the light of battle, though whiles it lieth 
 
 asleep. 
 Now give me the sword, my mother, that Sigmund 
 
 gave thee to keep." 
 
 She said: "I shall give it thee gladly, for fain shall I 
 
 be of thy praise 
 When thou knowest my careful keeping of that hope 
 
 of the earlier days." 
 
 So she took his hand in her hand, and they went their 
 
 ways, they twain. 
 Till they came to the treasure of queen-folk, the 
 
 guarded chamber of gain : 
 They were all alone with its riches, and she turned 
 
 the key in the gold. 
 And lifted the sea-born purple, and the silken web 
 
 unrolled. 
 And lo, 'twixt her hands and her bosom the shards of 
 
 Sigmund's sword; 
 No rust-fleck stained its edges, and the gems of the 
 
 ocean's hoard 
 Were as bright in the hilts and glorious, as when in 
 
 the Volsungs' hall 
 It shone in the eyes of the earl-folk and flashed from 
 
 the shielded wall. 
 
 But Sigurd smiled upon it, and he said: "O Mother 
 
 of Kings, 
 Well hast thou warded the war-glaive for a mirror of 
 
 many things. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 24 1 
 
 And a hope of much fulfilment: well hast thou given 
 
 to me 
 The message of my fathers, and the word of things 
 
 to be: 
 Trusty hath been thy warding, but its hour is over 
 
 now: 
 These shards shall be knit together, and shall hear the 
 
 war- wind blow. 
 They shall shine through the rain of Odin, as the sun 
 
 come back to the world. 
 When the heaviest bolt of the thunder amidst the 
 
 storm is hurled: 
 They shall shake the thrones of Kings, and shear the 
 
 walls of war, 
 And undo the knot of treason when the world is 
 
 darkening o'er. 
 They have shone in the dusk and the night-tide, they 
 
 shall shine in the dawn and the day; 
 They have gathered the storm together, they shall 
 
 chase the clouds away; 
 They have sheared red gold asunder, they shall gleam 
 
 o'er the garnered gold; 
 They have ended many a story, they shall fashion a 
 
 tale to be told: 
 They have lived in the wrack of the people; they shall 
 
 live in the glory of folk: 
 They have stricken the Gods in battle, for the Gods 
 
 shall they strike the stroke." 
 
 Then she felt his hands about her as he took the fate- 
 ful sword, 
 
 And he kissed her soft and sweetly; but she answered 
 never a word: 
 
 Morris, 10 
 
242 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 So great and fair was he waxen, so glorious was his 
 
 face, 
 So young, as the deathless Gods are, that long in the 
 
 golden place 
 She stood when he was departed : as some for-travailed 
 
 one 
 Comes over the dark fell-ridges on the birth-tide of 
 
 the sun. 
 And his gathering sleep falls from him mid the glory 
 
 and the blaze; 
 And he sees the world grow merry and looks on the 
 
 lightened ways, 
 While the ruddy streaks are melting in the day-flood 
 
 broad and white; 
 Then the morn-dusk he forgetteth, and the moon-lit 
 
 waste of night. 
 And the hall whence he departed with its yellow 
 
 candles' flare: 
 So stood the Isle-king's daughter in that treasure- 
 chamber fair. 
 
 But swift on his ways went Sigurd, and to Regin's 
 
 house he came, 
 Where the Master stood in the doorway and behind 
 
 him leapt the flame, 
 And dark he looked and little: no more his speech 
 
 was sweet. 
 No words on his lip were gathered the Volsung child 
 
 to greet, 
 Till he took the sword from Sigurd and the shards of 
 
 the days of old; 
 Then he spake: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. ^43 
 
 "Will nothing serve thee save this 
 
 blue steel and cold, 
 The bane of thy father's father, the fate of all his kin, 
 The baleful blade I fashioned, the Wrath that the Gods 
 
 would win?" 
 
 Then answered the eye-bright Sigurd: "If thou thy 
 
 craft wilt do 
 Nought save these battle-gleanings shall be my helper 
 
 true: 
 And what if thou begrudgest, and my battle-blade be 
 
 dull. 
 Yet the hand of the Norns is lifted and the cup is 
 
 over-full. 
 Repentst thou ne'er so sorely that thy kin must lie 
 
 alow, 
 How much soe'er thou longest the world to overthrow, 
 And, doubting the gold and the wisdom, wouldst even 
 
 now appease 
 Blind hate and eyeless murder, and win the world with 
 
 these; 
 O'er-late is the time for repenting the word thy lips 
 
 have said: 
 Thou shalt have the Gold and the wisdom and take 
 
 its curse on thine head. 
 I say that thy lips have spoken, and no more with 
 
 thee it lies 
 To do the deed or leave it: since thou hast shown 
 
 mine eyes 
 The world that was aforetime, I see the world to be; 
 And woe to the tangling thicket, or the wall that 
 
 hindereth me! 
 
 16* 
 
244 rROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And short is the space I will tarry; for how if the 
 
 Worm should die 
 Ere the first of my strokes be stricken? Wilt thou get 
 
 to thy mastery 
 And knit these shards together that once in the 
 
 Branstock stood? 
 But if not and a smith's hands fail me, a king's hand 
 
 yet shall be good; 
 And the Norns have doomed thy brother. And yet I 
 
 deem this sword 
 Is the slayer of the Serpent, and the scatterer of the 
 
 Hoard." 
 
 Great waxed the gloom of Regin, and he said: "Thou 
 
 sayest sooth 
 For none may turn him backward : the sword of a very 
 
 youth 
 Shall one day end my cunning, as the Gods my 
 
 joyance slew. 
 When nought thereof they were deeming, and another 
 
 thing would do. 
 But this sword shall slay the Serpent; and do another 
 
 deed. 
 And many an one thereafter till it fail thee in thy need. 
 But as fair and great as thou standest, yet get thee 
 
 from mine house, 
 For in me too might ariseth, and the place is perilous 
 With the craft that was aforetime, and shall never be 
 
 again, 
 When the hands that have taught thee cunning have 
 
 failed from the world of men. 
 Thou art wroth; but thy wrath must slumber till fate 
 
 its blossom bear; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 245 
 
 Not thus were the eyes of Odin when I held him in 
 
 the snare. 
 Depart! lest the end overtake us ere thy work and 
 
 mine be done, 
 But come again in the night-tide and the slumber of 
 
 the sun, 
 When the sharded moon of April hangs round in the 
 
 undark May." 
 
 Hither and thither a while did the heart of Sigurd sway 
 For he feared no craft of the Dwarf-kind, nor heeded 
 
 the ways of Fate, 
 But his hand wrought e'en as his heart would: and 
 
 now was he weary with hate 
 Of the hatred and scorn of the Gods, and the greed 
 
 of gold and of gain, 
 And the weaponless hands of the stripling of the 
 
 wrath and the rending were fain. 
 But there stood Regin the Master, and his eyes were 
 
 on Sigurd's eyes. 
 Though nought belike they beheld him, and his brow 
 
 was sad and wise; 
 And the greed died out of his visage and he stood 
 
 like an image of old. 
 
 So the Norns drew Sigurd away, and the tide was an 
 even of gold. 
 
 And sweet in the April even were the fowl-kind sing- 
 ing their best; 
 
 And the light of life smote Sigurd, and the joy that 
 knows no rest, 
 
 And the fond unnamed desire, and the hope of hidden 
 things; 
 
246 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And he wended fair and lovely to the house of the 
 feasting Kings. 
 
 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-halFs 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 fate- 
 ful 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 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 247 
 
 As hither 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. 
 
248 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 ship 
 
 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, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 249 
 
 And the moon lay white on the river and lit the sleep- 
 less 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 mor- 
 row morn, 
 
250 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 God 
 
 would pass; 
 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, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 25 I 
 
 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 fashioned ere the Dwarf- 
 kind came to nought; 
 
 And he looks, and thereon is Gripir, the King exceed- 
 ing 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; 
 
252 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 Gods 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 Gods'," said Sigurd, "though the 
 grief lie hard on my heart," 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 253 
 
 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 God 
 shall live. 
 
 Who 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 pave- 
 ment 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; 
 
254 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 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 fashioned ! 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 God-home's foe: 
 
 "There the child in the noon-tide smiteth; the young 
 
 King rendeth apart. 
 The old guile by the guile encompassed, 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' Hoard. 
 
 "Ride on, O Sigurd, Sigurd! for God'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, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 255 
 
 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! 
 
256 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 "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- fashioned; 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 
 
 cumbered with doubt! 
 
 "Shall it never be day any more, nor the sun's up- 
 rising 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 w^ord 
 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! 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 257 
 
 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? 
 
 May the Gods or the high Gods' masters 'gainst the 
 tale of the righteous strive, 
 
 And the deeds to follow after, and all their deeds in- 
 crease. 
 
 Till the uttermost field is foughten, and Baldur riseth 
 in peace! 
 
 " Cry out, O waste, before him ! O rocks of the wilder- 
 ness, cry! 
 For to-morn shalt thou see the glory, and the man not 
 
 made to die! 
 Cry out, O upper heavens! O clouds beneath the lift 
 For the golden King shall be riding high-headed midst 
 
 the drift: 
 The mountain waits and the fire; there waiteth the 
 
 heart of the wise 
 Till the earthly toil is accomplished, and again shall 
 
 the fire arise; 
 And none shall be nigh in the ending and none by 
 
 his heart shall be laid. 
 Save the world that he cherished and quickened, and 
 
 the Day that he wakened and made." 
 
 So died the voice of Gripir from amidst the sunny 
 close. 
 
 And the sound of hastening eagles from the moun- 
 tain's feet arose. 
 
 But the hall was silent a little, for still stood Sig- 
 mund's son, 
 
 Morris, 1 7 
 
258 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And he heard the words and remembered, and knew 
 
 them one by one. 
 Then he turned on the ancient Gripir with eyes that 
 
 knew no guile 
 And smiled on the wise of King-folk as the first of 
 
 men might smile 
 On the God that hath fashioned him happy; and he 
 
 spake : 
 
 "Hast thou spoken and known 
 How there standeth a child before thee and a stripling 
 
 scarcely grown? 
 Or hast thou told of the Volsungs, and the gathered 
 
 heart of these, 
 And their still unquenched desire for garnering fame's 
 
 increase? 
 E'en so do I hearken thy words: for I wot how they 
 
 deem it long 
 Till a man from their seed be arisen to deal with the 
 
 cumber and wrong. 
 Bid me therefore to sit by thy side, for behold I wend 
 
 on my way, 
 And the gates swing to behind me, and each day of 
 
 mine is a day 
 With deeds in the eve and the morning, nor deeds 
 
 shall the noontide lack; 
 To the right and the left none calleth, and no voice 
 
 crieth aback." 
 
 "Come, kin of the Gods," said Gripir, "come up and 
 
 sit by my side 
 That we twain may be glad as the fearless, and they 
 
 that have nothing to hide: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 259 
 
 I have wrought out my will and abide it, and I sit 
 
 ungrieved and alone, 
 I look upon men and I help not; to me are the deeds 
 
 long done 
 As those of to-day and to-morrow: for these and for 
 
 those am I glad; 
 But the Gods and men are the framers, and the days 
 
 of my life I have had." 
 
 Then Sigurd came unto Gripir, and he kissed the 
 
 wise-one's face, 
 And they sat in the high-seat together, the child and 
 
 the elder of days; 
 And they drank of the wine of King-folk, and were 
 
 joyful each of each. 
 And spake for a while of matters that are meet for 
 
 King- folk's speech; 
 The deeds of men that have been and Kin of the 
 
 Kings of the earth; 
 And Gripir told of the outlands, and the mid-world's 
 
 billowy girth. 
 And tales of the upper heaven were mingled with his 
 
 talk. 
 And the halls where the Sea-Queen's kindred o'er the 
 
 gem-strewn pavement walk. 
 And the innermost parts of the earth, where they lie, 
 
 the green and the blue, 
 And the red and the glittering gem-stones that of old 
 
 the Dwarf-kind knew. 
 
 Long Sigurd sat and marvelled at the mouth that 
 might not lie, 
 
 i7» 
 
260 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And the eyes no God had blinded, and the lone heart 
 
 raised on high, 
 Then he rose from the gleaming high-seat, and the 
 
 rings of battle rang 
 And the sheathed Wrath was hearkening and a song 
 
 of war it sang, 
 But Sigurd spake unto Gripir: 
 
 "Long and lovely are thy days, 
 And thy years fulfilled of wisdom, and thy feet on the 
 
 unhid ways, 
 And the guileless heart of the great that knoweth not 
 
 anger nor pain: 
 So once hath a man been fashioned and shall not be 
 
 again. 
 But for me hath been foaled the war-horse, the grey 
 
 steed swift as the cloud, 
 And for me were the edges smithied, and the Wrath 
 
 cries out aloud; 
 And a voice hath called from the darkness, and I ride 
 
 to the Glittering Heath; 
 To smite on the door of Destruction, and waken the 
 
 warder of Death." 
 
 So they kissed, the wise and the wise, and the child 
 
 from the elder turned; 
 And again in the glimmering house-ways the golden 
 
 Sigurd burned; 
 He stood outside in the sunlight, and tarried never 
 
 a deal, 
 But leapt on the cloudy Greyfell with the clank of 
 
 gold and steel. 
 And he rode through the sinking day to the walls of 
 
 the kingly stead, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 26 1 
 
 And came to Regin's dwelling when the wind was 
 
 fallen dead, 
 And the great sun just departing: then blood-red grew 
 
 the west, 
 And the fowl flew home from the sea-mead, and all 
 
 things sank to rest. 
 
 Sigurd rideth to the Glittering Heath. 
 
 Again on the morrow morning doth Sigurd the Volsung 
 
 ride. 
 And Regin, the Master of Masters, is faring by his 
 
 side, 
 And they leave the dwelling of kings and ride the 
 
 summer land. 
 Until at the eve of the day the hills are on either 
 
 hand: 
 Then they wend up higher and higher, and over the 
 
 heaths they fare 
 Till the moon shines broad on the midnight, and they 
 
 sleep 'neath the heavens bare; 
 And they waken and look behind them, and lo, the 
 
 dawning of day 
 And the little land of the Helper and its valley far 
 
 away; 
 But the mountains rise before them, a wall exceeding 
 
 great. 
 
 Then spake the Master of Masters: "We have come 
 
 to the garth and the gate: 
 There is youth and rest behind thee and many a 
 
 thing to do, 
 
262 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 There is many a fond desire, and each day born 
 anew; 
 
 And the land of the Volsungs to conquer, and many 
 a people's praise: 
 
 And for me there is rest it maybe, and the peaceful 
 end of days. 
 
 We have come to the garth and the gate; to the hall- 
 door now shall we win, 
 
 Shall we go to look on the high-seat and see what 
 sitteth therein?" 
 
 "Yea and what else?" said Sigurd, "was thy tale but 
 
 mockeries 
 And have I been drifted hither on a wind of empty 
 
 lies?" 
 
 "It was sooth, it was sooth," said Regin, "and more 
 
 might I have told 
 Had I heart and space to remember the deeds of the 
 
 days of old." 
 
 And he hung down his head as he spake it, and was 
 silent a little space; 
 
 And when it was lifted again there was fear in the 
 Dwarf-king's face. 
 
 And he said: "Thou knowest 'my thought, and wise- 
 hearted art thou grown: 
 
 It were well if thine eyes were blinder, and we each 
 were faring alone, 
 
 And I with my eld and my wisdom, and thou with 
 thy youth and thy might; 
 
 Yet whiles I dream I have wrought thee, a beam of 
 the morning bright, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 263 
 
 A fatherless motherless glory, to work out my desire; 
 Then high my hope ariseth, and my heart is all 
 
 afire 
 For the world I behold from afar, and the day that 
 
 yet shall be; 
 Then I wake and all things I remember and a youth 
 
 of the Kings I see — 
 — The child of the Wood-abider, the seed of a con- 
 quered King, 
 The sword that the Gods have fashioned, the fate 
 
 that men shall sing: — * 
 Ah might the world run backward to the days of the 
 
 Dwarfs of old. 
 When I hewed out the pillars of crystal, and smoothed 
 
 the walls of gold ! " 
 
 Nought answered the Son of Sigmund; nay he heard 
 
 him nought at all. 
 Save as though the wind were speaking in the bights 
 
 of the mountain-hall : 
 But he leapt aback of Greyfell, and the glorious sun 
 
 rose up. 
 And the heavens glowed above him like the bowl of 
 
 Baldur's cup, 
 And a golden man was he waxen; as the heart of the 
 
 sun he seemed. 
 While over the feet of the mountains like blood the 
 
 new light streamed; 
 Then Sigurd cried to Greyfell and swift for the pass 
 
 he rode 
 And Regin followed after as a man bowed down by 
 
 a load. 
 
264 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Day-long they fared through the mountains, and that 
 
 highway's fashioner 
 Forsooth was a fearful craftsman, and his hands the 
 
 waters were, 
 And the heaped-up ice was his mattock, and the fire- 
 blast was his man. 
 And never a whit he heeded though his walls were 
 
 waste and wan. 
 And the guest-halls of that wayside great heaps of the 
 
 ashes spent. 
 But, each as a man «.lone, through the sun-bright day 
 
 they went. 
 And they rode till the moon rose upward, and the 
 
 stars were small and fair. 
 Then they slept on the long-slaked ashes beneath the 
 
 heavens bare; 
 And the cold dawn came and they wakened, and the 
 
 King of the Dwarf-kind seemed 
 As a thing of that wan land fashioned; but Sigurd 
 
 glowed and gleamed 
 Amid the shadowless twilight by Greyfell's cloudy 
 
 flank. 
 As a little space they abided while the latest star- 
 world shrank; 
 On the backward road looked Regin and heard how 
 
 Sigurd drew 
 The girths of Greyfell's saddle, and the voice of his 
 
 sword he knew 
 And he feared to look on the Volsung, as thus he fell 
 
 to speak: 
 
 "I have seen the Dwarf- folk mighty, I have seen the 
 God-folk weak; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 265 
 
 And now, though our might be minished, yet have we 
 
 gifts to give. 
 When men desire and conquer, most sweet is their life 
 
 to live; 
 When men are young and lovely there is many a thing 
 
 to do, 
 And sweet is their fond desire and the dawn that 
 
 springs anew." 
 
 "This gift," said the Son of Sigmund, "the Norns shall 
 
 give me yet. 
 And no blossom slain by the sunshine while the leaves 
 
 with dew are wet." 
 
 Then Regin turned aud beheld him: "Thou shalt 
 
 deem it hard and strange. 
 When the hand hath encompassed it all, and yet thy 
 
 life must change. 
 Ah, long were the lives of men-folk, if betwixt the 
 
 Gods and them 
 Were mighty warders watching mid the earth's and 
 
 the heaven's hem! 
 Is there any man so mighty he would cast this gift 
 
 away, — 
 The heart's desire accomplished, and life so long 
 
 a day. 
 That the dawn should be forgotten ere the even was 
 
 begun?" 
 
 Then Sigurd laughed and answered: "Fare forth, O 
 
 glorious sun; 
 Bright end from bright beginning, and the mid-way 
 
 good to tell, 
 
266 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And death, and deeds accomplished, and all remem- 
 bered well! 
 Shall the day go past and leave us, and we be left 
 
 with night. 
 To tread the endless circle, and strive in vain to smite? 
 But thou — wilt thou still look backward? thou sayst I 
 
 know thy thought: 
 Thou hast whetted the sword for the slaying, it shall 
 
 turn aside for nought. 
 Fear not! with the Gold and the wisdom thou shalt 
 
 deem thee God alone. 
 And mayst do and undo at pleasure, nor be bound by 
 
 right nor -wrong: 
 And then, if no God I be waxen, I shall be the weak 
 
 with the strong." 
 
 And his war-gear clanged and tinkled as he leapt to 
 the saddle-stead: 
 
 And the sun rose up at their backs and the grey 
 world changed to red. 
 
 And away to the west went Sigurd by the glory 
 wreathed about, 
 
 But little and black was Regin as a fire that dieth out. 
 
 Day-long they rode the mountains by the crags ex- 
 ceeding old. 
 
 And the ash that the first of the Dwarf-kind found 
 dull and quenched and cold. 
 
 Then the moon in the mid-sky swam, and the stars 
 were fair and pale. 
 
 And beneath the naked heaven they slept in an ash- 
 grey dale; 
 
 And again at the dawn-dusk's ending they stood upon 
 their feet. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 267 
 
 And Sigurd donned his war-gear nor his eyes would 
 Regin meet. 
 
 A clear streak widened in heaven low down above 
 
 the earth; 
 And above it lay the cloud-flecks, and the sun, anigh 
 
 its birth. 
 Unseen, their hosts was staining with the very hue of 
 
 blood, 
 And ruddy by Greyfell's shoulder the Son of Sigmund 
 
 stood. 
 
 Then spake the Master of Masters: "What is thine 
 
 hope this morn 
 That thou dightest thee, O Sigurd, to ride this world 
 
 forlorn?" 
 
 "What needeth hope," said Sigurd, "when the heart of 
 
 the Volsungs turns 
 To the light of the Glittering Heath, and the house 
 
 where the Waster burns? 
 I shall slay the Foe of the Gods, as thou badst me a 
 
 while agone. 
 And then with the Gold and its wisdom shalt thou be 
 
 left alone." 
 
 "O Child," said the King of the Dwarf- kind, "when 
 
 the day at last comes round 
 For the dread and the Dusk of the Gods, and the 
 
 kin of the Wolf is unbound. 
 When thy sword shall hew the fire, and the wildfire 
 
 beateth thy shield. 
 
268 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Shalt thou praise the wages of hope and the Gods 
 that pitched the field?" 
 
 "O Foe of the Gods," said Sigurd, "wouldst thou hide 
 
 the evil thing, 
 And the curse that is greater than thou, lest death 
 
 end thy labouring. 
 Lest the night should come upon thee amidst thy toil 
 
 for nought? 
 It is me, it is me that thou fearest, if indeed I know 
 
 thy thought; 
 Yea me, who would utterly light the face of all good 
 
 and ill, 
 If not with the fruitful beams that the summer shall 
 
 fulfill. 
 Then at least with the world a-blazing, and the glare 
 
 of the grinded sword." 
 
 And he sprang aloft to the saddle as he spake the 
 
 latest word, 
 And the Wrath sang loud in the sheath as it ne'er 
 
 had sung before, 
 And the cloudy flecks were scattered like flames on 
 
 the heaven's floor, 
 And all was kindled at once, and that trench of the 
 
 mountains grey 
 Was filled with the living light as the low sun lit the 
 
 way: 
 But Regin turned from the glory with blinded eyes 
 
 and dazed. 
 And lo, on the cloudy war-steed how another light 
 
 there blazed. 
 And a great voice came from amidst it; 
 
SIGIFRD THE VOLSUNG. 269 
 
 "O Regin, in good sooth, 
 I have hearkened not nor heeded the words of thy 
 
 fear and thy ruth: 
 Thou hast told thy tale and thy longing, and thereto 
 
 I hearkened well: — 
 Let it lead thee up to heaven, let it lead thee down 
 
 to hell. 
 The deed shall be done to-morrow: thou shalt have 
 
 that measureless Gold, 
 And devour the garnered wisdom that blessed thy 
 
 realm of old, 
 That hath lain unspent and begrudged in the very 
 
 heart of hate: 
 With the blood and the might of thy brother thine 
 
 hunger shalt thou sate; 
 And this deed shall be mine and thine; but take heed 
 
 for what foUoweth then! 
 Let each do after his kind! I shall do the deeds of 
 
 men; 
 I shall harvest the field of their sowing, in the bed of 
 
 their strewing shall sleep; 
 To them shall I give my life-days, to the Gods my 
 
 glory to keep. 
 But thou with the wealth and the wisdom that the best 
 
 of the Gods might praise. 
 If thou shalt indeed excel them and become the hope 
 
 of the days, 
 Then me in turn hast thou conquered, and I shall be 
 
 in turn 
 Thy fashioned brand of the battle through good and 
 
 evil to burn, 
 Or the flame that sleeps in thy stithy for the gathered 
 
 winds to blow, 
 
270 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 When thou listest to do and undo and thine uttermost 
 
 cunning to show. 
 But indeed I wot full surely that thou shalt follow thy 
 
 kind; 
 And for all that cometh after, the Norns shall loose 
 
 and bind." 
 
 Then his bridle-reins rang sweetly, and the warding- 
 
 walls of death, 
 And Regin drew up to him, and the Wrath sang loud 
 
 in the sheath. 
 And forth from that trench in the mountains by the 
 
 westward way they ride; 
 And little and black goes Regin by the golden Volsung's 
 
 side; 
 But no more his head is drooping, for he seeth the 
 
 Elf-king's Gold; 
 The garnered might and the wisdom e'en now his 
 
 eyes behold. 
 
 So up and up they journeyed, and ever as they 
 
 went 
 About the cold-slaked forges, o'er many a cloud-swept 
 
 bent, 
 Betwixt the walls of blackness, by shores of the Ashless 
 
 meres. 
 And the fathomless desert waters, did Regin cast his 
 
 fears. 
 And wrap him in desire; and all alone he seemed 
 As a God to his heirship wending, and forgotten and 
 
 undreamed 
 Was all the tale of Sigurd, and the folk he had toiled 
 
 among, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 27 I 
 
 And the Volsungs, Odin's children, and the men-folk 
 fair and young. 
 
 So on they ride to the westward, and huge were the 
 
 mountains grown 
 And the floor of heaven was mingled with that tossing 
 
 world of stone : 
 And they rode till the noon was forgotten and the 
 
 sun was waxen low. 
 And they tarried not, though he perished, and the 
 
 world grew dark below. 
 Then they rode a mighty desert, a glimmering place 
 
 and wide, 
 And into a narrow pass high-walled on either side 
 By the blackness of the mountains, and barred aback 
 
 and in face 
 By the empty night of the shadow; a windless silent 
 
 place : 
 But the white moon shone o'erhead mid the small 
 
 sharp stars and pale. 
 And each as a man alone they rode on the highway 
 
 of bale. 
 
 So ever they wended upward, and the midnight hour 
 
 was o'er, 
 And the stars grew pale and paler, and failed from 
 
 the heaven's floor. 
 And the moon was a long while dead, but there was 
 
 the promise of day. 
 No change came over the darkness, no streak of the 
 
 dawning grey; 
 
2']! FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 No sound of the wind's uprising adown the night 
 
 there ran: 
 It was blind as the Gaping Gulf ere the first of the 
 
 worlds began. 
 
 Then athwart and athwart rode Sigurd and sought 
 
 the walls of the pass, 
 But found no wall before him; and the road rang 
 
 hard as brass 
 Beneath the hoofs of Grey fell, as up and up he trod: 
 — Was it the daylight of Hell, or the night of the 
 
 doorways of God? 
 
 But lo, at the last a glimmer, and a light from the 
 
 west there came, 
 And another and another, like points of far-off flame; 
 And they grew and brightened and gathered; and 
 
 whiles together they ran 
 Like the moonwake over the waters; and whiles they 
 
 were scant and wan. 
 Some greater and some lesser, like the boats of fishers 
 
 laid 
 About the sea of midnight; and a dusky dawn they 
 
 made, 
 A faint and glimmering twilight: So Sigurd strains 
 
 his eyes. 
 And he sees how a land deserted all round about 
 
 him lies 
 More changeless than mid-ocean, as fruitless as its floor : 
 Then the heart leaps up within him, for he knows that 
 
 his journey is o'er. 
 And there he draweth bridle on the first of the Glit- 
 tering Heath: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 273 
 
 And the Wrath is waxen merry and sings in the golden 
 
 sheath 
 As he leaps adown from Greyfell, and stands upon 
 
 his feet, 
 And wends his ways through the twilight the Foe of 
 
 the Gods to meet. 
 
 Sigurd slayeth Fafnir the Serpent. 
 
 Nought Sigurd seeth of Regin, and nought he heeds 
 
 of him, 
 As in watchful might and glory he strides the desert 
 
 dim. 
 And behind him paceth Greyfell; but he deems the 
 
 time o'erlong 
 Till he meet the great gold-warden, the over-lord of 
 
 wrong. 
 
 So he wendeth midst the silence through the measure- 
 less desert place, 
 
 And beholds the countless glitter with wise and stead- 
 fast face. 
 
 Till him-seems in a little season that the flames grow 
 somewhat wan. 
 
 And a grey thing glimmers before him, and becomes 
 a mighty man. 
 
 One-eyed and ancient-seeming, in cloud-grey raiment 
 clad; 
 
 A friendly man and glorious, and of visage smiling-glad : 
 
 Then content in Sigurd groweth because of his majesty, 
 
 And he heareth him speak in the desert as the wind 
 of the winter sea: 
 
 Morris, I ^ 
 
274 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 "Hail Sigurd! Give me thy greeting ere thy ways 
 alone thou wend!" 
 
 Said Sigurd: "Hail! I greet thee, my friend and my 
 fathers' friend." 
 
 "Now whither away," said the elder, "with the Steed 
 and the ancient Sword?" 
 
 "To the greedy house," said Sigurd, "and the King 
 of the Heavy Hoard." 
 
 "Wilt thou smite, O Sigurd, Sigurd?" said the ancient 
 mighty-one. 
 
 "Yea, yea, I shall smite," said the Volsung, "save the 
 Gods have slain the sun." 
 
 "What wise wilt thou smite," said the elder, "lest the 
 dark devour thy day?" 
 
 "Thou hast praised the sword," said the child, "and 
 the sword shall find a way." 
 
 "Be learned of me," said the Wise-one, "for I was the 
 first of thy folk." 
 
 Said the child: "I shall do thy bidding, and for thee 
 shall I strike the stroke." 
 
 Spake the Wise-one: "Thus shalt thou do when thou 
 wendest hence alone: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSLTNG. 275 
 
 Thou shalt find a path in the desert, and a road in the 
 
 world of stone; 
 It is smooth and deep and hollow, but the rain hath 
 
 riven it not, 
 And the wild wind hath not worn it, for it is but 
 
 Fafnir's slot, 
 Whereby he wends to the water and the fathomless 
 
 pool of old, 
 When his heart in the dawn is weary, and he loathes 
 
 the Ancient Gold: 
 There think of the great and the fathers, and bare the 
 
 whetted Wrath, 
 And dig a pit in the highway, and a grave in the 
 
 Serpent's path: 
 Lie thou therein, O Sigurd, and thine hope from the 
 
 glooming hide, 
 And be as the dead for a season, and the living light 
 
 abide ! 
 And so shall thine heart avail thee, and thy mighty 
 
 fateful hand. 
 And the Light that lay in the Branstock, the well be- 
 loved brand." 
 
 Said the child: "I shall do thy bidding, and for thee 
 
 shall I strike the stroke; 
 For I love thee, friend of my fathers. Wise Heart of 
 
 the holy folk." 
 
 So spake the Son of Sigmund, and beheld no man 
 anear. 
 
 And again was the night the midnight, and the twin- 
 kling flames shone clear 
 
 18* 
 
276 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 In the hush of the Glittering Heath; and alone went 
 Sigmund's son 
 
 Till he came to the road of Fafnir, and the highway- 
 worn by one, 
 
 By the drift of the rain unfurrowed, by the windy 
 years unrent, 
 
 And forth from the dark it came, and into the dark 
 it went. 
 
 Great then was the heart of Sigurd, for there in the 
 
 midmost he stayed. 
 And thought of the ancient fathers, and bared the 
 
 bright blue blade, 
 That shone as a fleck of the day-light, and the night 
 
 was all around. 
 Fair then was the Son of Sigmund as he toiled and 
 
 laboured the ground; 
 Great, mighty he was in his working, and the Glitter- 
 ing Heath he clave. 
 And the sword shone blue before him as he dug the 
 
 pit and the grave: 
 There he hid his hope from the night-tide and lay 
 
 like one of the dead. 
 And wise and wary he bided; and the heavens hung 
 
 over his head. 
 
 Now the night wanes over Sigurd, and the ruddy rings 
 
 he sees. 
 And his war-gear's fair adornment, and the God-folk's 
 
 images; 
 But a voice in the desert ariseth, a sound in the waste 
 
 has birth, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 277 
 
 A changing tinkle and clatter, as of gold dragged over 
 
 the earth: 
 O'er Sigurd widens the day-light, and the sound is 
 
 drawing close, 
 And speedier than the trample of speedy feet it goes; 
 But ever deemeth Sigurd that the sun brings back 
 
 the day. 
 For the grave grows lighter and lighter and heaven 
 
 o'erhead is grey. 
 
 But now, how the rattling waxeth till he may not heed 
 
 nor hark! 
 And the day and the heavens are hidden, and o'er 
 
 Sigurd rolls the dark. 
 As the flood of a pitchy river, and heavy-thick is 
 
 the air 
 With the venom of hate long hoarded, and lies once 
 
 fashioned fair: 
 Then a wan face comes from the darkness, and is 
 
 wrought in manlike wise. 
 And the lips are writhed with laughter and bleared 
 
 are the blinded eyes; 
 And it wandereth hither and thither, and searcheth 
 
 through the grave 
 And departeth, leaving nothing, save the dark, rolled 
 
 wave on wave 
 O'er the golden head of Sigurd and the edges of the 
 
 sword. 
 And the world weighs heavy on Sigurd, and the weary 
 
 curse of the Hoard: 
 Him-seemed the grave grew straiter, and his hope of 
 
 life grew chill, 
 
278 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And his heart by the Worm was enfolded, and the 
 bonds of the Ancient 111. 
 
 Then was Sigurd stirred by his glory, and he strove 
 
 with the swaddling of Death; 
 He turned in the pit on the highway, and the grave 
 
 of the Glittering Heath; 
 He laughed and smote with the laughter and thrust 
 
 up over his head, 
 And smote the venom asunder, and clave the heart of 
 
 Dread; 
 Then he leapt from the pit and the grave, and the 
 
 rushing river of blood, 
 And fulfilled with the joy of the War-God on the face 
 
 of earth he stood 
 With red sword high uplifted, with wrathful glittering 
 
 eyes; 
 And he laughed at the heavens above him for he saw 
 
 the sun arise. 
 And Sigurd gleamed on the desert, and shone in the 
 
 new-born light. 
 And the wind in his raiment wavered, and all the 
 
 world was bright. 
 
 But there was the ancient Fafnir, and the Face of 
 
 Terror lay 
 On the huddled folds of the Serpent, that were black 
 
 and ashen-grey 
 In the desert lit by the sun; and those twain looked 
 
 each on each, 
 And forth from the Face of Terror went a sound of 
 
 dreadful speech: 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 27Q 
 
 "Child, child, who art thou that hast smitten? bright 
 child, of whence is thy birth?" 
 
 "I am called the Wild-thing Glorious, and alone I 
 wend on the earth." 
 
 "Fierce child, and who was thy father? — Thou hast 
 cleft the heart of the Foe!" 
 
 "Am I like to the sons of men-folk, that my father I 
 should know?" 
 
 "Wert thou born of a nameless wonder? shall the lies 
 to my death-day cling?" 
 
 "How lieth Sigurd the Volsung, and the Son of Sig- 
 mund the King?" 
 
 "O bitter father of Sigurd! — thou hast cleft mine 
 heart atwain!" 
 
 "I arose, and I wondered and wended, and I smote, 
 and I smote not in vain." 
 
 "What master hath taught thee of murder? — Thou 
 hast wasted Fafnir's day." 
 
 "I, Sigurd, knew and desired, and the bright sword 
 learned the way." 
 
 "Thee, thee shall the rattling Gold and the red rings 
 bring to the bane." 
 
28o FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 "Yet mine hand shall cast them abroad, and the earth 
 shall gather again." 
 
 "I see thee great in thine anger, and the Norns thou 
 heedest not." 
 
 "O Fafnir, speak of the Norns and the wisdom un- 
 forgot!" 
 
 "Let the death-doomed flee from the ocean, him the 
 wind and the weather shall drown." 
 
 "O Fafnir, tell of the Norns ere thy life thou layest 
 adown ! " 
 
 " O manifold is their kindred, and who shall tell them 
 
 all? 
 There are they that rule o'er men-folk and the stars 
 
 that rise and fall: 
 — I knew of the folk of the Dwarfs, and I knew their 
 
 Norns of old; 
 And I fought, and I fell in the morning, and I die 
 
 afar from the gold: 
 — I have seen the Gods of heaven, and their Norns 
 
 withal I know: 
 They love and withhold their helping, they hate and 
 
 refrain the blow; 
 They curse and they may not sunder, they bless and 
 
 they shall not blend; 
 They have fashioned the good and the evil; they abide 
 
 the change and the end." 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 28 1 
 
 " O Fafnir, what of the Isle, and what hast thou known 
 
 of its name, 
 Where the Gods shall mingle edges with Surt and the 
 
 Sons of Flame?" 
 
 "O child, O Strong Compeller? Unshapen is its hight; 
 There the fallow blades shall be shaken and the Dark 
 
 and the Day shall smite, 
 When the Bridge of the Gods is broken, and their 
 
 white steeds swim the sea. 
 And the uttermost field is stricken, last strife of thee 
 
 and me." 
 
 "What then shall endure, O Fafnir, the tale of the 
 battle to tell?" 
 
 "I am blind, O Strong Compeller, in the bonds of 
 
 Death and Hell. 
 But thee shall the rattling Gold and the red rings 
 
 bring unto bane." 
 
 "Yet the rings mine hand shall scatter, and the earth 
 shall gather again." 
 
 "Woe, woe! in the days passed over I bore the Helm 
 
 of Dread, 
 I reared the Face of Terror, and the hoarded hate of 
 
 the Dead: 
 I overcame and was mighty; I was wise and cherished 
 
 my heart 
 In the waste where no man wandered, and the high 
 
 house builded apart: 
 
282 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Till I met thine hand, O Sigurd, and thy might 
 
 ordained from of old; 
 And I fought and fell in the morning, and I die far 
 
 off from the Gold." 
 
 Then Sigurd leaned on his sword, and a dreadful 
 
 voice went by 
 Like the wail of a God departing and the War-God's 
 
 misery; 
 And strong words of ancient wisdom went by on the 
 
 desert wind. 
 The words that mar and fashion, the words that loose 
 
 and bind; 
 And sounds of a strange lamenting, and such strange 
 
 things bewailed, 
 That words to tell their meaning the tongue of man 
 
 hath failed. 
 
 Then all sank into silence, and the Son of Sigmund 
 
 stood 
 On the torn and furrowed desert by the pool of Fafnir's 
 
 blood, 
 And the Serpent lay before him, dead, chilly, dull, 
 
 and grey; 
 And over the Glittering Heath fair shone the sun and 
 
 the day. 
 And a light wind followed the sun and breathed o'er 
 
 the fateful place. 
 As fresh as it furrows the sea-plain or bows the acres' 
 
 face. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 283 
 
 Sigurd slayeth Regin the Master of Masters on the 
 Glittering Heath. 
 
 There standeth Sigurd the Volsung, and leaneth on 
 
 his sword, 
 And beside him now is Greyfell and looks on his gol- 
 den lord, 
 And the world is awake and living; and whither now 
 
 shall they wend. 
 Who have come to the Glittering Heath, and wrought 
 
 that deed to its end? 
 For hither comes Regin the Master from the skirts of 
 
 the field of death. 
 And he shadeth his eyes from the sunlight as afoot he 
 
 goeth and saith: 
 "Ah, let me live for a while! for a while and all shall 
 
 be well, 
 When passed is the house of murder and I creep from 
 
 the prison of hell." 
 
 Afoot he went o'er the desert, and he came unto Sigurd 
 
 and stared 
 At the golden gear of the man, and the Wrath yet 
 
 bloody and bared. 
 And the light locks raised by the wind, and the eyes 
 
 beginning to smile. 
 And the lovely lips of the Volsung, and the brow that 
 
 knew no guile; 
 And he murmured under his breath while his eyes 
 
 grew white with wrath: 
 
284 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 "O who art thou, and wherefore, and why art thou in 
 
 the path?" 
 Then he turned to the ash-grey Serpent, and grovelled 
 
 low on the ground, 
 And he drank of that pool of the blood where the 
 
 stones of the wild were drowned, 
 And long he lapped as a dog; but when he arose 
 
 again, 
 Lo, a flock of the mountain-eagles that drew to the 
 
 feastful plain; 
 And he turned and looked on Sigurd, as bright in the 
 
 sun he stood, 
 A stripling fair and slender, and wiped the Wrath of 
 
 the blood. 
 
 But Regin cried: "O Dwarf-kind, O many -shifting 
 folk, 
 
 O shapes of might and wonder, am I too freed from 
 the yoke. 
 
 That binds my soul to my body a withered thing for- 
 lorn. 
 
 While the short-lived fools of man-folk so fair and oft 
 are born? 
 
 Now swift in the air shall I be, and young in the con- 
 course of kings. 
 
 If my heart shall come to desire the gain of earthly 
 things." 
 
 And he looked and saw how Sigurd was sheathing the 
 
 Flame of War, 
 And the eagles screamed in the wind, but their voice 
 
 came faint from afar; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 285 
 
 Then he scowled, and crouched and darkened, and 
 
 came to Sigurd and spake: 
 "O child, thou hast slain my brother, and the Wrath 
 
 is alive and awake." 
 
 "Thou sayest sooth," said Sigurd, "thy deed and mine 
 
 is done: 
 But now our ways shall sunder, for here, meseemeth, 
 
 the sun 
 Hath but little of deeds to do, and no love to win 
 
 aback." 
 
 Then Regin crouched before him, and he spake: "Fare 
 on to the wrack! 
 
 Fare on to the murder of men, and the deeds of thy 
 kindred of old ! 
 
 And surely of thee as of them shall the tale be speedily 
 told. 
 
 Thou hast slain thy Master's brother, and what wouldst 
 thou say thereto, 
 
 Were the judges met for the judging and the doom- 
 ring hallowed due?" 
 
 Then Sigurd spake as aforetime: "Thy deed and mine 
 
 it was. 
 And now our ways shall sunder, and into the world 
 
 will I pass." 
 
 But Regin darkened before him, and exceeding grim 
 
 was he grown, 
 And he spake: "Thou hast slain my brother, and 
 
 wherewith wilt thou atone?" 
 
286 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 "Stand up, O Master," said Sigurd, "O Singer of an- 
 cient days. 
 
 And take the wealth I have won thee, ere we wend on 
 the sundering ways. 
 
 I have toiled and thou hast desired, and the Treasure 
 is surely anear. 
 
 And thou hast wisdom to find it, and I have slain thy 
 fear." 
 
 But Regin crouched and darkened: "Thou hast slain 
 my brother," he said. 
 
 "Take thou the Gold," quoth Sigurd, "for the ransom 
 of my head!" 
 
 Then Regin crouched and darkened, and over the 
 
 earth he hung; 
 And he said: "Thou hast slain my brother, and the 
 
 Gods are yet but young." 
 
 Bright Sigurd towered above him, and the Wrath cried 
 out in the sheath, 
 
 And Regin writhed against it as the adder turns on 
 death; 
 
 And he spake: "Thou hast slain my brother, and to- 
 day shalt thou be my thrall: 
 
 Yea a King shall be my cook-boy and this heath my 
 cooking-hall." 
 
 Then he crept to the ash-grey coils where the life of 
 
 his brother had lain. 
 And he drew a glaive from his side and smote the 
 
 smitten and slain, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 287 
 
 And tore the heart from Fafnir, while the eagles cried 
 
 o'erhead, 
 And sharp and shrill was their voice o'er the entrails 
 
 of the dead. 
 
 Then Regin spake to Sigurd: "Of this slaying wilt 
 thou be free? 
 
 Then gather thou fire together and roast the heart for 
 me, 
 
 That I may eat it and live, and be thy master and 
 more; 
 
 For therein was might and wisdom, and the grudged 
 and hoarded lore: — 
 
 — Or else, depart on thy ways afraid from the Glitter- 
 ing Heath." 
 
 Then he fell abackward and slept, nor set his sword 
 
 in the sheath. 
 But his hand was red on the hilts and blue were the 
 
 edges bared. 
 Ash-grey was his visage waxen, and with open eyes he 
 
 stared 
 I On the height of heaven above him, and a fearful 
 
 thing he seemed, 
 As his soul went wide in the world, and of rule and 
 
 kingship he dreamed. 
 
 But Sigurd took the Heart, and wood on the waste he 
 
 found. 
 The wood that grew and died, as it crept on the 
 
 niggard ground. 
 And grew and died again, and lay like whitened 
 
 bones j 
 
288 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And the ernes cried over his head, as he biiilded his 
 
 hearth of stones, 
 And kindled the fire for cooking, and sat and sang 
 
 o'er the roast 
 The song of his fathers of old, and the Wolflings' 
 
 gathering host: 
 So there on the Glittering Heath rose up the little 
 
 flame. 
 And the dry sticks crackled amidst it, and alow the 
 
 eagles came, 
 And seven they were by tale, and they pitched all 
 
 round about 
 The cooking-fire of Sigurd, and sent their song-speech 
 
 out: 
 But nought he knoweth its wisdom, or the word that 
 
 they would speak: 
 And hot grew the Heart of Fafnir and sang amid the 
 
 reek. 
 
 Then Sigurd looketh on Regin, and he deemeth it 
 
 overlong 
 That he dighteth the dear-bought morsel, and the 
 
 might for the Master of wrong, 
 So he reacheth his hand to the roast to see if the 
 
 cooking be o'er; 
 But the blood and the fat seethed from it and scalded 
 
 his finger sore. 
 And he set his hand to his mouth to quench the 
 
 fleshly smart. 
 And he tasted the flesh of the Serpent and the blood 
 
 of Fafnir's Heart : 
 Then there came a change upon him, for the speech 
 
 of fowl he knew, 
 
SIGXmD THE VOLSUNG. '289 
 
 And wise in the ways of the beast-kind as the Dwarfs 
 
 of old he grew; 
 And he knitted his brows and hearkened, and wrath 
 
 in his heart arose; 
 For he felt beset of evil in a world of many foes. 
 But the hilt of the Wrath he handled, and Regin's 
 
 heart he saw. 
 And how that the Foe of the Gods the net of death 
 
 would draw; 
 And his bright eyes flashed and sparkled, and his 
 
 mouth grew set and stern 
 As he hearkened the voice of the eagles, and their 
 
 song began to learn. 
 
 For the first cried out in the desert: "O mighty 
 
 Sigmund's son. 
 How long wilt thou sit and tarry now the dear-bought 
 
 roast is done?" 
 
 And the second: "Volsung, arise! for the horns blow 
 
 up to the hall. 
 And dight are the purple hangings, and the King to 
 
 the feasting should fall." 
 
 And the third: "How great is the feast if the eater 
 
 eat aright 
 The Heart of the wisdom of old and the after-world's 
 
 delight!" 
 
 And the fourth: "Yea what of Regin? shall he scatter 
 
 wrack o'er the world? 
 Shall the father be slain by the son, and the brother 
 
 'gainst brother be hurled?" 
 
 Morris. 1 9 
 
290 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And the fifth: "He hath taught a stripling the gifts 
 
 of a God to give: 
 He hath reared up a King for the slaying, that he 
 
 alone might live." 
 
 And the sixth: "He shall waken mighty as a God 
 
 that scorneth a truth; 
 He hath drunk of the blood of the Serpent, and 
 
 drowned all hope and ruth." 
 
 And the seventh: "Arise, O Sigurd, lest the hour be 
 overlate! 
 
 For the sun in the mid-noon shineth, and swift is the 
 hand of Fate : 
 
 Arise! lest the world run backward and the blind 
 heart have its will, 
 
 And once again be tangled the sundered good 
 and ill; 
 
 Lest love and hatred perish, lest the world forget its 
 tale, 
 
 And the Gods sit deedless, dreaming, in the high- 
 walled heavenly vale." 
 
 Then swift ariseth Sigurd, and the Wrath in his hand 
 
 is bare. 
 And he looketh, and Regin sleepeth, and his eyes 
 
 wide-open glare; 
 But his lips smile false in his dreaming, and his hand 
 
 is on the sword; 
 For he dreams himself the Master and the new world's 
 
 fashioning-lord. 
 And his dream hath forgotten Sigurd, and the King's 
 
 life lies in the pit; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 2gi 
 
 He is nought; Death gnaweth upon him, while the 
 Dwarfs in mastery sit. 
 
 But lo, how the eyes of Sigurd the heart of the guile- 
 ful behold, 
 And great is Allfather Odin, and upriseth the Curse 
 
 of the Gold, 
 And the Branstock bloometh to heaven from the 
 
 ancient wondrous root; 
 The summer hath shone on its blossoms, and Sigurd's 
 
 Wrath is the fruit: 
 Dread then he cried in the desert: "Guile-master, lo 
 
 thy deed! 
 Hast thou nurst my life for destruction, and my death 
 
 to serve thy need? 
 Hast thou kept me here for the net and the death 
 
 that tame things die? 
 Hast thou feared me overmuch, thou Foe of the Gods 
 
 on high? 
 Lest the sword thine hand was wielding should turn 
 
 about and cleave 
 The tangled web of nothing thou hadst wearied thyself 
 
 to weave. 
 Lo here the sword and the stroke! judge the Norns 
 
 betwixt us twain! 
 But for me, I will live and die not, nor shall all my 
 
 hope be vain." 
 Then his second stroke struck Sigurd, for the Wrath 
 
 flashed thin and white. 
 And 'twixt head and trunk of Regin fierce ran the 
 
 fateful light; 
 And there lay brother by brother a faded thing and 
 
 wan. 
 
 19* 
 
292 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 But Sigurd cried in the desert: "So far have I 
 wended on! 
 
 Dead are the foes of God-home that would blend the 
 good and the ill; 
 
 And the World shall yet be famous, and the Gods 
 shall have their will. 
 
 Nor shall I be dead and forgotten, while the earth 
 grows worse and worse. 
 
 With the blind heart king o'er the people, and bind- 
 ing curse with curse." 
 
 How Sigurd took to htm the Treasure of the Elf 
 Andvari. 
 
 Now Sigurd eats of the heart that once in the Dwarf- 
 king lay, 
 
 The hoard of the wisdom begrudged, the might of 
 the earlier day. 
 
 Then wise of heart was he waxen, but longing in him 
 grew 
 
 To sow the seed he had gotten, and till the field he 
 knew. 
 
 So he leapeth aback of Greyfell, and rideth the desert 
 bare. 
 
 And the hollow slot of Fafnir, that led to the Serpent's 
 lair. 
 
 Then long he rode adown it, and the ernes flew over- 
 head, 
 
 And tidings great and glorious of that Treasure of old 
 they said. 
 
 So far o'er the waste he wended, and when the night 
 was come 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 293 
 
 He saw the earth-old dwelling, the dread Gold- 
 
 wallower's home: 
 On the skirts of the Heath it was builded by a 
 
 tumbled stony bent; 
 High went that house to the heavens, down 'neath the 
 
 earth it went, 
 Of unwrought iron fashioned for the heart of a greedy 
 
 king: 
 'Twas a mountain, blind without, and within was its 
 
 plenishing 
 But the Hoard of Andvari the ancient, and the sleep- 
 ing Curse unseen, 
 The Gold of the Gods that spared not and the greedy 
 
 that have been. 
 Through the door strode Sigurd the Volsung, and the 
 
 grey moon and the sword 
 Fell in on the tawny gold-heaps of the ancient hapless 
 
 Hoard : 
 Gold gear of hosts unburied, and the coin of cities dead, 
 Great spoil of the ages of battle, lay there on the 
 
 Serpent's bed: 
 Huge blocks from mid-earth quarried, where none but 
 
 the Dwarfs have mined. 
 Wide sands of the golden rivers no foot of man may find 
 Lay 'neath the spoils of the mighty and the ruddy 
 
 rings of yore : 
 But amidst was the Helm of Aweing that the Fear of 
 
 earth-folk bore, 
 And there gleamed a wonder beside it, the Hauberk 
 
 all of gold, 
 Whose like is not in the heavens nor has earth of its 
 
 fellow told: 
 There Sigurd seeth moreover Andvari's Ring of Gain, 
 
294 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 The hope of Loki's finger, the Ransom's utmost grain; 
 For it shone on the midmost gold-heap Hke the first 
 
 star set in the sky- 
 In the yellow space of even when moon-rise draweth 
 
 anigh. 
 Then laughed the Son of Sigmund, and stooped to 
 
 the golden land, 
 And gathered that first of the harvest and set it on 
 
 his hand; 
 And he did on the Helm of Aweing, and the Hauberk 
 
 all of gold, 
 Whose like is not in the heavens nor has earth of its 
 
 fellow told: 
 Then he praised the day of the Volsungs amid the 
 
 yellow light, 
 And he set his hand to the labour and put forth his 
 
 kingly might; 
 He dragged forth gold to the moon, on the desert's 
 
 face he laid 
 The innermost earth's adornment, and rings for the 
 
 nameless made; 
 He toiled and loaded Greyfell, and the cloudy war- 
 steed shone 
 And the gear of Sigurd rattled in the flood of moon- 
 light wan; 
 There he toiled and loaded Greyfell, and the Volsung's 
 
 armour rang 
 Mid the yellow bed of the Serpent: but without the 
 
 eagles sang: 
 
 "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! let the gold shine free 
 and clear! 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 295 
 
 For what hath the Son of the Volsungs the ancient 
 Curse to fear?" 
 
 "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! for thy tale is well 
 
 begun, 
 And the world shall be good and gladdened by the 
 
 Gold lit up by the sun." 
 
 "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd, and gladden all thine 
 
 heart! 
 For the world shall make thee merry ere thou and she 
 
 depart." 
 
 "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! for the ways go green 
 
 below. 
 Go green to the dwelling of Kings, and the halls that 
 
 the Queen-folk know." 
 
 "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! for what is there bides 
 
 by the way, 
 Save the joy of folk to awaken, and the dawn of the 
 
 merry day?" 
 
 "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! for the strife awaits 
 
 thine hand. 
 And a plenteous war-field's reaping, and the praise of 
 
 many a land." 
 
 "Bind the red rings, O Sigurd! But how shall store- 
 
 . house hold 
 That glory of thy winning and the tidings to be 
 told?" 
 
296 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Now the moon was dead, and the star-worlds were 
 
 great on the heavenly plain, 
 When the steed was fully laden; then Sigurd taketh 
 
 the rein 
 And turns to the ruined rock-wall that the lair was 
 
 built beneath. 
 For there he deemed was the gate and the door of 
 
 the Glittering Heath, 
 But not a whit moved Greyfell for aught that the King 
 
 might do; 
 Then Sigurd pondered a while, till the heart of the 
 
 beast he knew. 
 And clad in all his war-gear he leaped to the saddle- 
 stead, 
 And with pride and mirth neighed Greyfell and tossed 
 
 aloft his head. 
 And sprang unspurred o'er the waste, and light and 
 
 swift he went, 
 And breasted the broken rampart, the stony tumbled 
 
 bent; 
 And over the brow he clomb, and there beyond was 
 
 the world, 
 A place of many mountains and great crags together 
 
 hurled. 
 So down to the west he wendeth, and goeth swift and 
 
 light. 
 And the stars are beginning to wane, and the day is 
 
 mingled with night; 
 For full fain was the sun to arise and look on the 
 
 Gold set free. 
 And the Dwarf-wrought rings of the Treasure and the 
 
 gifts from the floor of the sea, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 297 
 
 How Sigurd awoke Brynhild upon Hindfell. 
 
 By long roads rideth Sigurd amidst that world of 
 
 stone, 
 And somewhat south he turneth; for he would not be 
 
 alone, 
 But longs for the dwellings of man-folk, and the kingly 
 
 people's speech. 
 And the days of the glee and the joyance, where men 
 
 laugh each to each. 
 But still the desert endureth, and afar must Greyfell 
 
 fare 
 From the \vrack of the Glittering Heath, and Fafnir's 
 
 golden lair. 
 Long Sigurd rideth the waste, when, lo, on a morning 
 
 of day 
 From out of the tangled crag-walls, amidst the cloud- 
 land grey 
 Comes up a mighty mountain, and it is as though 
 
 there burns 
 A torch amidst of its cloud- wreath; so thither Sigurd 
 
 turns. 
 For he deems indeed from its topmost to look on the 
 
 best of the earth; 
 And Greyfell neigheth beneath him, and his heart is 
 
 full of mirth. 
 
 So he rideth higher and higher, and the light grows 
 
 great and strange, 
 And forth from the clouds it flickers, till at noon they 
 
 gather and change, 
 
298 PROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And settle thick on the mountain, and hide its head 
 
 from sight; 
 But the winds in a while are awakened, and day bet- 
 
 tereth ere the night. 
 And, lifted a measureless mass o'er the desert crag- 
 walls high. 
 Cloudless the mountain riseth against the sunset sky. 
 The sea of the sun grown golden, as it ebbs from the 
 
 day's desire; 
 And the light that afar was a torch is grown a river 
 
 of fire, 
 And the mountain is black above it, and below is it 
 
 dark and dun; 
 And there is the head of Hindfell as an island in the 
 
 sun. 
 
 Night falls, but yet rides Sigurd, and hath no thought 
 
 of rest, 
 For he longs to climb that rock-world and behold the 
 
 earth at its best; 
 But now mid the maze of the foot-hills he seeth the 
 
 light no more. 
 And the stars are lovely and gleaming on the lightless 
 
 heavenly floor. 
 So up and up he wendeth till the night is wearing 
 
 thin; 
 And he rideth a rift of the mountain, and all is dark 
 
 therein, 
 Till the stars are dimmed by dawning and the waken- 
 ing world is cold; 
 Then afar in the upper rock-wall a breach doth he 
 
 behold, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 299 
 
 And a flood of light poured inward the doubtful dawn- 
 ing blinds: 
 
 So swift he rideth thither and the mouth of the breach 
 he finds, 
 
 And sitteth awhile on Grey fell on the marvellous thing 
 to gaze: 
 
 For lo, the side of Hindfell enwrapped by the fervent 
 blaze, 
 
 And nought 'twixt earth and heaven save a world of 
 flickering flame, 
 
 And a hurrying shifting tangle, where the dark rents 
 went and came. 
 
 Great groweth the heart of Sigurd with uttermost de- 
 sire. 
 And he crieth kind to Greyfell, and they hasten up, 
 
 and nigher. 
 Till he draweth rein in the dawning on the face of 
 
 HindfelFs steep: 
 But who shall heed the dawning where the tongues of 
 
 that wildfire leap? 
 For they weave a wavering wall, that driveth over the 
 
 heaven 
 The wind that is born within it; nor ever aside is it 
 
 driven 
 By the mightiest wind of the waste, and the rain-flood 
 
 amidst it is nought; 
 And no wayfarer's door and no window the hand of 
 
 its builder hath wrought. 
 But thereon is the Volsung smiling as its breath up- 
 
 lifteth his hair. 
 And his eyes shine bright with its image, and his mail 
 
 gleams white and fair. 
 
300 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And his war-helm pictures the heavens and the wan- 
 ing stars behind: 
 
 But his neck is Greyfell stretching to snufF at the 
 flame-wall blind, 
 
 And his cloudy flank upheaveth, and tinkleth the 
 knitted mail, 
 
 And the gold of the uttermost waters is waxen wan 
 and pale. 
 
 Now Sigurd turns in his saddle, and the hilt of the 
 Wrath he shifts. 
 
 And draws a girth the tighter; then the gathered reins 
 he lifts. 
 
 And crieth aloud to Greyfell, and rides at the wild- 
 fire's heart; 
 
 But the white wall wavers before him and the flame- 
 flood rusheth apart, 
 
 And high o'er his head it riseth, and wide and wild 
 is its roar 
 
 As it beareth the mighty tidings to the very heavenly 
 floor: 
 
 But he rideth through its roaring as the warrior rides 
 the rye, 
 
 When it bows with the wind of the summer and the 
 hid spears draw anigh; 
 
 The white flame licks his raiment and sweeps through 
 Grey fell's mane. 
 
 And bathes both hands of Sigurd and the hilts of 
 Fafnir's bane. 
 
 And winds about his war-helm and mingles with his 
 hair. 
 
 But nought his raiment dusketh or dims his glittering 
 gear; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 3OI 
 
 Then it fails and fades and darkens till all seems left 
 
 behind, 
 And dawn and the blaze is swallowed in mid-mirk 
 
 stark and blind. 
 
 But forth a little further and a little further on 
 
 And all is calm about him, and he sees the scorched 
 earth wan 
 
 Beneath a glimmering twilight, and he turns his con- 
 quering eyes. 
 
 And a ring of pale slaked ashes on the side of Hind- 
 fell lies; 
 
 And the world of the waste is beyond it; and all is 
 hushed and grey, 
 
 And the new-risen moon is a-paleing, and the stars 
 grow faint with day. 
 
 Then Sigurd looked before him and a Shield-burg 
 there he saw, 
 
 A wall of the tiles of Odin wrought clear without a 
 flaw. 
 
 The gold by the silver gleaming, and the ruddy by the 
 white; 
 
 And the blazonings of their glory were done upon 
 them bright. 
 
 As of dear things wrought for the war-lords new come 
 to Odin's hall. 
 
 Piled high aloft to the heavens uprose that battle- 
 wall. 
 
 And far o'er the topmost shield-rim for a banner of 
 fame there hung 
 
 A glorious golden buckler; and against the staff 
 it rung 
 
302 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 As the earliest wind of dawning uprose on HindfelFs 
 
 face 
 And the light from the yellowing east beamed soft on 
 
 the shielded place. 
 
 But the Wrath cried out in answer as Sigurd leapt 
 
 adown 
 To the wasted soil of the desert by that rampart of 
 
 renown; 
 He looked but little beneath it, and the dwelling of 
 
 God it seemed, 
 As against its gleaming silence the eager Sigurd 
 
 gleamed : 
 He draweth not sword from scabbard, as the wall he 
 
 wendeth around, 
 And it is but the wind and Sigurd that wakeneth any 
 
 sound : 
 But, lo, to the gate he cometh, and the doors are open 
 
 wide, 
 And no warder the way withstandeth, and no earls by 
 
 the threshold abide; 
 So he stands awhile and marvels; then the baleful 
 
 light of the Wrath 
 Gleams bare in his ready hand as he wendeth the in- 
 ward path: 
 For he doubteth some guile of the Gods, or perchance 
 
 some Dwarf-king's snare. 
 Or a mock of the Giant people that shall fade in the 
 
 morning air: 
 But he getteth him in and gazeth; and a wall doth he 
 
 behold. 
 And the ruddy set by the white, and the silver by the 
 
 gold; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 303 
 
 But within the garth that it girdeth no work of man 
 
 is set, 
 But the utmost head of Hind fell ariseth higher yet; 
 And below in the very midmost is a Giant-fashioned 
 
 mound, 
 Piled high as the rims of the Shield-burg above the 
 
 level ground; 
 And there, on that mound of the Giants, o'er the 
 
 wilderness forlorn, 
 A pale grey image lieth, and gleameth in the morn. 
 
 So there was Sigurd alone; and he went from the 
 
 shielded door. 
 And aloft in the desert of wonder the Light of the 
 
 Branstock he bore; 
 And he set his face to the earth-mound, and beheld 
 
 the image wan. 
 And the dawn was growing about it; and, lo, the shape 
 
 of a man 
 Set forth to the eyeless desert on the tower-top of the 
 
 world. 
 High over the cloud-wrought castle whence the windy 
 
 bolts are hurled. 
 
 Now he comes to the mound and climbs it, and will 
 
 see if the man be dead; 
 Some King of the days forgotten laid there with 
 
 crowned head, 
 Or the frame of a God, it may be, that in heaven 
 
 hath changed his life. 
 Or some glorious heart beloved, God-rapt from thQ 
 
 earthly strife: 
 
304 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Now over the body he standeth, and seeth it shapen 
 
 fair, 
 And dad from head to foot-sole in pale grey-glittering 
 
 gear, 
 In a hauberk wrought as straitly as though to the flesh 
 
 it were grown: 
 But a great helm hideth the head and is girt with a 
 
 glittering crown. 
 
 So thereby he stoopeth and kneeleth, for he deems it 
 were good indeed 
 
 If the breath of life abide there and the speech to 
 help at need; 
 
 And as sweet as the summer wind from a garden un- 
 der the sun 
 
 Cometh forth on the topmost Hind fell the breath of 
 that sleeping-one. 
 
 Then he saith he will look on the face, if it bear him 
 love or hate, 
 
 Or the bonds for his life's constraining, or the sunder- 
 ing doom of fate. 
 
 So he draweth the helm from the head, and, lo, the 
 brow snow-white. 
 
 And the smooth unfurrowed cheeks, and the wise lips 
 breathing light; 
 
 And the face of a woman it is, and the fairest that 
 ever was born, 
 
 Shown forth to the empty heavens and the desert 
 world forlorn: 
 
 But he looketh, and loveth her sore, and he longeth 
 her spirit to move. 
 
 And awaken her heart to the world, that she may be- 
 hold him and love. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. $0^ 
 
 And he toucheth her breast and her hands, and he 
 
 loveth her passing sore; 
 And he saith: "Awake! I am Sigurd;" but she moveth 
 
 never the more. 
 
 Then he looked on his bare bright blade, and he said : 
 
 "Thou — what wilt thou do? 
 For indeed as I came by the war-garth thy voice of 
 
 desire I knew." 
 Bright burnt the pale blue edges for the sunrise drew 
 
 anear, 
 And the rims of the Shield-burg glittered, and the east 
 
 was exceeding clear: 
 So the eager edges he setteth to the Dwarf-wrought 
 
 battle-coat 
 Where the hammered ring-knit collar constraineth the 
 
 woman's throat; 
 But the sharp Wrath biteth and rendeth, and before it 
 
 fail the rings, 
 And, lo, the gleam of the linen, and the light of golden 
 
 things: 
 Then he driveth the blue steel onward, and through 
 
 the skirt, and out, 
 Till nought but the rippling linen is wrapping her 
 
 about; 
 Then he deems her breath comes quicker "and her 
 
 breast begins to heave. 
 So he turns about the War-Flame and rends down 
 
 either sleeve. 
 Till her arms lie white in her raiment, and a river of 
 
 sun-bright hair 
 Flows free o'er bosom and shoulder and floods the 
 
 desert bare. 
 
 Morris, 20 
 
306 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Then a flush cometh over her visage and a sigh up- 
 
 heaveth her breast, 
 And her eyelids quiver and open, and she wakeneth 
 
 into rest; 
 Wide-eyed on the dawning she gazeth, too glad to 
 
 change or smile, 
 And but little moveth her body, nor speaketh she yet 
 
 for a while; 
 And yet kneels Sigurd moveless her wakening speech 
 
 to heed. 
 While soft the waves of the daylight o'er the starless 
 
 heavens speed, 
 And the gleaming rims of the Shield-burg yet bright 
 
 and brighter grow. 
 And the thin moon hangeth her horns dead-white in 
 
 the golden glow. 
 Then she turned and gazed on Sigurd, and her eyes 
 
 met the Volsung's eyes. 
 And mighty and measureless now did the tide of his 
 
 love arise, 
 For their longing had met and mingled, and he knew 
 
 of her heart that she loved. 
 As she spake unto nothing but him and her lips with 
 
 the speech-flood moved: 
 
 "O, what is the thing so mighty that my weary sleep 
 hath torn, 
 
 And rent the fallow bondage, and the wan woe over- 
 worn?" 
 
 He said: "The hand of Sigurd and the Sword of Sig- 
 mund's son, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 307 
 
 And the heart that the Volsungs fashioned this deed 
 for thee have done." 
 
 But she said: "Where then is Odin that laid me here 
 
 alow? 
 Long lasteth the grief of the world, and man-folk's 
 
 tangled woe!" 
 
 "He dwelleth above," said Sigurd, "but I on the earth 
 
 abide. 
 And I came from the Glittering Heath the waves of 
 
 thy fire to ride." 
 
 But therewith the sun rose upward and lightened all 
 
 the earth. 
 And the light flashed up to the heavens from the rims 
 
 of the glorious girth; 
 But they twain arose together, and with both her palms 
 
 outspread. 
 And bathed in the light returning, she cried aloud 
 
 and said: 
 
 "All hail O Day and thy Sons, and thy kin of the 
 
 coloured things! 
 Hail, following Night, and thy Daughter that leadeth 
 
 thy wavering wings! 
 Look down with unangry eyes on us to-day alive. 
 And give us the hearts victorious, and the gain for 
 
 which we strive! 
 All hail, ye Lords of God-home, and ye Queens of 
 
 the House of Gold! 
 Hail thou dear Earth that bearest, and thou Wealth of 
 
 field and fold! 
 
308 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 Give US, your noble children, the glory of wisdom and 
 
 speech, 
 And the hearts and the hands of healing, and the 
 
 mouths and hands that teach!" 
 
 Then they turned and were knit together; and oft and 
 
 o'er again 
 They craved, and kissed rejoicing, and their hearts 
 
 were full and fain. 
 
 Then Sigurd looketh upon her, and the words from 
 
 his heart arise: 
 "Thou art the fairest of earth, and the wisest of the 
 
 wise; 
 
 who art thou that lovest? I am Sigurd, e'en as I 
 
 told; 
 
 1 have slain the Foe of the Gods, and gotten the An- 
 
 cient Gold; 
 And great were the gain of thy love, and the gift of 
 
 mine earthly days. 
 If we twain should never sunder as we wend on the 
 
 changing ways. 
 O who art thou that lovest, thou fairest of all things 
 
 born? 
 And what meaneth thy sleep and thy slumber in the 
 
 wilderness forlorn?" 
 
 She said: "I am she that loveth: I was born of the 
 
 earthly folk, 
 But of old AUfather took me from the Kings and their 
 
 wedding yoke: 
 And he called me the Victory-Wafter, and I went and 
 
 came as he would, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 3O9 
 
 And I chose the slain for his war-host, and the days 
 
 were glorious and good, 
 Till the thoughts of my heart overcame me, and the 
 
 pride of my wisdom and speech, 
 And I scorned the earth-folk's Framer and the Lord 
 
 of the world I must teach: 
 For the death-doomed I caught from the sword, and 
 
 the fated life I slew. 
 And I deemed that my deeds were goodly, and that 
 
 long I should do and undo. 
 But Allfather came against me and the God in his 
 
 wTath arose; 
 And he cried: 'Thou hast thought in thy folly that 
 
 the Gods have friends and foes. 
 That they wake, and the world wends onward, that 
 
 they sleep, and the world slips back. 
 That they laugh, and the world's weal waxeth, that 
 
 they frown and fashion the wrack: 
 Thou hast cast up the curse against me; it shall fall 
 
 aback on thine head; 
 Go back to the sons of repentance, with the children 
 
 of sorrow wed! 
 For the Gods are great unholpen, and their grief is 
 
 seldom seen. 
 And the wrong that they will and must be is soon as 
 
 it hath not been.' 
 
 "Yet I thought: 'Shall I wed in the world, shall I 
 
 gather grief on the earth? 
 Then the fearless heart shall I wed, and bring the 
 
 best to birth. 
 And fashion such tales for the telling, that Earth shall 
 
 be holpen at least, 
 
3lO FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 If the Gods think scorn of its fairness, as they sit at 
 the changeless feast.' 
 
 "Then somewhat smiled Allfather; and he spake: 'So 
 
 let it be! 
 The doom thereof abideth; the doom of me and thee. 
 Yet long shall the time pass over ere thy waking-day 
 
 be born: 
 Fare forth, and forget and be weary 'neath the Sting 
 
 of the Sleepful Thorn!' 
 
 "So I came to the head of Hindfell and the ruddy 
 shields and white, 
 
 And the wall of the wildfire wavering around the isle 
 of night; 
 
 And there the Sleep-thorn pierced me, and the slum- 
 ber on me fell, 
 
 And the night of nameless sorrows that hath no tale 
 to tell. 
 
 Now I am she that loveth; and the day is nigh at 
 hand 
 
 When I, who have ridden the sea-realm and the regions 
 of the land. 
 
 And dwelt in the measureless mountains and the forge 
 of stormy days. 
 
 Shall dwell in the house of my fathers and the land 
 of the people's praise; 
 
 And there shall hand meet hand, and heart by heart 
 shall beat, 
 
 And the lying-down shall be joyous, and the morn's 
 uprising sweet. 
 
 Lo now, I look on thine heart and behold of thine in- 
 most will, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 3tl 
 
 That thou of the days wouldst hearken that our por^ 
 
 tion shall fulfill; 
 But O, be wise of man-folk, and the hope of thine 
 
 heart refrain! 
 As oft in the battle's beginning ye vex the steed with 
 
 the rein, 
 Lest at last in its latter ending, when the sword hath 
 
 hushed the horn, 
 His limbs should be weary and fail, and his might be 
 
 over-worn. 
 O be wise, lest thy love constrain me, and my vision 
 
 wax o'er-clear, 
 And thou ask of the thing that thou shouldst not, and 
 
 the thing that thou wouldst not hear. 
 
 "Know thou, most mighty of men, that the Norns 
 
 shall order all. 
 And yet without thine helping shall no whit of their 
 
 will befall; 
 Be wise! 'tis a marvel of words, and a mock for the 
 
 fool and the blind; 
 But I saw it writ in the heavens, and its fashioning 
 
 there did I find: 
 And the night of the Norns and their slumber, and 
 
 the tide when the world runs back, 
 And the way of the sun is tangled, it is wrought of 
 
 the dastard's lack. 
 But the day when the fair earth blossoms, and the 
 
 sun is bright above. 
 Of the daring deeds is it fashioned and the eager 
 
 hearts of love. 
 
312 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 "Be wise, and cherish thine hope in the freshness of 
 
 the days, 
 And scatter its seed from thine hand in the field of 
 
 the people's praise; 
 Then fair shall it fall in the furrow, and some the 
 
 earth shall speed, 
 And the sons of men shall marvel at the blossom of 
 
 the deed: 
 But some the earth shall speed not; nay rather, the 
 
 wind of the heaven 
 Shall waft it away from thy longing — and a gift to the 
 
 Gods hast thou given. 
 And a tree for the roof and the wall in the house of 
 
 the hope that shall be. 
 Though it seemeth our very sorrow, and the grief of 
 
 thee and me. 
 
 "Strive not with the fools of man-folk: for belike thou 
 
 shalt overcome; 
 And what then is the gain of thine hunting when thou 
 
 bearest the quarry home? 
 Or else shall the fool overcome thee, and what deed 
 
 thereof shall grow? 
 Nay, strive with the wise man rather, and increase thy 
 
 woe and his woe; 
 Yet thereof a gain hast thou gotten; and the half of 
 
 thine heart hast thou won 
 If thou mayst prevail against him, and his deeds are 
 
 the deeds thou hast done: 
 Yea, and if thou fall before him, in him shalt thou 
 
 live again. 
 And thy deeds in his hand shall blossom, and his heart 
 
 of thine heart shall be fain. 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 313 
 
 "When thou hearest the fool rejoicing, and he saith, 
 *It is over and past, 
 
 And the wrong was better than right, and hate turns 
 into love at the last. 
 
 And we strove for nothing at all, and the Gods are 
 fallen asleep; 
 
 For so good is the world a growing that the evil good 
 shall reap:' 
 
 Then loosen thy sword in the scabbard and settle the 
 helm on thine head, 
 
 For men betrayed are mighty, and great are the wrong- 
 fully dead. 
 
 "Wilt thou do the deed and repent it? thou hadst 
 
 better never been born: 
 Wilt thou do the deed and exalt it? then thy fame 
 
 shall be outworn: 
 Thou shalt do the deed and abide it, and sit on thy 
 
 throne on high, 
 And look on to-day and to-morrow as those that never die. 
 
 "Love thou the Gods — and withstand them, lest thy 
 
 fame should fail in the end, 
 And thou be but their thrall and their bondsman, who 
 
 wert born for their very friend: 
 For few things from the Gods are hidden, and the 
 
 hearts of men they know, 
 And how that none rejoiceth to quail and crouch alow. 
 
 "I have spoken the words, beloved, to thy matchless 
 
 glory and worth; 
 But thy heart to my heart hath been speaking, though 
 
 my tongue hath set it forth: 
 
314 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 For I am she that loveth, and I know what thou wouldst 
 
 teach 
 From the heart of thine unlearned wisdom, and I needs 
 
 must speak thy speech." 
 
 Then words were weary and silent, but oft and o'er again 
 They craved and kissed rejoicing, and their hearts were 
 full and fain. > 
 
 Then spake the Son of Sigmund: "Fairest, and most 
 
 of worth, 
 Hast thou seen the ways of man-folk and the regions 
 
 of the earth? 
 Then speak yet more of wisdom; for most meet 
 
 meseems it is 
 That my soul to thy soul be shapen, and that I should 
 
 know thy bliss." 
 
 So she took his right hand meekly, nor any word 
 
 would say. 
 Not e'en of love or praising, his longing to delay; 
 And they sat on the side of Hindfell , and their fain 
 
 eyes looked and loved. 
 As she told of the hidden matters whereby the world 
 
 is moved: 
 And she told of the framing of all things, and the 
 
 houses of the heaven; 
 And she told of the star-worlds' courses, and how the 
 
 winds be driven; 
 And she told of the Norns and their names, and the 
 
 fate that abideth the earth; 
 And she told of the ways of King-folk in their anger 
 
 and their mirth; 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 315 
 
 And she spake of the love of women, and told of the 
 
 flame that burns, 
 And the fall of mighty houses, and the friend that 
 
 falters and turns. 
 And the lurking blinded vengeance, and the wrong 
 
 that amendeth wrong. 
 And the hand that repenteth its stroke, and the grief 
 
 that endureth for long; 
 And how man shall bear and forbear, and be master 
 
 of all that is; 
 And how man shall measure it all, the wrath, and the 
 
 grief, and the bliss. 
 
 "I saw the body of Wisdom, and of shifting guise was 
 
 she wrought. 
 And I stretched out my hands to hold her, and a mote 
 
 of the dust they caught; 
 And I prayed her to come for my teaching, and she 
 
 came in the midnight dream — 
 And I woke and might not remember, nor betwixt her 
 
 tangle deem: 
 She spake, and how might I hearken; I heard, and 
 
 how might I know; 
 I knew, and how might I fashion, or her hidden glory 
 
 show? 
 All things I have told thee of Wisdom are but fleeting 
 
 images 
 Of her hosts that abide in the Heavens, and her light 
 
 that Allfather sees: 
 Yet wise is the sower that sows, and wise is the reaper 
 
 that reaps. 
 And wise is the smith in his smiting, and wise is the 
 
 warder that keeps: 
 
3l6 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 And wise shalt thou be to deliver, and I shall be wise 
 
 to desire; 
 — And lo, the tale that is told, and the sword and the 
 
 wakening fire! 
 Lo now, I am she that loveth, and hark how Greyfell 
 
 neighs, 
 And Fafnir's Bed is gleaming, and green go the down- 
 ward ways. 
 The road to the children of men and the deeds that 
 
 thou shalt do 
 In the joy of thy life-days' morning, when thine hope 
 
 is fashioned anew. 
 Come now, O Bane of the Serpent, for now is the 
 
 high-noon come. 
 And the sun hangeth over Hindfell and looks on the 
 
 earth-folk's home; 
 But the soul is so great within thee, and so glorious 
 
 are thine eyes. 
 And me so love constraineth, and mine heart that was 
 
 called the wise, 
 That we twain may see men's dwellings and the house 
 
 where we shall dwell. 
 And the place of our life's beginning, where the tale 
 
 shall be to tell." 
 
 So they climb the burg of Hindfell, and hand in hand 
 
 they fare. 
 Till all about and above them is nought but the sunlit air. 
 And there close they cling together rejoicing in their 
 
 mirth; 
 For far away beneath them lie the kingdoms of the earth. 
 And the garths of men-folk's dwellings and the streams 
 
 that water them, 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG, 317 
 
 And the rich and plenteous acres, and the silver ocean's 
 
 hem, 
 And the woodland wastes and the mountains, and all 
 
 that holdeth all; 
 The house and the ship and the island, the loom and 
 
 the mine and the stall. 
 The beds of bane and healing, the crafts that slay and 
 
 save. 
 The temple of God and the Doom-ring, the cradle and 
 
 the grave. 
 
 Then spake the Victory-Wafter: "O King of the Earthly 
 
 Age, 
 As a God thou beholdest the treasure and the joy of 
 
 thine heritage. 
 And where on the wings of his hope is the spirit of 
 
 Sigurd borne? 
 Yet I bid thee hover awhile as a lark alow on the corn; 
 Yet I bid thee look on the land 'twixt the wood and 
 
 the silver sea 
 In the bight of the swirling river, and the house that 
 
 cherished me! 
 There dwelleth mine earthly sister and the king that 
 
 she hath wed; 
 There morn by morn aforetime I woke on the golden bed; 
 There eve by eve I tarried mid the speech and the 
 
 lays of kings; 
 There noon by noon I wandered and plucked the blos- 
 soming things; 
 The little land of Lymdale by the swirling river's 
 
 side, 
 Where Brynhild once was I called in the days ere my 
 
 father died; 
 
3l8 FROM THE STORY OF 
 
 The little land of Lymdale 'twixt the woodland and the 
 
 sea, 
 Where on thee mine eyes shall brighten and thine eyes 
 
 shall beam on me." 
 
 "I shall seek thee there," said Sigurd, "when the day- 
 spring is begun, 
 
 Ere we wend the world together in the season of the 
 sun." 
 
 "I shall bide thee there," said Brynhild, "till the full- 
 ness of the days, 
 
 And the time for the glory appointed, and the springing- 
 tide of praise," 
 
 From his hand then draweth Sigurd Andvari's ancient 
 
 Gold; 
 There is nought but the sky above them as the ring 
 
 together they hold. 
 The shapen ancient token, that hath no change nor end. 
 No change, and no beginning, no flaw for God to 
 
 mend: 
 Then Sigurd cries: "O Brynhild, now hearken while I 
 
 swear, 
 That the sun shall die in the heavens and the day no 
 
 more be fair. 
 If I seek not love in Lymdale and the house that 
 
 fostered thee. 
 And the land where thou awakedst 'twixt the wood- 
 land and the sea!" 
 
 And she cried: "O Sigurd, Sigurd, now hearken while 
 I swear 
 
SIGURD THE VOLSUNG. 319 
 
 That the day shall die for ever and the sun to black- 
 ness wear, 
 Ere I forget thee, Sigurd, as I lie 'twixt wood and sea 
 In the little land of Lymdale and the house that 
 fostered me!" 
 
 Then he set the ring on her finger and once, if ne'er 
 
 again. 
 They kissed and clung together, and their hearts were 
 
 full and fain. 
 
 So the day grew old about them and the joy of their 
 
 desire. 
 And eve and the sunset came, and faint grew the 
 
 sunset fire. 
 And the shadowless death of the day was sweet in 
 
 the golden tide; 
 But the stars shone forth on the world, and the twilight 
 
 changed and died; 
 And sure if the first of man-folk had been born to that 
 
 starry night, 
 And had heard no tale of the sunrise, he had never 
 
 longed for the light: 
 But Earth longed amidst her slumber, as 'neath the 
 
 night she lay. 
 And fresh and all abundant abode the deeds of Day. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Contents: 
 
 Collection of British Authors, vol. i — 2377 Page 2-13.' 
 
 Collection of German Authors, vol. i — 47 . „ 14. 
 
 Series for the Young, vol. i — 30 .... „ 15. 
 
 Manuals of Conversation „ 15. 
 
 Dictionaries „ 16. 
 
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Collection of British Authors. 
 
 Rev. W. Adams: Sacred 
 
 Allegories i v. 
 
 Miss Aguilar: Home influence 
 a V. The Mother's Recompense 2 v. 
 
 Hamilton Aide: Rita i v. 
 
 Carr of Carrlyon 2 v. ITie Marstons 2 v. 
 In that State of Life i v. Morals and 
 Mysteries I V. Penruddocke 2v. "A 
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 Peer a v. Introduced to Society i v. 
 
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 Jack Sheppard (w. portrait) i v. The 
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 1 V. The Spendthrift i v, Mervyn 
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 Match 2 V. The Constable de Bourbon 
 
 2 V. Old Court 2 V. Myddleton Pom- 
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 Letters to Guy & A Distant Shore— 
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 Disraeli. 
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 1 v. Second Series i v. 
 
 Isa Blagden : The Woman I 
 
 loved, and the Woman who lovedme; 
 A Tuscan Wedding i v. 
 
 Lady Blessington : Meredith 
 
 IV. Strathemav. Memoirs of a Femme 
 deChambreiv. Marmaduke Herbert 
 
 2 v. Country Quarters (w. portrait) 2 v. 
 
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 Life (w. Portrait of Her Majesty the 
 Queen) 2 v. 
 
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 Buried Alone i v. 
 
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 (w. portrait) i v. 
 
 Richard F. Burton: Mecca 
 
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 Temptation 2 v. 
 
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 Oliver of the Mill i v. 
 
 " Chronicles of the Sch5n- 
 berg-Cotta Family," Author 
 
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 "Cometh up as a Flower," 
 
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 (w. portrait) i v. The two Admirals 
 
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 Frank Fairlegh 2 v. 
 
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